Free Shooting Gallery by Hailey Lind Page A

this?”
    â€œPascal probably escaped down the fire escape, anyway,” I muttered. “And now I have to pee. How come that never happens to TV cops on stakeouts?”
    â€œBecause they’re men, and men are superior to women,” Tom announced with a belch. “We only need a jar.”
    â€œThat is right,” Pete added. “We are men of the jar.”
    â€œYeah, peeing in a jar is the absolute pinnacle of human evolution,” Mary interjected.
    â€œTry the Internet company on the first floor,” Sherri suggested sensibly. “I’ll bet they won’t mind.”
    When I returned ten minutes later Mary said Frank had called my cell phone, and over Pete’s vociferous objections she had invited him to join us.
    â€œYou invited him here ?” I squeaked.
    â€œGive him a chance, Annie. I mean, when’s the last time you even went on a date?” Mary said. “And hey, I’ve been meaning to ask: what’s with all this powder? It’s like a cocaine lab exploded in here. Which reminds me—Bryan’s bringing more wine! We can party hearty!”
    Great , I thought. This ought to impress Frank with my professionalism.

Chapter 5
    Unlike writers or musicians, who keep copies of their art, the fine artist must forfeit her or his one-of-a-kind works in order to make a living. It is like giving up a child to the care of strangers.
    â€”Georges LeFleur, in Parents magazine
    Â 
    Half an hour later Bryan burst out of the elevator accompanied by his friend Levine, another of the Stendhal fainters. After distributing pillows and wine, Bryan announced that he and Levine had PTS.
    â€œBut you’re guys,” Mary objected. “Y’all don’t get PMS.”
    â€œHe said P T S,” I corrected her. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
    â€œIt’s dreadful ,” Bryan said.
    â€œHideous,” Levine whispered.
    â€œToo bad you’re not Norwegian,” Mary asserted smugly, popping an organic cherry tomato into her mouth. “We don’t get PTS or that Stand All thingee. Faint in a snowdrift and see how long your genetic line lasts.”
    Leaning back on a red satin pillow and pouring a glass of an Oregon Pinot Noir, Bryan launched into a colorful, comprehensive, and almost certainly exaggerated account of the faint-in at the Brock, from the first tingles at the sight of Gauguin’s painting to the moment he was awakened by Brock security guard Carlos Jimenez. In answer to my questions he described their tour guide, Michael Collins, as “Fine, finer than fine, if you get my meaning,” adding that Collins sported two of the greenest eyes Bryan had ever seen but was frustratingly committed to heterosexuality.
    That clinched it. Michael Collins was the art thief I knew as Michael X. Johnson, aka Colin Brooks, aka the X-man. My mission was clear: find Michael, retrieve the stolen Chagall, and kill him for once again complicating my life.
    By five thirty p.m. the rays of the setting sun were sifting through the grimy window at the end of the hall. The bad news was that I had given up all hope of seeing Pascal anytime soon. The good news was that it was Saturday evening and we had ourselves the beginnings of a first-rate party. Bryan cracked open a bottle of smooth Nicaraguan rum, Tom packed up the wicker picnic basket, Mary practiced palm reading on Levine, and Sherri taught Pete a Latin dance step. When the salsa music ended a skirmish broke out over control of the airwaves: Mary wanted to play a homemade CD of a friend’s punk band while Pete made a heartfelt plea for Willie Nelson.
    Neither alternative appealed to me in the slightest, so I suggested a sing-along to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” Bryan took lead vocals; Levine played the spoons; Mary, Sherri, and I sang backup and attempted a few coordinated dance moves; and Pete and Tom pounded out the bass line on any and all hard