Small Town

“ ’Cause this one dealer was talking about what we’d have to front him to cover expenses, and we can’t afford to do anything like that.”

“That’s not how we work,” she assured him. “Expenses are my problem. In fact, there’ll be a token good-faith advance for you when we get the paperwork signed.”

“Paperwork?”

“We’ll want exclusive rights to represent the artist’s work. In return, you’ll get an advance from us against future earnings. It won’t be much, maybe a thousand dollars, but that’s better than having to pay money to some vanity gallery, isn’t it?”

He nodded, still taking it all in. “When you say we...”

“I mean me,” she said. “The editorial we, or perhaps it’s more the entrepreneurial we. The Pomerance Gallery is a one-person show in itself, and—”

The phone rang, and caller ID showed it was Maury Winters. “I have to take this,” she told Reginald, and picked up and said, “Well? Did you work a miracle?”

“I hope you have good weather in the Hamptons.”

“You got me out of it.”

“I got you a postponement,” he said, “to which you’re not entitled, but it’d be a hard life if we never got more than we deserved. You’re committed to show up the second week in October, and—”

“October? That’s—”

“—a busy time for you,” he supplied, “and that’s too bad. Susan, sweetheart, we’re talking about a probable three days, starting on a Monday, and you’re closed Mondays, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“And how busy are you on Tuesdays and Wednesdays? Don’t answer that, because I don’t care how busy you are then or any other time. You’ll go and do your duty as a citizen, and you won’t get picked because this is criminal court and nobody’s going to want you on a jury.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re smart and chic and in the arts.”

“So?”

“So either the prosecution or the defense is going to want you out of there. And even if they don’t, you can keep from being selected. The judge’ll ask if any of the prospective jurors feel incapable of being fair and open-minded about the case at hand, and that’s when you raise your hand and say you couldn’t possibly be fair to Joe Blow because he looks just like the uncle who tried to get in your pants when you were eleven.”

“And he’ll believe me?”

“No, he’ll probably figure you just don’t want to be on a jury, but what do you care about his good opinion? He’ll excuse you, because after you’ve said that he’ll have to. Three days, Susan, and they’ll be over before you know it, and you won’t have to serve again for four more years.”

“If I’d known it was just three days...”

“What?”

“Well, as far as next week is concerned—”

“Forget next week. You’re off the hook for next week and you can’t get back on.”

“I’d rather wait until October anyway,” she said. “You’re a love, Maury. I appreciate it, I really do.”

“You should. You know, you shouldn’t call me for something like this. You should ignore the summons and wait until you’re arrested, and then you call me. I’m a criminal defense attorney, and—”

“One of the best in the country.”

“What are you buttering me up for? I already did you the favor. But every time you have a legal question you call me, and most of it’s stuff I’m rusty on. You must know other lawyers.”

“Not as well as I know you, Maury.” She nibbled her lower lip. “You’re the only one on my speed dial. If there’s anything I can do in return...”

“Well, now that you mention it, one of your famous blow jobs would be more than welcome.”

She let the silence stretch as long as she could. Then, her voice strained, she said, “Maury, you’re on speakerphone. I thought you knew that.”

He didn’t say anything, and the silence was delicious.

“Gotcha,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess you did. I get you out of jury duty and you give me a heart attack. Nice.”

“Just wanted to keep you on your toes,” she said, and blew him a kiss, and rang off.

Chloe was a few minutes late, but no more than you’d expect from a twenty-three-year-old blonde with a crew cut and a nose ring. She took up her post at the front desk and Susan, who generally had lunch delivered, decided it was too nice a day to stay indoors. She walked over to Empire Diner and had a large orange juice and a salmon salad, then browsed a couple of Ninth Avenue antique shops and was back at the gallery a little after two.

She’d sent Reginald Barron off earlier with papers for his uncle to sign and a $500 check as a good-faith advance, and now she had another look at the photos of Emory Allgood’s extraordinary work. She’d kept the disk — Reginald hadn’t thought to ask for its return, and she would have talked him out of it if he had. She didn’t need it, she’d already downloaded the images, but she didn’t want it floating around, not until she had the artist firmly committed to the Susan Pomerance Gallery.