Restoration (41 page)

The conservator, already humiliated, smiled weakly at him. She shook her head.

“If you’re counting the coloreds, don’t forget me,” Rondell Cherry said from his corner ten feet away. “I’m a colored. Born and raised a colored.”

Smallwood wheeled around and stared. “I meant the ones in the painting, Rondell. The Negroes
in the painting
.”

“Me, too,” Joe Butler said. “If you’re counting the Negroes count me in, too. I’m a Negro and always have been a Negro, long as I can remember.”

“You ain’t no goddamned—”

“And me,” said Rhys, cutting him off. “You shouldn’t forget me, either, Mr. Smallwood, if you insist on counting them.”

“What the hell is going on around here?” he shouted, glaring at each of them. “I was talking about the painting!”

“Or me,” I said, shouldering up next to Rhys. “I’m colored, too, Mr. Smallwood. Don’t leave me out.”

The room was quiet but for his labored breathing. He gave his head a shake and removed the gloves from his hands. “Bunch of lunatics,” he said. “You’re a bunch of crazy people.”

“Colored ones,” Rondell said. “Yeah, you right.”

Rhys walked to the door and pulled it open. “Mr. Smallwood, if you intend to bid tomorrow please make sure to come on time. And
remember you won’t have a fifteen-minute cushion like you did today. We start promptly at three o’clock.”

Mary Thomas Jones slipped past Rhys into the hall, and Smallwood followed as far as the door. He looked back at the painting and sniffed one more time, seeming to find what he was after even for the distance.

An hour or so later, after Joe Butler and Rondell Cherry had unknotted their ties and left for home, Rhys ordered dinner from the room service menu and we ate by candlelight with the curtains pulled open to a view of the river. “I’m rooting for the Andersons.” I said. “I don’t like that they’re from Texas, but I like that he cried and she wanted to touch Jacqueline and Levette.”

“What’s wrong with Texas?” Rhys said.

“Nothing. I’d just like to see the painting stay in the South.”

“Texas isn’t part of the South?”

“Texas isn’t part of anything but Texas.”

She forked up another piece of New York strip. “I’m for the Andersons, too. No matter where Texas is on your map, Jack, I’d much rather see the mural go there than to Smallwood’s mansion on Prytania Street. But we both know who’s going to get it and it’s no use pretending.”

“Why can’t someone else win the auction?” I said. “The Andersons have almost as much money as Smallwood, and so do some of the other collectors. Why can’t one of them win out for a change?”

She poured more wine in my glass and I watched the light from the candles in her eyes. “It’s not always about money,” she said. “Winning at auction is as much about moxie. In a situation where everything is equal—everything meaning personal wealth—moxie is what triumphs. Every one of the collectors asked me the same question today: Is Tommy Smallwood going to be bidding? They deflated like balloons when I said he would be. Watch him tomorrow, Jack. Every
aspect of the man’s persona will be an exaggeration carefully thought out. The clothes he wears, the way he walks, the things he says when he first enters the room, the type of woman he likely will have on his arm. He wants you to think he’s an ignorant bubba, but every detail is calculated to intimidate the opponent and build on his projecting invincibility.”

When we were done we stood at the window looking out at the water and the ships and small lights along the bank and we kissed again and it was as powerful as before. She started to laugh, feeling me tremble in her arms, and she pulled me even closer and made a shushing sound in my ear. It had been a while since a woman shushed me and I’d forgotten how nice it was to be shushed. “Do that again,” I said.

“I can’t hold you any tighter,” she said.

“No, I mean shush me again. That sound you made.”

She did it and I trembled and she laughed, precisely in that order. I was rusty and out of practice, and I didn’t know how to talk to a woman except to say exactly what was on my mind. “Let me stay with you tonight.”

“You can’t, Jack.”

“We don’t have to do anything. Let me just stay in the suite with you. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’d really like to be with you.”

“You can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Is it still because I’m not like you? Not black like you?”

“Black like me? What are you talking about?”

“That day after we had oysters at Casamento’s you said you wanted ‘somebody like me,’ and I quote you on that.”

“Yes, I did say that. But I meant somebody who thinks like me, and who shares my values, and who cares about what I care about, and whose passion for art is as great as mine is. I didn’t mean somebody who is the same race as I am. The reason you can’t stay tonight,” she said, “is because I have a few things to take care of yet. And I’ve already committed to Levette tonight.”

“So my rival is a dead man?”

“Right,” she said with an exaggerated nod. “Who happens to be my grandfather. Now come on, Jack. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

She held my hand and escorted me down the hall. I punched the Down button and the car arrived. “Rhys, what about taxes?” I said suddenly.

When the door started to close she stuck a hand out and stopped it. “That’s an odd question. What about them?”

“You make a bank deposit of ten grand or more and the bank automatically notifies the IRS? It’s the law. Deposit a million and the government will probably send a Brinks truck to take its share.”

“Why don’t we talk about that after the auction?” she said. She let go of the door and it started to slide closed again. “One more thing,” she said.

This time it was I who stuck a hand out and forced the door back open.

“I’ve invited Mr. Lowenstein to be here tomorrow,” she said. “I thought you should know.”

“Why on earth would you invite him, Rhys?”

“I thought he could use the lift.”

“A lift? Are you kidding? Seeing Tommy Smallwood walk off with his friend’s mural is going to give Lowenstein a lift? I can’t imagine a worse form of torture. It would be like having to watch Levette die twice.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement, wouldn’t you say?” She shrugged at the same time I did. “He’s put the house up for sale, you know?”

