JM03 - Red Cat by Peter Spiegelman Page A

his brows in a look of minuscule sympathy and shook his head. “Interest alone doesn’t qualify me?” I asked.

    “Cassandra’s work is very challenging, Mr. March— not easily accessible. A collector new to the medium, lacking the context…I would be doing you a disservice.”

    I chuckled. “I’m grateful for your concern. Would money have an effect on my qualifications?”

    Krug played with the thin gold watch on his thin brown wrist. “None, I’m afraid. Cassandra’s work deserves to be appreciated, not merely bought and sold.”

    “I thought buying and selling was your job, Mr. Krug. Does Cassandra know that you’re so…discouraging?”

    “These are her directives, I assure you.” His blue eyes were cold in his shiny face.

    “Maybe I could talk to her about that.”

    Krug sighed deeply and sat back in his chair. “The only thing Cassandra is more concerned with than how her work is disposed of, Mr. March, is her privacy.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if there’s nothing more…” He raised his cup.

    “Just one thing: Do you still represent Holly Cade?”

    Krug sipped at his coffee and never spilled a drop. One white brow rose minutely. “Holly who?”

    “Holly Cade. She was part of a group show at your Woodstock gallery.”

    Krug’s apologetic look was barely perfunctory. “I’m afraid I don’t recall the name.”

    “No, of course not,” I said, rising. “It’s been a long time, after all.”

    There was a health food store on the corner and across the street. It carried an amazing array of soy products, and its large window had an unobstructed view of Krug Visual. I browsed the spelt cereals and green teas for half an hour before Ricky came out. He was wearing a topcoat bigger than he was, and he headed east on Perry Street, struggling against the wind. I followed.

    Ricky was a man with a mission, and the mission, apparently, was lunch. He turned on West Fourth Street and again on West Eleventh and went into a gourmet deli and spoke to the man behind the counter. He came out ten minutes later with a white plastic grocery bag and began retracing his steps. I came up beside him on West Fourth.

    “That was good coffee, Ricky.”

    He jumped. “Jeez!” he said. “I almost dropped the effing soda.”

    “Sorry. I just wanted a quick word.”

    Ricky drifted to the corner and stopped. His ferrety eyes narrowed. “A quick word about what? I’ve got to get this back to himself or never hear the end of it.”

    “Cassandra Z,” I said.

    Ricky put up his free hand and backed away half a step. “Forget it, Grumpy. I need this job. And even if I knew anything about her— which I don’t— why should I tell it to you?”

    I shrugged and took my hand from my coat pocket. “For fifty bucks, maybe?” The bill was crisp and new. Ricky looked furtive and reached for it. I put it away. “On the other hand, you say you don’t know much.”

    “If you’re looking for a name or phone number or whatever, I guess you get to keep your money. She’s too good to mingle with the help when she comes around. She only deals with O, and he plays her very close to the vest— especially since that other guy came in.”

    “What other guy?”

    Ricky looked at me and grinned nastily. “Looks like I know something after all.” His hand was out again.

    I took out the fifty but held on to it. “What other guy?”

    “O banished me to the back room, but I could hear. He was a lawyer type, and he worked for one of Cassie’s interview subjects. He wanted to get in touch with her, or for her to get in touch with him.”

    “Interview subjects?”

    Ricky looked impatient. “As in the titles of her videos— Interview One, Interview Two, and so forth— you know.”

    I didn’t but I nodded vaguely. “What did he want to get in touch about?”

    “He didn’t say.”

    “And this was when?”

    “A month or so ago.”

    “You hear any names?”

    “I don’t remember,” he