Hex and the Single Girl (11 page)

“This is my museum membership card,” she said. “I used a social security check to pay for a lifetime membership, and I want to see the Delado exhibit.”

The other cop, doughy and white, also mustachioed, said, “Not tonight, ma’am. The exhibit is open to the public tomorrow.”

Emma adjusted her velvet opera coat and said, “Lifetime membership! Says so on the card. And considering that my lifetime isn’t going to last much longer, I need to see this exhibit now.” She paused, laying on the schmaltz. “Would you treat your own mother this way?”

The black cop pursed his lips tight. Clearly, he would not treat his mother this way. “What’s the harm?” he asked his partner. To Emma he said, “Promise you’ll be in and out in an hour. Or we’ll come and get you.”

“You are a dear!” said Emma, shuffling toward the revolving door. “Your mother would be proud.” She turned to the other cop. “Yours, too.”

“My mom was a drunk,” he said. “She beat me with a belt.”

Emma pretended not to hear that and shuffled into the museum as quickly as she dared.

Safely inside, Emma headed toward the atrium gallery. A sign on a silver pole directed them to the Delado exhibit opening night party, and through a small corridor to the event. Unlike the claustrophobic, crowded party at Haiku, this gathering was spacious and sparse. Half a dozen sculptures were lined up in the center of the cathedral-sized room.

About forty people milled around the artworks, a dozen more stood at the table in the front of the gallery, picking at the platters of yellow and orange cheese cubes, crackers, and green grapes. No naked women as food platters in sight, which was both a disappointment and a relief.

Emma avoided the samplings. She was focused. Nothing, not even cheese, would distract her from her mission—

transmitting Daphne’s portrait into Dearborn’s mind. She would not imagine him undressing himself. She would not turn into a human fireball when she touched him. Most of all, she would remind herself that she was doing a job for payment which she direly needed. November first was less than a week away. Time to get serious.

Harnessing her powers of concentration, Emma scanned the thin crowd for her prey. Dearborn wasn’t at the

refreshment table. She looked down the length of the gallery. The room was too long (even for her) to see everyone.

She’d have to stroll among the sculptures, blend in.

As she neared the first sculpture on display, Emma smiled at a man with golden dreadlocks in an army jacket. He wore ink-blue jeans, worn Nikes, and a bright red T-shirt. “Hello. I’m Alfie Delado,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I couldn’t possibly express the full extent of my gratitude.”

The artist. Emma inhaled. He smelled like good coffee and better marijuana. She liked him instantly. “Congratulations on your show,” she said, still scanning the room for Dearborn.

Delado said, “Thank you, thank you. The exhibit is a dream come true.” He got a bit choked up. Emma was afraid he might cry. Were all artists insatiable beggars for the approval of strangers? What a living hell that had to be, thought Emma.

“I’ve heard some wonderful things about your work,” she said, taking pity, trying to extricate herself and find her target.

“You have?” said Delado, incredulous. “Please, let me show you my favorite piece.”

A hand on her back, Delado steered the gimpy, cane clattering Emma toward his first sculpture. He said, “I call it
Penis Christ.
”

The piece of art, at first glance, was a Christian cross. On even closer inspection, Emma saw that the two intersecting parts were shaped like penises. On the top of the vertical shaft, and on either end of the horizontal, Delado had fashioned the glans to resemble little fists. The base appeared to be a squat scrotal sac.

Delado said, “The penis shape with a fist represents the masculine brutality of Christianity.”

“And this?” asked Emma. She’d shuffled toward the next sculpture. It was a gold-plated Star of David. The three arms of the two interlocking triangles had the same fisticock motif. “Does this represent the masculine brutality of Judaism?

” she pondered.

He grabbed Emma by the shoulders and shouted, “YES! Exactly! Finally, someone understands what I’m trying to

say.” Then he hugged Emma tight.

“Get off me,” she demanded, sensing other people’s attention, the opposite of what she wanted.

A glance up the gallery confirmed her worst fears. William Dearborn, of fucking course, was bearing down on them.

He was followed by Ann Jingo in tweed again, and Victor Armour in his chocolate brown Hugo Boss—the suit he

wore only on special occasions (when he thought he might get laid).