“Of course I knew. But how did you know?”

“Trust me,” she said, then pushed my hand away, letting the door close.

Breaking with tradition, Tommy Smallwood was the first of the bidders to arrive. He did not storm in like a proud champ with a title to defend but rather calmly entered the suite and led his date to the front
of the room. They crouched beside the painting and studied the scene, Smallwood’s face arranged in an attitude of bliss. He was wearing a suit and his gumbo smell had been replaced today with one of aftershave. Against the small chandelier overhead the top of his head resembled the meringue of an icebox pie. I stared at him and asked myself the same questions that always came up at a Smallwood sighting: Why art? Why not souped-up muscle cars or trucks with big tires? Why not customized fishing rigs, for heaven’s sake?

“I didn’t pass out,” he said, when he’d seen enough of the painting. “How about that, Charbonnet? I didn’t pass out.”

I smiled at him.

“Where do we get our paddles?” he said to Rhys.

“We won’t be using paddles,” she answered.

“No paddles?”

“Not counting yourself, there will be five bidders in the room today. Since I know everyone, I didn’t think paddles were necessary.”

“But how will I bid?”

“You bid by raising your hand.”

“I’d still like to have one,” he said. “I’d really like a number.”

“Mr. Smallwood, it isn’t necessary. We know who you are.”

“Yes, but I want one anyway.”

Rhys wrote “00” on a sheet from her writing pad and handed it to him.

“Is that a number?” he said. “I don’t think it is. You’re trying to trick me.”

She snatched the paper from his hand, crossed out the “00” with her Sharpie pen, and wrote “01” next to it. “How’s that?” she said.

“I’ll take it.”

Even before Cherry and I had arrived at noon, Rhys and Joe Butler had arranged two rows of chairs in a semicircle facing the mural, in all about twenty chairs, although fewer than half would be occupied today. Smallwood and the woman selected seats in the exact center of the front row.

The rest of the bidders arrived in short order, the last of them,
Taylor Dickel, enjoying surreptitious sips from a whiskey flask. He sat one chair away from Smallwood.

“Okay, then, that looks like everyone,” Rhys said. She opened the door to the adjoining suite. “Sally, darling,” she said.

They came in together, Lowenstein in his wheelchair, Sally pushing him. The old man might’ve been another collector, judging from the reception he received. Each bidder inspected him closely as if to take stock of his strengths and weaknesses. Deciding he had only weaknesses, they quickly turned away from him.

Sally wheeled the old man to the rear of the room close to where I was standing and maneuvered him into a corner. When she saw me she puckered her lips and kissed the air, but soundlessly. I kissed the air back.

“I’d like to thank you all for being here today,” Rhys began. She was standing behind a lectern without a microphone. “I’m not a professional auctioneer, so bear with me, please. So as to avoid confusion, mostly to myself, the bidding will be increased by increments of no less than ten thousand dollars. You’re free and encouraged to bid higher than ten thousand, but you can’t bid less than that. Now before we start, I’d like to reiterate a few of our rules. The first is, when the gavel sounds today the sale is final. Under no circumstances will there be a return, not that I expect anyone who wins the bidding to ever consider parting with this wonderful painting. If the winning bidder is from out of town he must arrange his own shipping. If the winning bidder is local I can deliver the painting myself or arrange for the buyer to pick it up at the studio of the Crescent City Conservation Guild. As I’ve notified each of you before, there will be no taxes and no buyer’s premium. The price you pay is the hammer price. If there are any questions please don’t hesitate to ask them. It’s now or never.”

Tommy Smallwood raised his hand. “Will you take cash?”

“Cash?” It was Dickel, shouting out the word. “Did he say
cash?”

“No, Mr. Smallwood,” Rhys said, “I will not accept cash. The only payment I’ll accept, as I’ve stated before, is a wire transfer. Immediately
after the sale I’ll meet with the winning bidder and provide further details. Anything else?” She glanced around the room, her gaze moving from one collector to the next. “Is everyone ready?” When nobody said anything Rhys took in a deep breath. “Up for bids now is the Levette Asmore Magazine Street post office mural of a Mardi Gras fantasia, circa 1941. Do I have a bid?”

Several hands shot up and from his chair to the right of where I was standing Cedric Anderson called out, “Five hundred.”

“Five hundred,” repeated Rhys. “Five hundred dollars? Five hundred thou—”

“Five hundred
thousand
,” said Anderson, to scattered laughter.

Good God, I thought. The record for a southern painting at auction had been shattered with the maiden bid.

“Five hundred thousand dollars, then,” Rhys said. “Very good, Mr. Anderson. We have five hundred thousand dollars bid. We have five hun—”

Smallwood raised the sheet of paper to the side of his head and gave it a shake.

“Five ten,” Rhys said and pointed at him.

“Five twenty,” countered Cedric Anderson.

“Five thirty,” said Amanda Howard.

“Five forty,” answered Rhys, for Smallwood.

“Six hundred thousand,” crowed Taylor Dickel, hopping forward in his chair.

“Six ten,” said Rhys, once again for Smallwood.

Cedric Anderson thrust his hand over his head. “Seven hundred thousand,” he said, in a voice an octave higher than the one he’d used previously.

“And seven ten to Mr. Smallwood,” came Rhys’s reply.

“Eight…
eight hundred thousand!” shouted Amanda Howard.