Tongues of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

sloshing in his shoes. As he slid the key in the lock he heard a sound from the other side of the door. He didn’t make another movement, not even to take his hand from the key. He thought of the thin, pale woman bleeding on the polished pine floor beside the four wooden booths. He thought of Abu Fahoum and the man in the suit, waiting in the dark. Leaving the key where it was, he very slowly stepped backwards toward the top of the stairs. A woman laughed, a loud aggressive laugh that ran through several registers but didn’t find mirth. Sheila Finkle. He opened the door.
    No bleeding woman. No man with a gun. Instead Sheila Finkle, tall and thin, except for the heavy breasts she couldn’t diet away; and Quentin Katz, shorter, rounder, with a bald spot on the top of his head where a horseshoe would neatly fit; and others, talking and smoking and drinking white wine and kirs and champagne that didn’t come from Champagne. He noticed that the violence exhibit was gone. No one noticed him.
    He turned to go. Sheila Finkle screamed. “Oh. You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
    â€œIsaac. You’re just in time,” Quentin Katz said. “We’ve got a new showing to put up tonight.” Katz came forward to greet him. “My God! Did you swim here?”
    â€œI’m not very wet.”
    â€œNot very wet? Here, try some champagne.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œOf course. You need something to warm you up. How about cognac?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œArmagnac.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Katz raised an eyebrow. “Armagnac, huh? Have we discovered your secret vice at last?”
    In fact he didn’t like any kind of brandy. He just didn’t want to hear everything Katz had to offer. He tried to smile like a person who has been found out about some foible.
    Katz turned to the group. “Hey, everybody,” he said loudly. “Isaac Rehv.” As he went to the storage room to fetch the armagnac he added, “Sheila, why don’t you introduce him around?”
    Before she did she said: “Isaac is our very nice night watchman. I sleep so much better knowing he’s here.” Then she told him everyone’s name.
    Katz returned with the armagnac. “And not just any night watchman: the smartest in Manhattan. In real life he’s a professor of Arabic literature.” He finished on a note that seemed to invite applause, like a game show host.
    A woman of about his own age with long red fingernails said, “Really? That must be a very good field these days.”
    â€œIt must be,” Rehv replied. “Now if you will excuse me, I’ll change into something dry.” He went into the storage room, shut the door, and stayed there until all the guests had left.
    â€œGood-bye, good-bye,” Katz and his wife called down the stairs after the last one. There was a pause. Then Sheila spoke in a hoarse, angry whisper: “I don’t care what you think. He was appallingly rude.” Rehv could not distinguish the words of Katz’s reply, only the soothing tone. This time Sheila made no effort at all to lower her voice: “Do what you like. I’m going home.” The door closed sharply.
    Footsteps. A light knock. Once. Twice.
    â€œIsaac? You in there?”
    Rehv picked up the camp cot and opened the door. Quentin Katz stood there, trying to look genial. “One more armagnac before beddy-bye?” He stuck a partly full glass into the space between them. His hand was pink and plump and ill defined.
    â€œI’m very tired, Quentin,” he said. It wasn’t true.
    â€œOh come on. Live a little.”
    He took the glass. They went into the gallery and sat on folding chairs. Six or seven sculptures, Rehv supposed they were sculptures, had been placed around the room. One was composed entirely of escargot shells: He recognized Napoleon, hand hidden inside his coat, overlooking some battle. And a