“Oh, great.” Davy let go of her and shoved the clothes apart, kneeling to see whoever was on the floor. “Damn it.” He stepped over the body and dragged it out of the closet by its shoulders.

Tilda followed him out, trying not to panic. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Davy said, “but he’s unconscious. You have a kick like a mule, Matilda.”

“I was tense. He grabbed my ankle.”

“Something I must remember not to do. Christ, you really nailed him.” Davy stood up and frowned. “Do you know who he is?”

Tilda bent cautiously to look at the guy. He was a weedy thirty-something with dark hair and a bleeding lump forming on his temple. “No. I never saw him before.”

“Okay.” Davy took her arm and moved her toward the door. “Out.”

“What?” Tilda tripped as she tried to see back over Davy’s shoulder. “We can’t just leave him-”

“You can.” Davy kept her moving into the hall and down the stairs, his hand on her arm like a vise. “This just changed from a small heist to a major crime. Get out of here, walk straight home and do not talk to anybody.”

“What about you?” Tilda said, trying to keep her feet on the stairs as Davy picked up speed. “I’m not leaving you-”

“That’s very sweet.” Davy steered her down the hall and into the kitchen and opened the back door. “Goodbye.”

He shoved her out the door and slammed it behind her, and she was left on the back steps, shivering in the warm June night, with nothing left to do but go home.


MEANWHILE, GWEN was thinking envious thoughts about Tilda, who was only breaking and entering, much preferable to being stuck with Mason and Clea.

“Man, the times we had here,” Mason said, looking around the gallery. “I can almost hear that big booming laugh of Tony’s. What a guy.”

What a guy, Gwen thought, and put the files for 1988 on the table in front of him. Across the table, Clea watched her like a hawk, for what, Gwen had no idea.

“Remember that opening for the New Impressionists he did? Nineteen eighty-two.” Mason smiled at Gwen. “Tony wore a blue brocade vest, and you had on a black halter dress and gold hoop earrings the size of dinner plates. I’ll never forget it.”

Gwen straightened a little, startled by the memory.

“You were amazing, Gwennie,” Mason said, his face softening as Clea’s hardened. “You moved through the crowd, and people smiled looking at you, and Tony and I stood at the back of the gallery, right by the door over there-” he nodded at the office door “-and we watched you. You know what he said?”

“No,” Gwen said, trying to hold on to her memory of Tony-as-son-of-a-bitch.

“He said, ‘I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in the world,’” Mason said. “And I said, ‘You sure as hell are.’”

The early Tony came back to her, laughing down at her, wrapping her in love and excitement, and she tried to push him away, to get back to the later Tony, desperate because the gallery wasn’t doing well, growing grimmer, laughing less, making Tilda paint the Scarlets.

“He was a great guy,” Mason said. “And he built a great gallery.”

“Yeah,” Gwen said. “So the records for eighty-eight are right here. That’s when we sold the Scarlets.”

“Wonderful.” Mason pulled them over in front of him. “I’ve always wanted to know how the gallery worked, how Tony did it. The building’s an asset, too, isn’t it? Real estate is always a smart move.”

Maybe we should let the creditors have it, Gwen thought. Maybe we should bum it down, set everybody free.

“So what other assets does the gallery have?” Mason said, picking up a new folder.

“What?” Gwen said.

“Assets,” Mason said. “Besides the building and the inventory. How does a gallery work? What other assets are there?”

“Uh, none,” Gwen said, confused. “The paintings are on consignment.”

“Well, the good name, of course,” Mason said.

“Oh, yeah,” Gwen said. The good name of the Good-nights.

“God, I envied him,” Mason said. “His gallery, his parties, his charm.” He smiled at Gwen. “His wife.”

Clea stirred.

Gwen smiled back stiffly and thought of Tony, introducing her: “This is my wife, Gwennie.” One night she’d said to him, “Just once, can’t you introduce me as Gwen, your wife?” and he’d stared at her, not comprehending.

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d died,” Mason was saying. “It didn’t seem possible. I wrote, but there wasn’t really anything I could say.”

“Your letter was lovely,” Gwen said, not remembering it. There’d been so many.

“You’ll probably never get over him,” Clea said sadly, and they both turned to look at her, surprised. “Real love is like that.” She put her hand on Mason’s sleeve and smiled at him dreamily, and Mason looked at her, incredulous.

