It's Not About Sex by Kalergis David

Author:Kalergis, David [Kalergis, David]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Atelerix Press
Published: 2014-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

Heading west on Forty-Second Street I walked the thirty crowded blocks to the Klinger Gallery. Harold Klinger, a friend from my days at Weatherby’s, would be manning the shop alone at this early hour. He had gone independent the same year as I and now specialized in Asian art and antiquities, operating quite successfully from his own Madison Avenue gallery. We often traded business favors, and I sometimes used his private sales offices when I needed to meet with a client. Now, fourteen of the twenty-three paintings from Ray’s Edison’s Electric debut were stored in the back, including the four that had been recently sold and were awaiting transport and delivery.

The gallery was empty except for Klinger. He was occupied with a pile of auction catalogs he’d stacked onto a table along the wide corridor leading to the back gallery. He was probably doing an appraisal. He grunted slightly as he settled into the chair that he’d pulled up to the table.

“There’s coffee, Bradley. Help yourself.”

I thanked him, made my way through the back gallery into the office, and pulled the door closed behind me. Ignoring the coffee, I sat in his desk chair with the telephone on the desk in front of me, unsure where to start. Then, because of its irony, I remembered a name Ray had mentioned. The prison doctor’s name was Freeman. By calling directory assistance for Virginia, I got the main number at Lorton and when the prison operator answered I asked for Dr. Freeman. After some confusion I was put through to a secretary, where I expected further delay, but I as soon as I mentioned the name Ray Martin there was a pause and then she said, “Hold on. I’ll put you through.” A male voice came over the phone. “Freeman here. Who’s calling?”

“My name is Bradley,” I said, surprised to be actually speaking with him. “I’m calling about a former inmate by the name of Raymond Martin. Do you remember him?”

“Of course I remember him. I’ve been expecting this call. Has he killed someone already?”

I nearly dropped the receiver.

“No,” I stammered.

“Then why are you calling?”

“He gave me your name as a reference.”

“That’ll be the day,” Freeman said. “Anyway, his employment has to be with AFTAR, as a condition of his parole.”

There was static on the telephone line, followed by a long silence. This wasn’t going at all like I’d planned.

“Who is this?” he asked. “Why are you calling?”

I thought hard for a moment, then tried honesty.

“I’m a new friend of Ray’s—an art dealer. We’re sharing a house. I met him shortly after he was released but I don’t know much about him, or about his . . . stability. He mentioned your name . . .”

“Well, obviously you’ve figured things out or you wouldn’t be calling. He may have artistic talent—I’m no judge of that—but I do know he’s dangerous.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was serving a sentence for killing a man. He stabbed him in the heart.”

“Yes. But he said he didn’t do it.

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