Alongside William, taller than him in moon-high heels, Marcie Skimmer clung to his arm like a life preserver. She was breathtaking in pink sequins.

Panicking for release, Emma cracked Alfie Delado on the skull with her cane. He let her go and rubbed his

dreadlocked noggin. Emma screwed up her face (trying to form genuine wrinkles) and said, “Keep your hands to

yourself!” She shuffled away as fast as her orthopedic shoes could carry her.

As expected, Dearborn and his posse stopped to gather around the artist, ignoring the little old lady who (1) couldn’t further their careers, and (2) wasn’t a potential sexual partner.

Except for Victor. He continued on, toward the curmudgeon with the cane. He caught up to her by the sculpture of an Islamic crescent.

He asked, “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, young man,” she said.

“You sure showed that guy,” he said.

“I sure did,” she agreed.

“You could show me, too,” he said.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“Show me what you’ve got under that opera coat,” he said. “I can tell you’ve got quite a rack. I’d love to see it. And your granny panties. I bet they’re baggy. And graying, with big holes. Just how I like ’em.”

“Victor, you sick perv,” said Emma.

“I knew it was you as soon as you walked in,” he said, chuckling. “But that’s just me. No one else will recognize you.”

Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Ann Jingo, appearing at Victor’s side. She slid her arm around him like a serpent. Emma suspected that Victor’s allegiances would soon shift.

He said, “I was making sure this woman was all right. She came to appreciate the art, not be mauled by the artist.”

“Do you find Alfie’s work titillating?” asked Ann.

“There’s nothing tit about it,” said Emma in her best crotchety voice.

Ann’s laugh was genuine—a light sound, a chime in a ball. Emma smiled back, couldn’t help it, and she felt her makeup crack. “Are you young people friends of the artist?” she asked.

“I am. I’ve known him for years. Alfie, Liam, and I were best friends in college,” said Ann.

“Liam?” asked Emma Crone.

“That tall man in the brown suit,” pointed out Ann.

“The one who needs a haircut?” asked Emma. “Why are all those people fawning all over him? Shouldn’t the artist be the star at his own exhibit?”

Ann said, “Alfie doesn’t care about being a star. He just wants to show his work. Liam made this exhibit possible.”

Victor said, “Dearborn is that big a fan?”

Ann said, “Liam will do anything for a friend.”

Emma and Victor watched William and Alfie, the two old pals, standing side by side at the cheese and wine table.

William whacked Alfie on his back. Alfie punched Liam on the upper arm. William slapped Alfie on the cheek. Alfie slapped him back.

“You see how they are?” asked Ann, smiling affectionately.

Emma saw only one thing: her target. Dearborn might as well have had a red bull’s eye painted on his face.

Ann waved over Emma’s shoulder. “Victor, there’s someone I want to say hello to. Nice meeting you!” she sang and led Victor away. He shrugged at Emma with a helpless puppy face. Ann had him on a short leash. Would all night, apparently.

More people trickled in. The room was getting slightly crowded, but Emma had only minor party panic. The music was classical and low. The lighting was white and soft. She was focused on the job and never lost sight of Dearborn.

At the moment, he was touring the room with Marcie. The model girlfriend was strikingly pale, as if someone had stuck a tap in her side and drained out the color. Her hair was platinum, skin white as powder, lashes spider black, dress shimmering, waist cinched like a sack. How had this woman ever been fat? marveled Emma. Marcie seemed

chiseled out of an ivory column. She was an organic sculpture, crafted by stylists and makeup artists.

Emma spotted Daphne at the cheese table. She was also keeping one eye on William and Marcie. Dressed for business tonight in a bland blue suit, her hair in a French twist, Daphne looked like a frustrated librarian. Emma checked her watch. She’d been waiting for a chance to get next to Dearborn for nearly an hour already. She hoped the cops out front had forgotten about her.

Watching from under her veil, Emma spied William and Marcie sneak out an emergency exit in the back of the gallery and into the dark autumnal night. Quick as she dared, Emma followed.

The Brooklyn Museum of Art sat on the northwest corner of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, an oasis of

photosynthetic splendor in a borough better known for wiseguys than wisteria. Keeping at a safe distance, Emma tailed the couple deep into the garden. Fallen leaves made the ground soft and squishy. Her orthos were adequate for the terrain.

