Picture This

‘That yellow paint… ’ Latisha’s voice jolted him back to the carriage. ‘I’ve seen that exact shade before, in the Edward Hopper painting Felix Baum has hanging in his office. Now ain’t that a coincidence?’

Gabriel’s stomach went into free fall.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What Hopper painting?’

‘You think he care? You think he won’t try and save his own skin? He’s using you, and I’m telling you he has blood on his hands. There ain’t nothing that man will stop at to hide the truth.’

‘What do you know?’

‘I know he murdered my friend, Maxine Doubleday, a young artist like yourself. And I think he might have had her killed because she knew something about that yellow paint and that so-called Hopper.’

He stared at her. He knew who Maxine Doubleday was.

‘Th

e Hopper’s authentic. Why else would the Whitney have it hanging in their gallery right now? And for your information Maxine Doubleday killed herself.’ He tried to sound like Felix would.

‘Listen to your aunt. She know better.’

The train pulled into 125th Street. Latisha got up and stepped out of the train. Gabriel followed. He had no choice.

*

‘I’m taking you home.’ Felix’s stern voice cut into Susie’s spinning mind.

‘No, you’re not. The driver will take me.’

‘You’re too drunk to get up the stairs.’

‘So fucking what? Where’s Alfie? I need Alfie… ’

‘Alfie’s very happy with my guy Dustin at the Tom Ford table. You should let them be.’

Susie focused on Felix. He seemed so solid, so beautiful in his Dickensian waistcoat and tailed jacket, like some dandy from a Victorian novel, and he was looking back at her like a man in love. Or was she imagining it?

‘Jesus, Felix, don’t you ever want to surrender and just be honest with someone?’ She was slurring her words.

He took her arm. ‘Have we stopped fighting now?’

‘I think I might have given up.’

She leaned on him as they walked to the entrance; the porters held the large glass doors open for them. Outside his limousine was waiting. They descended the steps slowly, Susie just managing the eight-inch platform shoes as Felix supported her. Even through the fog of intoxication it felt ridiculously affirming to have him by her side.

‘We don’t have to be who we made ourselves up to be – not to each other,’ she told him in a drunken epiphany. ‘Because in the end you lose yourself. At the end of the day… ’ her sweeping hand taking in the museum, a couple of guests in their ballgowns at the top of the steps, the waiting limousines and the banners flapping in the evening breeze, ‘we only have truth and the moment… ’ she rambled, knowing she sounded naive but not caring, or perhaps caring but letting the alcohol speak for her, coward that she was. ‘There’s only ever been one person and she threw herself off a bridge… ’ Susie was too drunk to notice Felix’s reaction.

With a feigned casualness he told her firmly, ‘You’re coming back to my place. I’m going to take your clothes off, peel off those ridiculous tattoos and then I’m going to tuck you in bed. And tomorrow we’ll be able to read about ourselves in People magazine.’

‘Did you hear anything I said?’

‘No. The car’s over here.’

‘Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir,’ Susie sang as she tripped after him towards the limo.

*

Gabriel followed Latisha up 125th Street to the doorway of her apartment block, then pulled her into the narrow alley running alongside the building. Her metal crutch tumbled down on the pavement, to the concern of a couple of young African-American men walking past who stopped and turned, ready to rescue the woman.

‘Ma’am, this cracker giving you attitude?’ one asked, his long shadow falling across them as he stepped into the alley.