The Collector
Page 20
Luke glanced over, and because he knew his friend, kept his voice easy. “If you’re going to beat yourself up, again, at least let me hold your coat.”
“No, pretty much done with that.”
But he walked to the window, looked out. Picked out Lila’s windows immediately, imagined her standing there that night, entertaining herself with glimpses of other lives.
If she’d looked out ten minutes sooner, ten minutes later, she wouldn’t have seen the fall.
Would their paths have crossed?
When he caught himself wondering what she might be doing as he looked out at her window, he turned away. He walked over to the chest of drawers, opened a drawer, looked down at the jumble of socks.
The cops, he thought. Oliver would have arranged them—folded, never rolled—in tidy rows. Seeing the disorder added another thin layer of grief, like the dust over the wood.
“I was with him once, can’t remember why, and it took him twenty minutes to buy a pair of goddamn socks—ones that coordinated to his specifications with his tie. Who does that?”
“Not us.”
“Some homeless guy’s going to be wearing cashmere socks.” So saying, Ash took out the entire drawer, dumped the contents into a box.
At the end of two hours, he had forty-two suits, three leather jackets, twenty-eight pairs of shoes, countless shirts, ties, a box of designer sportswear, ski gear, golf gear, a Rolex and a Cartier tank watch, which made three including the watch Oliver had been wearing.
“And I said you wouldn’t need so many boxes.” Luke studied the stack on the floor. “You’re going to need a couple more.”
“The rest can wait, or just f**k it. I got what he had left that his mother wanted.”
“Fine with me. Even with this, we’re going to need a couple cabs.” Luke frowned at the boxes again. “Or a moving van.”
“No. I’m going to have it all picked up, sent back to my place.” He pulled out his phone to make arrangements. “And we’re going to go have that beer.”
“Even finer with me.”
Ash managed to shake off most of the mood just by leaving the building. The busy, noisy bar took care of the rest. All the dark wood, the yeasty smells, the clatter of glasses and voices.
Just what he needed to erase the terrible quiet of that empty apartment.
He lifted his beer, studied the umber tones under the lights. “Who drinks some fussy craft beer called Bessie’s Wild Hog?”
“Looks like you are.”
“Only because I want to know.” He took a sip. “It’s not bad. You ought to serve beer at your place.”
“It’s a bakery, Ash.”
“What’s your point?”
With a laugh, Luke sampled his own beer—something called Hops On Down. “I could rename it Brioche and Brew.”
“Never an empty table. I appreciate today, Luke. I know you’re busy frosting those cupcakes.”
“Need a day away from the ovens now and again. I’m thinking about opening a second place.”
“Glutton for punishment.”
“Maybe, but we’ve been kicking ass the last eighteen months, solid, so I’m looking around some, mostly in SoHo.”
“If you need any backing—”
“Not this time. And I couldn’t say that, or think about expanding, if you hadn’t backed me the first time. So if I start up a second place and work myself to an early grave, it’s on you.”
“We’ll serve your cherry pie at your funeral.” Because that made him think of Oliver, he drank more beer. “His mom wants bagpipes.”
“Oh, man.”
“I don’t know where she gets that, but she wants them. I’m setting it up because I figure if she gets them she won’t think about a twenty-one gun salute or a funeral pyre. And she could, because she’s all over the map.”
“You’ll make it work.”
And that was practically the family motto, Ash thought. Ash will make it work.
“Everything’s in limbo until they release the body. Even then, even when the funeral’s done and over, it’s not over. Not until we find out who killed him, and why.”
“The cops might have a good line on that. They wouldn’t tell you if they did.”
“I don’t think so. Waterstone’s wondering, at least in some little corner, if I did it. He doesn’t like the serendipity of me and Lila connecting.”
“Only because he doesn’t know you well enough to understand you need the answers—because everyone else asks you the questions. I’ve got one. What’s she like, the Peeping Tammy?”
“She doesn’t think about it that way, and you get it when she talks. She likes people.”
“Imagine that.”
“It takes all kinds. She likes watching them and talking to them and being with them, which is odd because she’s a writer and that has to mean a lot of solo hours. But it goes with the house-sitting thing. Spending her time being in someone else’s space, taking care of that space. She’s a tender.”
“A tender what?”
“No, she tends. Tends to people’s things, their place, their pets. Hell, she tended to me and she doesn’t even know me. She’s . . . open. Anyone that open has to have gotten screwed over a few times.”
“You’ve got a little thing,” Luke observed, circling a finger in the air. “She must be a looker.”
“I don’t have a thing. She’s interesting, and she’s been more than decent. I want to paint her.”
“Uh-huh. A thing.”
“I don’t have a thing for every woman I paint. I’d never be without a thing.”
“You have to have some thing for every woman you paint or you wouldn’t paint them. And like I said, she must be a looker.”
“Not especially. She’s got a good face, sexy mouth, about a mile of hair the color of the dark chocolate mochas you serve in the bakery. But . . . it’s her eyes. She’s got gypsy eyes, and they pull you in, they contrast with this fresh, open sense.”
“How do you see her?” Luke asked, knowing just how Ash worked.
“Red dress, full skirt, mid-spin, gypsy camp, with moonlight coming through a thick green forest.”
