The Faces of Angels Read Online Free PDF Page B

says his ‘little sojourn at the Academy della Bardina’ is a treat to himself for surviving three and a half glorious decades before he has to finally grow up for good and start a job in DC with the Justice Department, but I have to say that the idea of him going to work for the Feds strikes me as unlikely. Kind of like hiring Avril Lavigne as a front woman for the Young Rotarians. On the other hand, Justice probably knows what it’s doing, because if his performances in the bar are any indication, Kirk’s a killer in court.
    He leaned back in his little metal chair, his long black coat flapping on either side of him, and elaborated. ‘In my opinion, it is distinctly possible,’ he said, ‘that the art students have started killing each other because things have gotten too crowded, like those animals—what are they, lemmings?’
    â€˜Rats,’ Billy said. ‘Lemmings jump over cliffs.’
    Billy was watching the far side of the piazza as she spoke, spinning the stem of her wine glass between her thumb and forefinger, making the strip of lemon peel inside dance on a whirlpool of tepid Pinot Grigio. ‘Somewhere in Canada, I think,’ she added. ‘Or maybe Newfoundland.’
    â€˜Well, same idea.’
    â€˜Canada and Newfoundland?’ Billy raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜Well, yes, as a matter of fact.’ The intrusion of geography made Kirk petulant. ‘You cannot dispute,’ he insisted, tapping the table as though we might, ‘you absolutely cannot dispute that Florence has a superabundance of art students. Just think about it. Just consider for a moment how many Junior Years Abroad are passed in these poor, benighted streets. In fact,’ he added, ‘I would guess that the population of Uffizi-goers toting fanny packs and indulging in bad art theory is reaching something dangerously close to critical mass.’
    â€˜What is “critical mass”?’ Billy asked. ‘I mean, exactly?’
    Henry put his beer bottle down and snorted. He likes to drink Nastro Azzuro and peel the labels off the side. There are usually little piles of shavings where he’s been sitting. ‘Are you seriously suggesting,’ he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, ‘that this woman was killed because she said something stupid about Botticelli? Does it even say she was killed?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, but everyone ignored me.
    Kirk grinned, his pale foxy face looking as if it had been cracked with a cleaver. ‘If she said it loud enough. And elaborated. Right in front of the Primavera .’ There was a silence as we considered this. ‘I mean, who among us,’ Kirk asked, ‘who among us can honestly say that they have not been tempted to homicide when trapped in the Uffizi and forced to listen to some halfwit reciting Art 101 ?’
    By this time Billy had stopped watching the piazza or, presumably, wondering about critical mass, and she turned and looked at us. Billy’s six foot if she’s an inch, her hair is long and blonde and kinky, her eyes are the colour of sapphires. Of the sky. A summer day reflected in deep, deep water. Billy’s eyes are the eyes little girls draw on the faces of princesses. ‘In the bathroom,’ she said suddenly. ‘In the basement of the Accademia. They brush their hair over the sinks.’
    â€˜They always have long hair.’ Henry was getting into the spirit now. He pushed the too-long sleeves of his sweater up over his wrists in a gesture that suggested he was getting serious, and waved his big, blunt hands. About a week ago, Henry told me that he’d always wanted to be a sculptor, not a shrink, but sadly he had to make a living. I told him he looked like Michelangelo, which is actually true, and two little pink spots of pleasure appeared on his cheeks.
    â€˜It’s tribal.’ Kirk poured the last of his little bottle of Campari into his glass. ‘The