Chapter Thirty-Five The Artisan
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Artisan
“So everything is better?” Kostya bumped his shoulder into mine.
My whiskey sloshed against the glass. “It is fine,” I mumbled.
Quiet mumbles of the morning mixed with the haze of sluggish cigarettes and dark roasts.
Walnut from floor to ceiling with the exception of the mirror behind the bottles of the bar and the haze of the windows between the smoke and café curtains.
The gilded painted lettering on the window read backward from inside, clear against the light greeting those with hangovers.
Kostya and I nested ourselves in the pub corner, my friend’s morning beer in hand with espresso on the side.
“Now that you’re getting along with your wife, Emily has been asking for a double outing.” He grinned. “We could try something fun, a show and dinner, perhaps?”
“Now why would you assume that?” I laughed.
“Oh sorry. I just thought . . .” He sipped his tall glass awkwardly, like he’d gotten too far ahead of himself.
I shook my head and took another sip of whiskey, then frowned. “Wait.” I whipped my head back to him. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought you took my advice regarding reputation.” He shrugged, frowning back at me, equally confused by my reaction.
“Why would you bring it up?”
“Have you not seen the papers?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Kostya looked over one shoulder, then the other, before standing and heading toward the door of the pub, checking behind a chair before digging out the paper from the morning in the garbage tin. He brushed it off, unfolding it as he sat next to me again.
The bold typeface of the headline read:
New York’s Rising Swells Turning Heads—New York’s Illustrious Sweethearts Off to the Races.
The main image was a photograph of the two of us promenading about the event.
It was a nice photograph, though I hardly recognized myself next to her, dressed for her tax bracket.
They caught something rare in the photo, not just my new tailoring but a small, fleeting smile on Petronille while she was with me.
It was so brief, I didn’t even remember it.
It would have been a great photo . . . if it weren’t for the image below, accompanying the article.
It was another photo of Petronille, one I couldn’t recognize. It was old; she looked just barely eighteen. She was only wearing combinations, a helpful illustration beside it detailing the exact design and where to get it.
While I would expect the design to be outdated, it seemed Petre’s allure was enough to bring it straight back into fashion.
Interestingly—there were even quotes.
The secret to alluring a man is your sense of fashion. Every detail, a tell-all. Invest in yourself, and a quality man will follow. That is why I recommend L’Atelier de Rhode for the finest catalogs, custom in cut and dye, the finest feel for the most exceptional value.
There isn’t a single chance on earth that those words came from Petronille’s mouth. A branded impersonation of my wife, at best.
This would surely affect her, though the article wasn’t scathing. Which was odd, as the free press didn’t hold back often.
I knew I hadn’t been invited to Mr. De Villier’s office the other day out of charity. No, he’d planned for this—paid in full. A trade-off was expected; he didn’t seem the type to do anything without a motive. I just couldn’t have guessed he would do this.
The slam of the door made a sharp cracking sound, a few officers rising from their desk from the commotion.
“Where is he?” I grabbed one who approached. Another man attempted to pull me back. “Where is he!” I shouted.
“Just the man I wanted to see.” Mr. Hunt stood in the doorway of his office, laughing smugly as he waved me inside. “It’s all right, he’s harmless. Let him go.”
Cautious stares as they hesitated to release me, their eyes telling me all I needed to know.
Young, jumpy men all too willing to beat someone at the slightest inconvenience.
They turned their noses up at those in the streets, as if they were somehow above the working man.
Blue collars who believed they were white.
Little did they know they were closer to being us than they were to being the lobbyists they protected with their badges.
They said you couldn’t be an intelligent cop, or else you’d be promoted to politician—only the stupid believed the law served the people, and the men who served made fools of us all.
“Come have a seat, Arkady,” Hunt said, stepping aside to hold the office door open.
I shoved the paper at the commissioner’s chest. “I want to press charges.”
“Is that so?” A new voice as the door closed. “What for?”
Adrien De Villier sat behind the commissioner’s desk, reading this morning’s paper.
“You used my wife’s image and disgusting insinuations to sell overpriced scraps of clothing.”
“Insinuations?” He seemed disinterested. “I believe you have me confused with the lingerie company. They paid for their placement in the papers.”
I shoved the paper down from his face. “You gave them the photo.”
Mr. De Villier glanced at it, a smirk rising on his face. “The photo looks better than expected when it’s printed so large.”
My arm snapped out at his tie, yanking it forward. “You did this.”
“There is no foul play here, Arkady,” he said, calmly placing the paper down on the desk. “We have permission from the photographer.”
“We?” I pulled tighter. “This is defamation.”
“It’s just good business.”
“What is your game, old man?”
Mr. Hunt approached us at the desk and reached for his pocket, slowly producing a photograph.
It was of Petre, her pale silhouette stark against the background. An older photograph than the one in the papers . . . but completely nude. I slapped my palm over it quickly as if it would protect the image’s dignity.