Idly Ash took the stub of a pencil he always carried out of his pocket, did a quick sketch of her face on a cocktail napkin.
“No, pretty much done with that.”
But he walked to the window, looked out. Picked out Lila’s windows immediately, imagined her standing there that night, entertaining herself with glimpses of other lives.
If she’d looked out ten minutes sooner, ten minutes later, she wouldn’t have seen the fall.
Would their paths have crossed?
When he caught himself wondering what she might be doing as he looked out at her window, he turned away. He walked over to the chest of drawers, opened a drawer, looked down at the jumble of socks.
The cops, he thought. Oliver would have arranged them—folded, never rolled—in tidy rows. Seeing the disorder added another thin layer of grief, like the dust over the wood.
“I was with him once, can’t remember why, and it took him twenty minutes to buy a pair of goddamn socks—ones that coordinated to his specifications with his tie. Who does that?”
“Not us.”
“Some homeless guy’s going to be wearing cashmere socks.” So saying, Ash took out the entire drawer, dumped the contents into a box.
At the end of two hours, he had forty-two suits, three leather jackets, twenty-eight pairs of shoes, countless shirts, ties, a box of designer sportswear, ski gear, golf gear, a Rolex and a Cartier tank watch, which made three including the watch Oliver had been wearing.
“And I said you wouldn’t need so many boxes.” Luke studied the stack on the floor. “You’re going to need a couple more.”
“The rest can wait, or just f**k it. I got what he had left that his mother wanted.”
“Fine with me. Even with this, we’re going to need a couple cabs.” Luke frowned at the boxes again. “Or a moving van.”
“No. I’m going to have it all picked up, sent back to my place.” He pulled out his phone to make arrangements. “And we’re going to go have that beer.”
“Even finer with me.”
Ash managed to shake off most of the mood just by leaving the building. The busy, noisy bar took care of the rest. All the dark wood, the yeasty smells, the clatter of glasses and voices.
Just what he needed to erase the terrible quiet of that empty apartment.
He lifted his beer, studied the umber tones under the lights. “Who drinks some fussy craft beer called Bessie’s Wild Hog?”
“Looks like you are.”
“Only because I want to know.” He took a sip. “It’s not bad. You ought to serve beer at your place.”
“It’s a bakery, Ash.”
“What’s your point?”
With a laugh, Luke sampled his own beer—something called Hops On Down. “I could rename it Brioche and Brew.”
“Never an empty table. I appreciate today, Luke. I know you’re busy frosting those cupcakes.”
“Need a day away from the ovens now and again. I’m thinking about opening a second place.”
“Glutton for punishment.”
“Maybe, but we’ve been kicking ass the last eighteen months, solid, so I’m looking around some, mostly in SoHo.”
“If you need any backing—”
“Not this time. And I couldn’t say that, or think about expanding, if you hadn’t backed me the first time. So if I start up a second place and work myself to an early grave, it’s on you.”
“We’ll serve your cherry pie at your funeral.” Because that made him think of Oliver, he drank more beer. “His mom wants bagpipes.”
“Oh, man.”
“I don’t know where she gets that, but she wants them. I’m setting it up because I figure if she gets them she won’t think about a twenty-one gun salute or a funeral pyre. And she could, because she’s all over the map.”
“You’ll make it work.”
And that was practically the family motto, Ash thought. Ash will make it work.
“Everything’s in limbo until they release the body. Even then, even when the funeral’s done and over, it’s not over. Not until we find out who killed him, and why.”
“The cops might have a good line on that. They wouldn’t tell you if they did.”
“I don’t think so. Waterstone’s wondering, at least in some little corner, if I did it. He doesn’t like the serendipity of me and Lila connecting.”
“Only because he doesn’t know you well enough to understand you need the answers—because everyone else asks you the questions. I’ve got one. What’s she like, the Peeping Tammy?”
“She doesn’t think about it that way, and you get it when she talks. She likes people.”
“Imagine that.”
“It takes all kinds. She likes watching them and talking to them and being with them, which is odd because she’s a writer and that has to mean a lot of solo hours. But it goes with the house-sitting thing. Spending her time being in someone else’s space, taking care of that space. She’s a tender.”
“A tender what?”
“No, she tends. Tends to people’s things, their place, their pets. Hell, she tended to me and she doesn’t even know me. She’s . . . open. Anyone that open has to have gotten screwed over a few times.”
“You’ve got a little thing,” Luke observed, circling a finger in the air. “She must be a looker.”
“I don’t have a thing. She’s interesting, and she’s been more than decent. I want to paint her.”
“Uh-huh. A thing.”
“I don’t have a thing for every woman I paint. I’d never be without a thing.”
“You have to have some thing for every woman you paint or you wouldn’t paint them. And like I said, she must be a looker.”
“Not especially. She’s got a good face, sexy mouth, about a mile of hair the color of the dark chocolate mochas you serve in the bakery. But . . . it’s her eyes. She’s got gypsy eyes, and they pull you in, they contrast with this fresh, open sense.”
“How do you see her?” Luke asked, knowing just how Ash worked.
“Red dress, full skirt, mid-spin, gypsy camp, with moonlight coming through a thick green forest.”
Idly Ash took the stub of a pencil he always carried out of his pocket, did a quick sketch of her face on a cocktail napkin.
