Hanging Time

34

After the storm passed, the air was clear and fresh. Just before they left for Fairfield, Bouck and Camille surveyed the damage to the canopy over the store. The canvas was torn, and the exposed metal frame was pretty badly bent on one side, but it didn’t look as if it would come down on somebody’s head anytime soon.

Camille breathed deeply, hugging the puppy in her arms. Her own storm was over, too, and for the first time in weeks, her head was clear. The red cloud was gone. She could see, talk, eat.

“Why don’t I design a new one,” she suggested. “Something classy. What do you say?”

“Hey, this isn’t classy?” Bouck demanded, pointing to what could be seen of the gray canvas hanging off the frame. It was years old, cracked, and dirty. The “T” and “Q” from the word “Antiques” were almost completely worn away by the constant drip of the air conditioner above.

Camille was wearing the new straw picture hat she had bought after her lunch with Milicia. It was hand-painted with lavender flowers and had a huge bow at the back. The salesgirl had admired her in it. “Not everyone has the height to carry a hat like that,” she said. Camille had been so angry at Milicia, she had no idea what she looked like. The hat soothed her because it was a cover, big enough to hide her face. She could run away inside of it and not come out until she wanted to.

Now she tipped the hat down low over her face as she whispered to the puppy. After a brief consultation, she spoke from under the straw. “Puppy says the sign was never classy.”

Bouck threw his head back and laughed like a pirate. He was wearing jeans and Gucci loafers, a lightweight navy Ferragamo blazer over a black T-shirt. Camille thought of him as a pirate. A big man with a round cherub’s face, small pink lips, pale blue eyes, and soft hair that hung down his neck and caught on his jacket collar. She didn’t know how he captured the money. But she knew he was powerful, made things happen. Kept her safe from her sister, who would kill her if she got the chance. She pushed away Milicia’s evil force by hugging Puppy tightly.

At a few minutes after ten on Sunday morning Second Avenue was deserted. Only a few cars and dog walkers cruised the streets. Saturday’s storm had left three feet of water in the subway and a water-main break on Broadway and Ninety-second Street. There were parts of the city where thousands of rats, forced out of the ground by high water, scurried among black plastic garbage bags, foraging for food. Puppy saw one and struggled to get out of Camille’s arms.

Smiling, she murmured, “Oh, all right,” and put the dog down. Puppy took off after the rat, only to be stopped short after a few feet by its retractable leash. The rat disappeared into the wet garbage that clogged the drain over the sewer on the corner.

Once the water had abated on Second Avenue, the devastation seemed to be limited to an assault of sodden newspapers and cardboard boxes that had been left out for a recycling pickup on Saturday that never occurred. Wet paper and loose garbage had blown all over the street.

“Let’s get out of here.” Bouck led the way across the street and halfway up the block to Third Avenue, where the garage was. He had called for the car, and it was waiting for them—a dark green Mercedes large enough to carry home most of the things they liked to buy.

Many antiques dealers were compulsive buyers, collecting at a much faster rate than they sold, and Bouck was no exception. He went to shows and auctions up and down the East Coast, with Camille beside him in the Mercedes. When she was really bad, he let her hide in the basement and didn’t stay away longer than twelve hours. Today they had a handle on things, were celebrating a new phase.

Camille settled herself into the caramel-colored leather and watched Bouck burn up the Merritt Parkway all the way to Connecticut. Two or three times she felt a tremor of panic, but when she retreated into the hat, she could see Puppy curled up on her lap. As long as Puppy was there, its tiny teeth showing in a smile, the red cloud wouldn’t close in over her. She knew from past experience if nothing bad happened, she would have a few good days.

Today was dazzling. The sky was deep blue, the trees and foliage that lined the highway after Greenwich thick and green. They were headed for the Fairfield Antiques Fair, which was held at a farm that was now a flea market and auction site. The traffic was light and by noon they had already parked and were beginning their meticulous study of the thousands of items offered in seventy-five small booths under three large tents in an open field.

They made a striking couple as they strolled casually from booth to booth—Camille in her straw hat and printed dress, a long and slender beauty stroking the tiny poodle in her arms, and Bouck, large and affluent with his diamond-studded gold Rolex, Gucci loafers, and benign baby face. Not visible was the small automatic tucked in his waistband, or the fairly crude Saturday night special in the small handbag that he never put down.