“Rumor has it that this will be in the papers in two days,” Mr. Hunt informed me. “It’ll get pulled very quickly for being obscene, but it only takes one spark to set the tabloids ablaze with opinion pieces.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Who will you call to complain? My precinct?” Mr. Hunt laughed.
“There is no point to this but to be cruel or entertained. I should hope not the latter, considering it is your own daughter. What do you gain from this?” I demanded from her father.
“An opportunity.”
“What do you want? What will make you stop this aimless crusade?”
“I fear there is nothing to be done.” Adrien shrugged, glancing at Mr. Hunt. “Though, there could be something . . .” He trailed off, leaning over the side of his chair.
With one hoist, a bag thumped in front of me on the desk. And with one quick zip, a flash of green. More money than I’d ever seen up close. My stomach lurched.
“I have one last favor to ask of you, for Petronille.”
“No.” I didn’t need to hear his request. I already knew it wasn’t something I could do. I wouldn’t betray her, especially knowing this man would ruin her if nobody stood in his way.
“I thought you’d say that. You drive a hard bargain. Good man!” He laughed, leaning back down and dropping another bag on the table with a grunt.
Before I could open my mouth to repeat myself, he put his hand up in pause.
He reached down on the other side of the office chair and stood, throwing the third bag at my chest.
The impact almost toppled me as I caught it, the weight nearly forcing the air from my lungs.
“You’re a smart boy. I know you’ll choose well.
It’s simple. You killed Vincent. Well, Petre said she killed him, but, of course, I know my little girl well.
The poor thing is squeamish, that’s why Vincent always did everything for her.
I expected it was probably you. Even if it wasn’t, I’ll make sure the law thinks you did.
Do you understand me so far, boy?” He took his seat again in the commissioner’s office chair, Mr. Hunt standing by his side.
I eyed him carefully, my grip on the bag tightening.
“You deserve an easy life, Arkady. Mr. Hunt has told me quite a bit about your history,” he said. “Isn’t that why you married her? To save her reputation? Come now, boy. Do her this one kindness and free her of you.”
“You want me to abandon her and volunteer a confession to fill your quota?” I sneered.
“No, my dear son, you are being paid to disappear. We will announce your confession after you are long gone. It will be the story of the decade. She will be free to remarry above her class, her love story will skyrocket her to infamy, you will have more money than you could ever spend in your lifetime, and no one will see the inside of a prison.”
“No one?” I laughed. “Not even you?”
The charming geniality in his face faltered, daring to show the wicked monster that lay within, before the facade hardened. “If you’d like to propose a threat, be plain with it.”
“The farms.” I was firm in my accusation but couldn’t let him know how much I truly knew.
“Is that why you wanted us on the front pages? Embarrassing your daughter for a headline to bury the ones about your farms? I’m sure a plague would be an even bigger story than a woman who married an alleged murderer with no evidence, not even a body to be found.
” My jaw tensed as I forced myself to chew and swallow the words I really wanted to say.
“That’s quite a story. Would you be willing to gamble with it falling flat?
” Mr. De Villier asked, tapping the hollow desk.
“You are young, I admire your optimism in our press. The truth is, they’re just farmers.
Even if you warned of some catastrophic act of God that would kill millions, the press would ignore it until there is a Caucasian casualty, upper-middle class at the very least. These people come from far and wide to work the fields, with no family, no connections to the land or the community, just there for a paycheck. ”
“They’re people,” I said sharply, looking to Mr. Hunt.
“You harp on probity so often, I almost believed you had some sense of decency, in your own snobbish way. You are a harping fraud! How do you go on, knowing you’d rather harass people for petty crimes while you’re covering for such a molestation of justice? ”
“There are necessary evils in this world that are inevitable,” Mr. Hunt said. “You will understand, as you mature, that this is how the world works. There is give and take.”
“You are a coward,” I snapped at her father. “Throwing Petre to the wolves won’t help you. Isn’t it bad for business that your daughter’s in the press?”
“My boy, the public didn’t even know I had a third daughter.
Their first impression of her was with your last name attached to her face, along with a gossip piece about the exclusive private wedding of a retired ballerina.
Her brand is her own.” They both laughed.
“You and Petre could have been a decent distraction, and yet you’ve made my job harder by killing the man disposing of our bodies.
If you’d just held out a bit longer, you could have faded back into irrelevance if you wished. ”
“This is a good deal, for all parties,” Mr. Hunt said. “You don’t want to see her hurt, do you?”
“It isn’t me who is hurting her,” I said.
“You can choose what you like.” Adrien sighed, leaning back in the chair. “You can deny the money, save your confession, and stay. But will you be able to live with yourself when she suffers, and you knew you could have prevented it?”
I clutched the bag in my hand. I could feel the distinct bound stacks of paper poking through the edges and giving it a lumpy shape.
Mr. Hunt, her father . . . nobody was there to protect her. She wasn’t a person to them, just a pawn like their working-class slaves or lab rats. They wouldn’t stop, not until they got their way.
With all that in mind, I left the precinct that day with three bags.