“No, I’ve decided to start going by ‘Dickwad.’ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Harold peels the lid off and takes a long drink of the hopefully still warm latte, the thin foam clinging to his top lip like a white version of the mustache he had when I first met him two decades ago. “Perhaps you should apologize to her.”
“I tried to, back in May when it happened,” I say. “She didn’t want to hear it.” I reach for my own coffee, but am halted as my stomach gurgles with the memory of Harold’s ass again. Why was it so tanned when the rest of him is sopale? Ugh. “Listen, I don’t need relationship advice today.”
Harold looks up from his drink halfheartedly. “But you do need advice?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, it’s more of a hypothetical. Born solely of curiosity.”
That wasn’t particularly smooth, and I’m certain he sees right through me. I continue anyway. “If Gloria called you and asked you to come over because she’d come into possession of a taxidermy native bird—”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Harold responds, “I’d tell her to go to hell. And then I would call the cops so I could get my money back and she’d go to jail for both crimes.”
Okay, maybe Harold’s second wife—the one who embezzled ten thousand dollars from the shop and then peaced out toMexico with their neighbor’s twenty-year-old son—is not the best person to act as a stand-in for Nicole in this.
“I guess that’s…valid,” I say. “All right. So what if Inés came into possession of a taxidermy bird of unknown origin and—”
Harold dismisses the premise with a shake of his head. “Would never happen. Inés is much too smart to put herself in that position.”
I run my hands through my hair, breathing deeply. “Fine.Hypothetically, if a friend of mine who is also in the antique business were to be asked to look into a large and unusual taxidermy bird for his ex-girlfriend—”
“Then he’d be a real dope to agree,” Harold mutters over the rim of his cup.
“Yes, I amaware, thank you.”
Harold twirls his index finger, motioning to get on with it as he takes another sip.
“Say there was some suspicion that the bird pre-dated the existence of federal permits, and…my friend…who now has the bird in his possession, wanted to research its provenance so it could be legally donated to a museum. How would you suggest he, uh, go about doing that?”
“Expeditiously,” Harold says, and takes another sip of his latte without breaking eye contact with me.
“Right,” I say. “Right. Time would be of the essence. I’ll…let him know. If that ever hypothetically happens to him.”
Harold slowly pulls the cling wrap away from his muffin. “Also tell thisfriendof yours that, should such an event ever occur, he should be extremely cautious that the bird is never traced back to him or his place of business, as, I’m sure he’s fully aware, even the appearance of dealing in illicit goods is a quickway to irreparably tarnish an antique dealer’s reputation. And it would be a real shame if while, say, his business partner is out of the country on his honeymoon, your friend does anything to end both of their careers.”
“Yes. Of course. My, uh, friend, would absolutely never let that happen. Especially not after everything his business partner has done for him over the years. For which he is incredibly grateful, by the way.”
“Mhm.”
“And, uh, unrelatedly, I need to go check on something,” I say.
Harold pops a piece of the muffin into his mouth as I turn toward the back door, suddenly feeling the need to reassure myself that the goose is still hidden beneath its quilt in the Suburban. Then I remember Inés might still be in the office and decide to take the long way around, just in case; I’m not quite ready to look her in the eye.
“And Callahan?” Harold calls after me.
I stop with my body wedged between the front door, half inside, half outside the shop, the strap of sleigh bells on the knob jangling in protest of my indecision. “Yeah?”
“If any dopes you know need assistance moving a giant fucking bird somewhere safer before I head to the airport, you know where to find me. Hypothetically.”
THREE
Annie
“Good morning, Baltimore!”I sing to myself as I step out into the deliciously crisp autumn morning. Then, as I lock the front door behind me, “Good morning, Baltimore!” Because that’s actually all I remember from that song since the only time I’ve seenHairspraywas in theaters when I was fourteen. Not that it’s stopped that single line from getting stuck in my head on repeat all morning.
I arrived in town late last night, just in time for Uncle Harold to hand over the keys to his yellow brick rowhome and give me a few instructions concerning which plants to water and when before he and his bride-to-be (a petite woman with waist-length, silver hair and light brown skin) hurried out the door to catch their flight to Milan. Then I spent an hour or so wandering around the house, admiring Uncle Harold’s furnishings and practicing how I would sell them to someone. “This stair-step design here at the top makes this secretary desk a great example of the Arts and Crafts movement,” I said to a monstera that I’msupposed to water once, about halfway through my monthlong stay. The monstera wasn’t particularly interested, though. Hopefully I’ll do better with actual people.
I’ve been selling antiques and things made from them for years now, but all online. It’s different, I’m sure, than having someone come in to browse and answering their questions or directing them to the proper piece. That’s why I jumped at the chance to help out at Virtu while my uncle is away; I’ve been dreaming of opening a real-life storefront of my own in Asbury Park where I live for a while. I even have everything in place to make it happen: the savings, the knowledge, the business plan. Everything except any actual experience running a physical shop and dealing with customers face-to-face. What is the day-to-day of it all? Is it everything I’ve been dreaming of, or am I romanticizing it? We are about to find out!