They appeared casual, but their search for treasure was an intense and careful process. They knew exactly what they were looking for, knew which dealers they would approach and which they would not. Bouck specialized in chandeliers, but he occasionally bought candlesticks, art glass, porcelain, unusual objets d’art, small chairs and tables, mirrors, sconces.

Camille shuddered. “Not there.” She turned away from the next booth. “That woman’s a witch. She wants to steal Puppy. Get away.” She made a brushing gesture.

“Sure thing.” Bouck steered Camille toward the barn, careful not to touch her as he moved her toward the indoor booths, where chandeliers hung from rafters.

The barn had been converted years before. Now its roof was studded with skylights. Today, the sun piercing through the grime on the windows and clouded crystals of the chandeliers gave everything a radiant, almost magical cast. Light, in tiny, dancing pinpoints, reflected everywhere.

Bouck and Camille continued their easy pace, pausing here and there to admire a piece and to chat with dealers they knew. The business had its own special language and its own insider information.

“You see the Empire piece in that corner?” Bouck nodded toward the back of one of the booths as they strolled past.

“Yes, very good,” Camille confirmed. “He also has the best pier mirror I’ve ever seen. Look at the size of it.”

Bouck glanced at the booth again quickly and then away so the owner wouldn’t think they were interested. He shook his head. “I thought we agreed. Nothing too big for the Mercedes.”

“Perfect for the living room. Perfect for our chandelier. Perfect for me,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I bet you can get them both for seven.”

“Oh, do you think so. We’ll see about that.”

They continued to walk, occasionally murmuring a kind word about a piece they admired but would never buy, and passing without comment the horrors and junk that comprised most of the show. This was no place for amateurs.

Fifteen minutes later, they circled back to the booth with the pier mirror in the center and the Empire chandelier in the corner. The pier mirror was nearly seven feet high. Its age could be set at over two hundred years by the way it was made. Heavy wooden panels, crudely put together, supported the huge slab of mirror on the front, the carved and gilded frame, and complicated side panels set at an angle with many mirrored insets. Like most old pieces, the visible parts were finely detailed while the undersides and back were rough and unfinished. Camille was enchanted by the piece. She paraded back and forth in front of it, swinging her skirt and preening.

Bouck smiled indulgently and examined the Empire chandelier. Its clean lines were broken with exquisitely detailed heads of horned and bearded faces and had the classic ram finials. The dealer was a short, heavyset man in his mid-fifties, wearing an orange silk shirt over his tailored khaki trousers. He was drenched in a perfume so strong that Puppy sneezed when they entered his space.

The man looked anxiously around for the source of the sound and didn’t see it. He wore very thick lenses encased in the kind of owl-eye black plastic frames favored by architects. Milicia’s boss wore glasses just like it. Camille hiked up Puppy in her arms. Puppy sneezed again.

The owner saw it now, squeaked, “A dog,” jumping out of his chair, away from Puppy, as if it were necessary to defend himself.

Good. Camille wandered off, leaving Bouck to do business. She checked out some rococo sconces hanging on the rough wooden beams that supported the roof, took another look at the small French bergère the dealer had been sitting in when they approached. Now she could see the full shape of the chair and the delicate carving on the exposed ends of the arms.

Checking behind him nervously, the dealer was trying to concentrate on showing Bouck some small art-glass pieces in a vitrine in the middle of the booth. Camille could see Bouck wanted the vitrine and not what was in it. Good, old display cases were very hard to find. Apparently the vitrine was not for sale.

“Gallé is so difficult these days. I sell only authentic, but some dealers—” The dealer shrugged. “And it’s hard to tell if you don’t know what you’re doing. The Koreans are flooding the market with copies, you know. Here, let me show you.”

He picked up a magazine and passed it to Bouck. “Look at this, faked art glass. Daum Nancy, Gallé, Steuben, Tiffany, complete with signatures.”

“We don’t have a problem with that,” Bouck said airily, fingering the zipper on his handbag.

“I guarantee everything I sell,” the myopic dealer said quickly.

“Hmm.” Bouck pointed at the yellow bud vase with the blue-green ivy pattern, clearly signed Gallé. “That’s nice.”

“Let me take it out for you.”

The vitrine door swung open. Camille could see Bouck nodding at the way the key had turned easily in the lock and how the door swung evenly on its hinges. “Bouck?” she said.