Emma kept her eyes trained on Marcie’s luminous platinum high hair and shimmering dress. The model was as loud as she was reflective, rambling incessantly. Her stream of nonsense was painful to listen to from a distance, and the Good Witch could only imagine the agony Dearborn was in walking next to her.

Marcie cooed, “Look, Liam. It’s a rose garden.”

Hand in hand, the lovers entered the park’s famous rose garden, boasting hundreds of varieties of the flowering bush.

A white lattice fence surrounded the garden. Emma found a particularly dark spot outside the fence. She lay low and watched the couple inside.

“It’s pretty here,” said Dearborn. “Better in June than October.”

“We should come back together,” said Marcie. “In June.”

William said nothing.

“Roses can be
our
flower,” suggested the mannequin.

“Like San Pellegrino is
our
water,” said Dearborn. “And Wednesday is
our
day of the week.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” said Marcie flirtatiously. They were standing at the center of the garden, under a trellis coiled with dormant vines.

This would have been the perfect moment for William to sweep her up in his arms and pepper her sweet cheeks with kisses.

Didn’t happen. William said, “We should be getting back.”

Marcie laced her fingers behind William’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. Emma closed her eyes, gave them privacy.

But she couldn’t shut off the sound of smooching and increasingly theatrical female moans.

Dearborn said, “Could you please shut up?”

Emma nearly guffawed. Marcie’s moans were as phony as the platinum hair. The model pouted and said, “We’ve been together for almost a month, Liam.”

Through the slats in the fence, Emma watched him turn away. He’d been expecting this talk. And dreading it.

Marcie continued, “It’s time we went public. A discreet leak, through publicists.”

“We are public,” he said. “We’re seen together.”

“We go out in large groups to dives like Ciao Roma,” she said. “Take me to the Four Seasons for your Monday

lunch.” He shook his head. She said, “I want the world to know how much I love you.”

“Marcie, please,” he scoffed. “Your feelings are inflated.”

From the fence, Emma saw Marcie’s fists take shape. “Don’t say ’inflated’ to me!”

“You have a
bloated
idea of what this relationship is,” he said.

“Don’t say ’bloated’!” she said.

“You’ve grossly
overweighed
my feelings for you,” said William with real bite.

Ann Jingo had portrayed Dearborn as the bestest buddy in the whole wide world. But here was a jerk who needled an insecure woman in her most vulnerable spot. Emma felt her mind drifting, wondering where, between the two

extremes, was the real William Dearborn. And how far was he from the man who’d kissed her, painted her portrait, and spoke to her from the inside out.

In the moment of ponderous distraction, Emma slipped and snapped a twig under her ortho.

Two heads turned in her direction. Emma shrank into a small ball, her dark clothes blending into the backdrop of night.

“What was that?” asked Marcie, primping as if on cue, fixing her hair for what she assumed was a paparazzi

photographer.

“I think we should break up,” said Dearborn.

“You want to see other people?” she asked.

“I mean we shouldn’t see each other.”

“But…but…but I’m thin.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“How can my weight not matter?” she asked. Emma felt a pang of sympathy for the model. Talk about myopia.

Marcie’s number on the scale carried the weight of her world.

But Dearborn didn’t give her an ounce. “Look, Marcie. This isn’t love. It’s never going to be love—for either one of us. If you want to keep having sex, though, I suppose I could agree to that. But you have to promise not to speak at all.”

Marcie did not take him up on his kind offer. Instead, she slapped him hard, resoundingly, the crack rolling across the great lawn. Marcie followed that with a hysterical, “Fuck you!” and stormed out of the rose garden, her heels sinking into the earth, each step a slurp.

He waited until she was gone and then said loudly, “You can come out now.”

Who was he talking to? wondered Emma.

“You, by the fence,” he said. “Are you just going to gawk at me? Come over here. Have a seat. You’re not going to make me wait all night, are you?”

Emma froze. He’d given the same speech to her before. But it was all in her head that time. She stood up, creakily, and shuffled into the rose garden. She tried to sound ancient and pitiful when she said, “I was at the museum, but I must have gone out the wrong exit.”