I hope she’s good in bed, Gwen thought.

“It must be hard running the place on your own,” Mason said to Gwen, picking up the first file.

“I have family,” Gwen said, trying to sound brave. “So the records…”

An hour later Mason said, “These are all the records for 1988? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Gwen said and then realized if he was done, he’d go home. “But you know, Tony was a pretty sloppy recordkeeper. Better check eighty-seven and eighty-nine, too. I’ll get them.”

Mason nodded happily, Clea sighed, and Gwen headed for the office. Hurry up, Tilda, she thought. I can’t keep them here forever. It’s too damn painful.


WHEN TILDA got back to the office, she saw Gwen out in the gallery with Mason and Clea. She sat down on the edge of the couch, still shaking, and Gwen came in with a backward glance at Mason, followed by Steve, who spotted Tilda and lunged for her in ecstasy.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with that man,” Gwen said, as Tilda scooped up the little dog. “He’s looking at every old file in the place and he’s enjoying it. He’s like a kid. It’s like his whole life, he’s always wanted to look at gallery files.” She stopped when she got a good look at Tilda. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” Tilda sank down on the couch, holding on to Steve’s long wriggling body for comfort. “There was a man there. I never saw him before, I knocked him out by accident. Davy’s still there, fixing it, and he’s going to get caught.”

“Okay,” Gwen said, looking rattled. “Be calm. Because you’re never like this and you’re scaring me.”

She went to the cupboard and got out the vodka and poured a healthy shot into a glass.

“Oh, God, yes, thanks.” Tilda let go of Steve and held out her hand in time to see Gwen knock back the glass.

“You want one, too?” Gwen said.

“Yes,” Tilda said. “Listen, I can’t do that again, go into somebody’s house and steal. I am not designed for that. I’ll fix this some other way.”

“Okay.” Gwen handed over the glass and the bottle. “Okay. We’ll think of something else. Where’s Davy?”

“I told you, he’s still there.” Tilda heard her voice crack from guilt. “He told me to go. Oh, Gwennie, he’s a mess, but I don’t want him in jail because of me.” She poured the vodka with a shaking hand.

“He’s not a mess,” Gwen said. “Do you think he-”

“Gwennie!” Mason called from the gallery. “Did you know Tony sold to the Lewis Museum?”

“Really?” Gwen called back. “Imagine.” She turned back to Tilda. “He’s driving me crazy. He thinks this dump is Disneyland. Do I still have to keep him here?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “Until Davy gets back safe. It’s the least we can do for him since he’s out there…” She knocked back her own shot and felt the alcohol seep into her veins, calming her a little. “You want another one?”

“No.” Gwen looked through the glass door at Mason. “I have to go pretend nothing’s wrong. I have to go pretend I like it here. I have to go pretend that I don’t want to throw up when he talks about the good old days.”

“Gwennie?” Tilda said, taken aback by the anger in her voice.

Gwen shook her head. “I’m having a bad night.”

“Me, too.” Tilda said as Steve crawled back in her lap. “I am not cut out for a life of crime.”

“You always were more my daughter than your father’s,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery.

“No I wasn’t,” Tilda said miserably, but Gwen was already gone.

Davy came into the office and kicked the door shut behind him, looking frazzled and carrying a brown-paper-wrapped eighteen-inch-square package, and Tilda forgot everything else and let Steve slide onto the couch as she sprang up to meet him.

“Are you okay?” she said, pressing the glass and bottle into his chest.

“Yes.” He held up the painting so she could see the torn corner with the sky and the edge of a brick building, and then he put it on the table and took the vodka.

“I can’t believe you stayed,” Tilda said. “I can’t believe-”

Davy drank a belt straight from the bottle, and she offered him the glass as an afterthought.

“What happened?” she said. “Did he come to? Did you get caught? Are you okay?”

“Shut up, Betty.” He slopped some vodka into the glass and handed it to her. “I dragged him into an empty room, found your painting, and left. I am not cut out to be a thief. Let’s not do that again.”

“Oh, God, no, let’s not,” Tilda said. “And you got the painting. You’re a good, good man.”

“I looked before I took,” Davy said. “Stars and houses.”

Tilda clutched her vodka, her eyes closed in gratitude.

She didn’t even want to see the painting, she never wanted to see any of them again, she just wanted her old, boring, mural-painting life back. “Thank you, God.”