“Of course,” I said, catching a whiff of his citrusy cologne.

“I’d be lost without it. You should get one for yourself.”

“Sure,” I said, knowing he was playing with me. “I’ll trade in my Timex.”

He laughed too loud.

I asked if I could see the Raphael and Giorgione drawings he’d mentioned, and he said, “They’re in my various homes—Park Avenue, Palm Beach, Aspen—not in the office. You’re not an art thief, are you?” Another too-loud laugh.

I laughed too. “No. Just an associate professor of art history.”

“And where would this associate’s job be? Some community college?”

I was happy to drop the name of my respected university, the one I might soon be fired from, though I had a feeling Teivel already knew where I taught, knew everything about me.

“Good for you,” he said. “Do you live in the city?”

“On the Bowery.”

“The Bowery? Really? Hard to imagine the Bowery, formerly skid row, would be a desirable location, though apparently things have changed. Do you feel safe there?”

I told him it was perfectly safe nowadays.

“I suppose,” Teivel said. “Though you never know, do you? I mean, anything can happen—anywhere.”

Was he threatening me? “That’s why I have dead bolts on my doors,” I said.

“No bars on your windows?”

“I’m on an upper floor. So unless it’s Spider-Man—”

“My favorite superhero,” Teivel said.

“Really? I’d have guessed Wolverine.”

Teivel barked a Wolverine-like laugh. “You flatter me.”

Not a chance. We talked a few more minutes about the contemporary art he collected—Warhol, Basquiat, Koons—but Teivel seemed to grow bored. Perhaps he’d gotten what he wanted, did not feel sufficiently threatened by me. He ushered me toward his office door and offered a handshake.

“If I were you, I’d get bars on those Bowery windows,” he said and squeezed my hand, hard. “You never know when Spider-Man might show up.” He barked another laugh.

“Nah,” I said and squeezed his hand back. “I was never afraid of little Peter Parker.”

“What about Wolverine?” he said, letting go of my hand to usher me out the door, which closed in my face.

85

At home, I dug out Inspector Cabenal’s card. I knew she wouldn’t be happy to hear from me, but I wanted to tell her about Teivel, run his name past her and see if it meant anything.

I was surprised when she answered the phone, and I was right: she was not happy to hear from me. I asked about Jonathan Teivel. The name meant nothing to her.

“It was on Smith’s list of collectors, ones he intended to investigate—”

“And you saw this man?”

I told her I had.

There was a pause, then her words came like gunfire. “Mister Perrone! If you persist in these matters, I will have no choice but to report you to your local authorities and have you arrested. Do…you…understand?”

I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I said nothing.

“Are you there? Did you hear me?”