Mr. Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

x-rays. Minor Watt chose
Compound Fracture.
    â€œYou know where to send it.”
    Cowley knew what would happen to
Compound Fracture.
And he knew what would happen to his reputation, to the value of his work: it would be a breakthrough.
    But such a painter was not the best witness to the destruction. Critics were excellent—they grieved. And the most knowledgeable critics were the best. They were able to appreciate the worth of the pieces. They could put a price tag on them, but few of them could afford to buy them, and so they were truly shocked to see Minor Watt slash them to rags.
    After a nighttime visit to the New York studio of another painter, Minor Watt was walking to the corner to find a taxi when he was set upon and pushed to the sidewalk by two men. At that moment, a police cruiser happened to drift past, interrupting the assault, though the two attackers slipped between buildings and got away.
    â€œYou okay?” one cop asked. “They get anything?”
    â€œI’m fine. I have my wallet. My watch.” Patting himself, Minor Watt was glad that he felt no pain.
    â€œI guess we got here just in time. Lucky. They could have done some damage.”
    Minor Watt smiled at that notion—that they might have broken his bones. Maybe they were men who objected to what he was doing. Or maybe they were thugs looking for trouble.
    It happened again—this time a gunshot fired into his car, which was parked in a public lot. He was not in the car, but the bullet through the windshield entered at the level of his head. That was a message: not a random act of violence but an attempted murder. He lost count of the people who would be glad to see him dead. Sonia would smile and tell people what a bastard he was—and never mention how they had loved each other. He bought a bulletproof car and hired a bodyguard, and, secure, he was gleeful, thinking that there were people who were so outraged by the destruction of his artworks that they were prepared to kill him.
    The phone rang in his bulletproof car, a woman. “This is the Tony Faris gallery. Mr. Faris would like to speak with you.”
    â€œPut him on,” Minor Watt said.
    â€œRight away. But I just wanted to say that I read about that trouble you had and I’m really sorry.”
    â€œThanks for noticing. You’re Mara?”
    â€œYou remember.”
    â€œâ€˜The language of things.’ I liked that.”
    Then Faris was on the line, saying, “Are you all right?”
    Other people called—dealers, galleries, auctioneers, painters, sculptors. In almost every case, they were people who wished to sell him work, all of them well aware of his plans for the piece: the knife, the hammer, the acid bath, the crucible, the bonfire, the oven.
    Sonia called. She sounded terrified, and her anxious questions told him that she was afraid he might hurt her.
    After the mugging and the gunshot, his protective measures took so much of his time that for three weeks or more he did not destroy anything. In this period of reflection he realized that he would never run out of works to destroy. He felt a twinge of inhibition. Faris’s sale of the Edward Hopper gave him his first intimation. Even if he concentrated on, say, Chola bronzes—a niche of Indian art—he’d only find at most a dozen masterpieces. Museums and die-hard collectors had the rest, which would be the more valuable for his destruction of the others.
    And so he stopped and pondered what to do next. This pause proved accidentally helpful. He saw that he was regarded as a dominant force in the art world, almost as though his destruction was a form of art criticism, causing fear and gratitude. His spell of doing nothing created suspense. He liked the idea that he was spreading alarm by not lifting a finger, that he’d become a symbol of intimidation.
    I have not drawn blood, he thought, not one drop. I have not hurt a single person physically. I have