“Yes, my angel.”

“What do you think of the chandelier?” Camille turned toward it.

“I’ll look at it in a second.” Bouck held up the small yellow vase, turning it in the light. She could see from his expression it wasn’t bad, was probably authentic. The weight was right and the edges of the pattern were not too neat, as they were likely to be in fakes.

“What are you asking for the vase?”

“Well, prices have come way down on these pieces since eighty-seven and eighty-eight. The Japanese drove the market way out of proportion and then, all of a sudden, they stopped buying. Back then this would have sold for thirty-five hundred to five thousand. Today it’s probably worth half that. For a dealer, I’d say fifteen hundred.” He hesitated as if he’d already said too much, then added, “I can do that because I bought it with a lot of other, larger pieces, from an estate about ten years ago, so I don’t have that big an investment in it.”

Bouck put down the bud vase and smiled at the dealer. “What chandelier, Cammy?”

“Oh, the Empire. That is a beauty.” The dealer trotted along behind Bouck toward the corner were Camille was standing, stroking the puppy’s head. He regarded the dog with distaste.

“You, of course, have excellent taste. That’s one of the best Empire chandeliers I’ve ever had. Unfortunately, I’ve had it only about three months, so I can’t do much on the price. But it is exquisite. Did you see the detail on the ram’s heads and Pan, of course. Ah—” he squeaked. “Don’t do that.”

Camille had reached up to take the chandelier off its hook.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he cried. “Let me do that.”

Camille didn’t wait. She lifted the chain, easing the chandelier gently off its hook. The profusion of heavy, dangling crystals swung into one another, clinking wildly.

The dealer rushed toward her, almost tripping over Bouck. “Oh, my God. That’s heavier than it looks.”

He grabbed it from her, staggering a little under the weight until Bouck steadied him. Together the two men rehung it on a lower hook, slightly below eye level. For the second time the horrified dealer backed away from Camille. Bouck smiled at his colleague’s discomfiture.

Twenty minutes later Bouck pulled the Mercedes into the parking lot of a small French restaurant Camille remembered from before. The Mercedes was old enough to have the generosity and elegance new sedans lacked, the trunk ample space for the chandelier. The pier mirror was being delivered on Tuesday. The chair in which the dealer had been sitting was comfortably nestled in the back seat. Bouck had taken it for his ritual. The display case and the bud vase remained where they were. Bouck had handed over nine thousand dollars in cash.

“I’m taking Puppy in,” Camille insisted.

“No, Camille,” Bouck said sharply. “You can see her from here.”

“I want to,” she said.

“No. You’ll have to leave her in the car.” Bouck opened the windows and poured some water from an Evian bottle into a bowl with black paws painted on it. “She’ll be fine. I promise.” When she didn’t move, he added, “Get out, Camille. Or I’ll show Puppy my gun.”

Meekly, she got out of the car and moved toward the restaurant door that suddenly opened for her as if by magic.

“Do you have a reservation?” the obsequious maître d’ asked, leading them to the half-empty dining room, where he pointedly consulted his book.

Bouck’s round, angelic face was serene except for a small sign of strain in one cheek, where a muscle jumped. “We’ll sit there, by the window,” he said.

“Um, that’s reserved.”

“That’s where we’re sitting. Go on, Cammy, that’s your table.”

“Oh. Well … all right.” The maître d’ followed Camille anxiously with the menus.

Bouck pushed the menus away. “I’ll have a double Glenlivet. A glass of Beaujolais for the lady.” He frowned, tapping the table with his fingertips as the maître d’ flushed and murmured, “Right away, sir.”

Bouck glanced at Camille, directing his scowl at her. She could feel the life draining out of her and clenched her fists to hold her life in.

“Don’t start, Camille,” Bouck said, hissing through his teeth like a snake. He smiled. “We’re having lunch, remember. You’ve conquered the witch Milicia, don’t let her back. She can’t hurt you now. Don’t let her creep up on you from behind.

“Come on, Cammy. I’ll let you have a nice piece of salmon, not cooked too much. Whatever sauce you want. Ah, here’s your Beaujolais.” He waved his hand at her, commanding, “Sip, sip.”

Camille reached for the wineglass as he directed, put it to her lips, did not drink. Her face was white.

“We’ve had a good day, hmmm?” Bouck drained his tumbler of single malt without flinching, then raised his hand for another.