Pax sees a former “client” of his, across the restaurant, entering with her husband.
I should clarify:
Pax knows art.
He feels it deeply. He absorbs it, inhales it, drinks it in fully. Pax is deeply moved, deeply stirred by art. It is his second-best attribute.
But rather than use this gift to share his passion with the world, he channeled his energy into painting forgeries. Fakes.
Pax was excellent at finding, painting, and commissioning forgeries that could fool even the most learned of scholars.
This “client” of his?
Bought a “Matisse” from him.
He is unsure whether she yet knows that its provenance is false.
Of course, there is heavy flirting and much charm involved in such a sale. One would often find Pax on a lady’s arm at an art auction, whispering to her as her handsome confidant, knowing that when his lips “accidentally” brush her ear, it sends shivers down her spine and directly into her pocketbook.
Whatever it took to close the sale, well… so be it. Too, Pax Princip has a low-level longing to be a part of the New York City elite. Their money, their power, their influence—Pax finds that lifestyle rather alluring. Even those merely adjacent to the richand powerful seem to smell better, eat better, dress better.
This was Pax prior to meeting William Stead, prior to the formation of Julia’s Bureau:
He was a con man. A liar and a thief.
And now, that past is here, in the present, and he cannot afford to be caught.
So, he leaves.
CHAPTER FIVE
I cannot believe Pax left. I can’t afford this!
I touch Frank’s arm. “Yes, certainly. Let me find my—friend.”
Frank looks pained—asking aladyformoney! He is rather unused to this. I turn and walk toward the exit.
I’m ready to push through the spinning door to the outside, when Spirit calls:
See that painting of the hunter over there?
Turn it. Swing it sideways and to the left.
One thing I do know: Spiritneverleads me into danger. Just the opposite. So if it’s telling me there’s something I should see, I listen.
I push the dusty old painting. It sways in an arc, and a click sounds. The wall creaks open between wooden panels. A hidden passageway. There are stairs leading down. Of course I take them.
At the bottom of the stairs, there are musty animal heads—deer, bulls, lions, even a giraffe—mounted everywhere. Guns and pots and mugs and rope hang from the ceiling. The tables are long and wooden with benches on either side. And the room is full of men. Greasy, growling, bar-song-singing men, who are eating flanks of steak with their hands. Theirhands.
And then I see him. Pristine, perfect Pax, his crisp, whitesleeves pushed up his tanned forearms past his elbows. He tears into a piece of steak with his bare hands, his bared teeth.
This is his jagged side. This is him, shadowy and ravenous. Angry. I sensed it in his very touch—he has darkness attached to his soul.
I should run. I should simply disappear—I am masterful at it, after all. But I’m called to confront him. I march toward him, weaving through a haze of greasy meat. I’m not even sure what I’ll say, but Spirit shines a spotlight on the gravy boat in front of him.
Yes. I pick it up.
Stella, no, we didn’t—
