“Do you haze everybody that way?”

“It’s worked in the past,” he admitted. “There’s a socialite in Dallas with your rose-gold hair. She paints dogs. I honestly—I honestly thought you were her when you drove up.”

“Because socialites drive dented twenty-year-old pickup trucks with counterfeit tabs.”

“It could have been an affectation.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“My friend Cady paints dogs.” I was putting him through the wringer here.

“I’m sure your friend Cady paints the best dogs.”

“She does, actually.”

“Wait.” He paused. “Did you say your truck has counterfeit tabs?”

“Did I?” I shook my head cluelessly. “Who can remember.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He said it twice, leaning into me. His eyes were dark green, the rind of a cucumber. “I was late to the airport when I showed you in. I was distracted.”

“Why do you do it?” I asked, to regain control of the conversation. “Your work, I mean.” Savage’s recent medium was the talk of the town: real human organs purchased on the black market. He dried them out to leather in the sun, coated them in bronze, and mounted them like trophies. Slobodan Milošević’s Liver sold at auction the year before for over a million dollars.

“Everybody’s trafficking in something,” he quipped.

“Hah.” I waited for a better answer.

“My gallery says the work is a commentary on commodities.”

“What do you think?”

“Why does anybody do anything?” he replied. “What else am I going to do?”

I stifled a laugh. I was softening but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t know that I felt sorry for him; I wasn’t going to absolve him of his bad manners after a few jokes, even if I wanted to. “So. Where’s everybody else?”

“Over there. Jack, Marlin, and Jes are all here,” he said, gesturing to a cluster nearby—Jack Wells, in an equally threadbare tuxedo, stood chatting idly with Marlin Mayfield, who wore an ocher-tinted cocoon; Jes Winsome, a navy shroud. The three of them were an impenetrable bubble that the party seemed to bob and weave around, a drop of olive oil in a glass of milk. “We were in the city, but we’re back for June.”

“I should say hi to Max,” I said suddenly, the bottle of wine sweating in my hand.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Truly, I’m sorry,” he said. “We do have a space for you. I’ll give you the keys tomorrow. Tonight when we get back, if you want. It’s huge, and it’s watertight.”

My mouth made a suspicious line. “Why?” I asked.

“We’re not using it.” He shrugged. “Everybody needs a solid sometimes, right?”

“Thank you,” I said.