Free Long Gone by Alafair Burke Page B

trespassed on your property?”
    “Um, no, they didn’t actually enter inside the property. Yet.”
    “Have they engaged in any physical contact with you or anyone else, ma’am?”
    Ma’am. Alice knew that being called ma’am by a government employee was not a good sign. “Well, no, nothing physical. But they’re creating a public disturbance.”
    “Please hold.”
    Three minutes until she returned. “If these people are exercising their rights to free speech, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you.”
    “But they’re creating a public disturbance.”
    “Ma’am, you’re running a business in New York City. What you think of as a public disturbance, some people call the city’s flavor. You know what I mean?”
    “Would you be saying that if I were calling from Citibank instead of some fledgling art gallery in the Meatpacking District?”
    “Please hold.”
    Three more minutes. The cameras still rolling outside.
    A male voice came on the line. That in itself bothered her for some reason.
    “Miss Humphrey?”
    She wondered if her actual name was a promotion from ma’am or simply an escalation. “Yes.”
    “If you’d like to go to your local precinct to file a report, the address is—”
    “I don’t want to go to my local precinct, because I’m at work trying to run a business. I am calling you because these extremists are disrupting that business.”
    “I realize that, ma’am, but—”
    “Shouldn’t someone at least come out here to see what’s happening and decide whether it’s legal or not? I mean, I’m not a police officer. I don’t know the difference between protected speech and public nuisance. Isn’t that what police are for?”
    “Please hold.”
    Alice looked at the time on her laptop. Minutes ticking by. Camera rolling outside.
    She heard a long, solid beep over the Muzak piped in by 311. The other line. It could be Drew. She stared at the buttons at the phone, realizing she had no clue how to click over to the other line without disconnecting the call. Fuck.
    “Highline Gallery. This is Alice.”
    “Good, you’re still at your desk.”
    She recognized her father’s voice.
    “Hey, Papa. Can I call you back?”
    Up until last year, her father had been a regular caller. Too regular, in fact. Regular enough that she’d made a point never to mention her cell phone number.
    “Don’t say anything to those cocksucking reporters.”
    “Excuse me. What?”
    “I’ve been pulled into this game before. Don’t do it. Stay away from the vultures.”
    “Wait, this mess is out there already?”
    “Your mother called me. It’s on New York One as we speak.” The magic of live television. “A group like that will want to paint you as the bad guy. Same as Daily News and the Post . Cable news might be the same if it goes national. They’re all trying to outfox Fox. I’ve fallen for it, and I’ve been burned every time. You need the New Yorker . Maybe the Times . The libertarianish blogs would be good. Huffington Post would be terrific. Make it all about free speech. Theirs and yours. The more speech, the better. That’s the high ground.”
    It had been a long time since she’d felt like this with her father. Symbiotic. Comfortable. Papa to the rescue.
    She heard the long, solid beep again. Maybe Drew had finally picked up her messages.
    “I gotta go, Papa. But thanks. Really ... Highline Gallery, this is Alice.”
    “Hi, Peter Morse from the Daily News . I was calling about your Hans Schuler exhibit?”
    She recited a few of Schuler’s bullet points. The SELF series. Self-introspection. Mainstreaming radicalism. She left out the part where she herself had spent a good couple of weeks calling the stuff pornography.
    “Sounds like it’s right out of the artist’s brochure. Between me and you, I’m looking at this guy’s stuff online. Is there really any art to be found there? The Reverend George Hardy of the Redemption of Christ Church certainly thinks