“Call me tomorrow, when you get a break,” Stone said.
“Wilco,” she replied, then hung up.
STONE WALKED into the Parsons Gallery half an hour after the time on the invitation and joined the crowd walking up the stairs to the second floor. He lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and was surprised at how good it was.
“We don’t serve the cheap stuff at openings,” said a female voice at his elbow.
He turned to find Rita Gammage standing there. She was really lovely, he thought. Tall, slim without being skinny, with long, dark hair, and breasts that looked real in spite of her slimness. “You certainly do serve the good stuff,” he said. “What is it?”
“Schramsberg. Philip feels it’s the best California stuff and the patriotic thing to serve.”
“The man is truly a patriot,” Stone said. “Can I fetch you a glass?”
“No, thanks; I’ve already had my single allowable glass at an opening. Come let me show you Squire’s work.”
“What’s his first name?” Stone asked.
“He doesn’t use one, just Squire.”
“Easier to remember that way, I guess.” Stone walked slowly along a wall, taking in the work. “An American impressionist,” he said. “I like that.”
“So does the market,” Rita said. “We sold half the stuff before tonight, and we’ve already sold half a dozen. There won’t be anything left at the end of the evening.”
“It’s a big show,” Stone said, “and I’m glad to hear of an artist getting a big paycheck. What’s the price range?”
“Thirty to eighty thousand,” Rita replied.
“That makes for a very nice paycheck indeed, even after the gallery’s cut.”
“A good paycheck for us, too, especially in this economy.”
“A lot of people in this city don’t have to cut back when the economy goes sour and the market is down.”
“I guess half of a hundred-million-dollar portfolio is still fifty million,” she said. “A person could scrape by on that.”
“Indeed,” Stone said, looking around. “Is Hildy Parsons here?”
“Behind you, just getting off the elevator,” Rita replied.
Stone turned and looked. Hildy Parsons was an attractive young woman, blond and athletic-looking. The man with her was a different thing entirely.
“Is that Derek Sharpe?” he asked Rita.
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
Sharpe was wearing a white suit a size too small for him, white shoes, no socks, and a black T-shirt. His hair was graying, greasy, and down to his shoulders.
“Good God,” Stone said.
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Grotesque,” he said.
“I’m afraid that, in the art world, not everyone dresses as immaculately as you do,” Rita said.
“Or gets a haircut,” Stone added. “Would you introduce me to them?”
“I will, if you’ll take me to dinner when I’m done here,” she said.