Just then a jewel-dripping thirty-something blonde strolled up, clutching the arm of her Armani'd, sixty-something sugar daddy.
"Oh, look, honey. Isn't that a Sylvia? Alana has a Sylvia and I want one too. Can we get it?"
The words leaped from Jack's mouth before he could stop them.
"I'll take it."
"Jack!" Gia said, giving him a wide-eyed stare.
"It's only money."
"Are you serious?"
He shrugged. "I've got all this moolah socked away—you know that. For what? You won't let me spend it on you and Vicky." Spend it? He'd tried to give it all to her back in December when he thought he'd be leaving on a forever trip. "So I might as well blow it on something like this."
"I can assure you it will only appreciate in value," Gary said. "Some of Sylvia's early trees are selling for triple what you're paying."
"See?" he said to Gia. "It's an investment." He turned to Gary. "You accept gold?"
"The AmEx Gold Card? Of course."
That wasn't what Jack had meant, but…
"Okay. Wrap her up to travel."
"I suggest you let us deliver it. It's very valuable and you don't want to risk someone stealing it."
Jack smiled, aware of the weight of the Glock 19 nestled in the small of his back. But it was Gia who spoke through a wry smile.
"Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about that."
"Nobody likes to hear of an artist hitting a big payday more than I," Gia said. "But—"
"Speaking of art, what about yours?"
They were walking up Greene Street toward Houston, passing the grave of the Soho Kitchen & Bar. Whenever Jack had been in the neighborhood, he'd made a point of stopping in for a draft pint of Pilsner Urqell. Another goddamn boutique occupied the space now.
"I'm back to work—three dust jacket assignments and some paperbacks on the way."
"Yeah, but that's work done to order. That's not you. What about the stuff you're doing for yourself?"
She shook her head. "Told you: not happy with it."
"Still?"
"Still."
"When are you going to let me see it?"
A shrug. "Maybe never. I may just take them somewhere and burn them."
Jack stopped and gripped her arm. "Don't even joke about that. Anything by you is valuable to me."
"Not these. Trust me, not these."
"They can't be that bad."
"Oh, yes, they can. I don't like them and I don't want to show work I don't like."
"Even to me?"
"Especially to you." She tapped the box under his arm. "Frugalman Jack, spending twenty thousand on a sculpted tree… I don't know what to say."
Obviously she wanted a change of topic, so he let it go. For now.
"I've been frugal because I've always wanted to be able to retire early." He could have added, while I'm still alive, but didn't.
"Granted, it's a stunning piece of work, but twenty thousand?"
"Better than letting some bimbo blonde—"
"Ahem."
"What?"
She pointed to her hair. "What color is this?"
Oh, hell.
"But you're not a bimbo. And yours doesn't come from a bottle."
"It gets help from a bottle."
"You know what I mean. Anyway, I didn't want that… person to get her grubby mitts on it."
Gia stopped and laughed. "You've got to be kidding! You spent twenty thousand just for spite?"
"Not spite. I may not be an artist"—he placed a hand over his heart—"but I have the soul of one." He tapped the box under his arm. "And this—what's the art-speak phrase?—this speaks to me."
Gia demonstrated the unofficial ASL sign for Gag me with a spoon.
He put on his best offended expression. "Well, it does."
Truth was, it had spoken to him by appealing to something deep within. He'd wanted it from the first instant he'd set eyes on it. He'd bought it not so much to save it from the bimbo as to possess it—to put it someplace where he'd see it every day.
"Really? And just what does it say?"