Free The Genius by Jesse Kellerman

I inferred from Marilyn’s expression that she was trying to do me a favor by giving Hollister something concrete to cling to. He was, I gathered, a labels-and-categories kind of guy.
    “We can call him that,” I said. I smiled at Hollister. “For argument’s sake.” He squinted at the canvas again. “What does it mean.”
    “What do you think it means?”
    He spent a few moments pursing and unpursing his lips. “Nothing, inherently.”
    We decided to leave it at that.
    All evening long I kept an eye out for Tony Wexler. I had sent him an invitation—pointedly addressed to his home rather than to the office. I knew he couldn’t come. He never did. He couldn’t come if my father had been snubbed, and I invariably snubbed my father, which mooted the whole point of sending Tony an invitation.
    Given his interest in the artist, and his contribution to the discovery of the work, I had figured that I’d at least get a phone call. But I’d heard nothing. It rankled a tiny bit. Even the goddamn superintendent, Shaughnessy, showed up, stuffed into a heavy sport jacket that had not recently seen the light of day. At first I thought he was some artist dressed deliberately down, a crude parody of a lower-middle-class wardrobe. Then he waved at me from afar and my memory clicked into place: the smudged glasses, the thick wrists. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out why he’d come—or how he had even known about the show. I mentioned this to Nat and he told me that—per my request—we’d sent postcards to everyone I’d interviewed as a way of thanking them.
    I was bewildered. “I said to do that?”
    Nat smiled. “Senile already.”
    “I’ve been living in a bubble,” I said. “Anyhow I doubt I expected anyone to take the invitation seriously.”
    “He did.”
    “Indeed.” I felt bad for Shaughnessy, who spent the evening walking around and around the drawings, awkwardly trying to pick up the tails of other conversations. Finally, I went over to shake his hand.
    He waved at the canvases. “Something else, huh? Was I right?”
    “You were.”
    “I know it when I see it.”
    “You certainly do.”
    “I like this one.” He showed me where Victor had drawn a bridge— Ruby thought it looked like the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge—turning into a dragon whose tongue forked and grew into the air trails of a jet, which flew into an ocean, which itself became the open mouth of a giant fish… and so forth. The pictures tended to nest inside one another, so that every time you had found the largest unit, you discovered, upon the addition of more panels, a more impressive superstructure.
    “Wild stuff,” said Shaughnessy.
    I nodded.
    “So’d you sell any yet?”
    “Not yet.”
    “You think you will?”
    I glanced at Hollister. “I hope so.”
    Shaughnessy licked his lips. “Hey, lemme ask you something. You think I might be able to get some?”
    For a moment I thought I was being propositioned. “Get some.”
    “Yeah, you know.”
    “You mean—buy a drawing?”
    “Not so much.” He licked his lips again.
    “What then.”
    “Like a commission.” He smiled. “Finder’s fee.”
    In the distance I saw Hollister talking to Marilyn as they headed for the front door. I said, “You want me to give you one of the drawings.”
    Abruptly he reddened. “It’s not like they’re yours.”
    “Excuse me,” I said, and left Shaughnessy standing there.
    Before going, Hollister handed me a card and asked me to call him on Monday. He left a wake; everyone stepped aside to watch him go. They had been tracking him all evening long, eager to learn if he was no longer off-limits as a client.
    I turned to find Shaughnessy again and spotted him across the room, furiously stuffing canapés into his mouth. Then he concealed an entire bottle of wine inside his coat, rolled up three exhibition catalogues, and left without saying good-bye.
     
     
    THE ONE TRUE DARK SPOT on an otherwise bright evening arrived close to