All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 106

106

Patch didn’t breathe again until three days later, when he met the cool of Washington, D.C.

They ate an early dinner in a downtown steakhouse so fanciful Patch could not decide if the 77 scrawled beside the filet mignon was the price or the number of years it had been aging.

Patch flagged down a waiter and tried to order a Coke and a footlong.

“Why do you do this every time I take you someplace nice to eat?”

Sammy said, as Patch bit his lower lip.

Sammy ordered two bottles of Chateau Palmer, asked the waiter to hand over the corks, and then gave one to Patch and kept one for himself. “In thirty years you’ll find this someplace and remember the day you drank it was the day some dumb Washington lobbyist paid ten thousand bucks for

one of your lost girls.”

“Send the money—”

“Half to the family, half to some obscure missing persons charity. I know, kid.”

Patch picked up a breadstick, gripped it between his teeth, and asked Sammy for a light.

Sammy sighed. “They all want to know about you. The collectors. I give them a little…just enough flavor. The pirate hero who mourns his lost love.

Hell, I’d consider buying them if they were much, much, much better.”

Patch raised his glass, pretended he could taste the black fruits, the tannins.

“Long finish,” Sammy said, and smacked his lips.

“Not the way you drink it.”

Over heritage chicken, scallions and confit potatoes they talked art, the progress Patch was making, each piece he sent now so valuable Sammy sent a courier service to package and collect.

“We need another showing. We need people to see these girls,” Sammy said, as he cussed out the chef for leaning too heavy on the vadouvan.

Patch wore a black shirt, three buttons undone, the smartest sneakers he owned, which weren’t all that smart. He caught the eye of a waitress, his interest in the angle of her jaw, the S of her clavicle, the hint of red in her hair.

“I have a friend in New York and she’s—”

“I’m heading to New England,” Patch said.

Sammy sighed once more, ordered another bottle, his cheeks red. “And where are you getting money from? You pay taxes on a house you don’t live in. You should sell Grace Number One and—”

“My mother dreamed of owning that house.”

Sammy might have told him what he already knew, but instead turned

back to his plate. “I see Saint.”

“Still can’t believe she’s a cop?”

“Are we playing the game where you pretend you don’t know why?”

Sammy’s hair was neatly parted, his tan deep and his teeth white.

Patch ignored him, focusing on the waitress.

“She’s got herself a boyfriend.”

Patch smiled at that. “Jimmy Walters.”

“Churchy Mama’s boy pussy bitch motherfucker.”

Patch sighed.

“He critiqued Callie Montrose. Said her blouse was cut low in the painting. I believe he used the term immodest.”

“But he loves Saint.”

“What’s love got to do with it? In other news, I fucked Trisha Mason.”

Sammy stared into his glass with remorse.

“From the dairy?”

“Suppose I’ll have to find someplace else to get my Gruyère….” He shook his head, like it was no fault of his own, went on to talk of a supplier

in the city as Patch tuned him out.

Patch looked over at the open wood oven, the chefs in brown aprons, the suited men around.

“…Fucker tried to sell me dry aged Jack. Like I don’t know the pH.

Like I didn’t already tell him I wanted to melt it onto Bellota.”

As the waitress passed, Patch reached out and took her hand. She spun, about to curse off another power broker with wandering hands when she

saw his face and smiled.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Melissa.” That smile again. He noticed her teeth, the way she formed her words, and he lost interest as soon as the familiarity died.

“You’ll get arrested grabbing girls like that,” Sammy said.

“The voice of experience.”

“I liked you better when you were cleaning piss from my toilet.”

Sammy called for a fourth bottle, and Patch settled back in his chair and

allowed in the warmth of the place.

“You want dessert?” Sammy said.

“Anything with honey.”

Sammy ordered ricotta brûlée for himself, “And a jar of Manuka for

Winnie the cunting Pooh.”

“You ever see Misty Meyer?”

“I see her mother.”

“How are they doing?”

Sammy smiled drunkenly. “The one that got away. Misty is at Harvard.”

“All is right.”

“Not all. The girl also tends bar now.”

Patch raised an eyebrow. “Bet her parents love that. Not like she needs the money.”

“Place called the Boatman. Same place her mother used to drink way back when. I reckon slumming it with you has broadened her world. That

family.”

“You know them well?”

Sammy waved a hand. “No one knows anyone well, kid.”

When the last diners settled up, and Sammy threatened to add the tab to Patch’s servitude, the waitress brushed past and slipped her number into his

pocket.

“Tell me you’ll use that,” Sammy said.

Outside Patch tossed it into the trash.

Patch was about to turn toward his car to sleep it off when Sammy bundled him into a taxi. He watched the streets blur by before they pulled up outside a beaux arts building, so grand Patch dizzied as he stared up at the arced windows.

A doorman was about to step in front when he saw Sammy, moved aside, and tipped his hat to Patch, who bowed low.

“Don’t fucking bow,” Sammy hissed.

Patch took his arm as he staggered toward the elevator. They rode to the top floor, where Sammy occupied the penthouse.

Patch helped him over to the bed. Sammy lay back and let the room spin as Patch looked around at the opulence. “How do you have so much?”

“Painting,” Sammy slurred.

“You painted?”

“I bought a painting. I was a little younger than you are now. Rothko. I saw the state of his mind where others merely saw the color.”

“You bought a Mark Rothko painting?” Patch said.

“I was poor. A poor kid like you.”

“You don’t act like you were a poor kid. You went to Harvard.”

“I went to Harvard to see a girl. Nothing those cunts could teach me anyhow.”

“Right. And you were so poor you had money to buy art.” He pressed his forehead to the glass and marveled at the monument.

“I sold my soul to a rich man. Lost love, there isn’t a pain so exquisite.”

Patch turned to look at him. “I don’t understand.”

Sammy spoke on an exhale. “When the rich have a problem they throw

money at it to make it go away.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“There’s a minibar.”

Patch picked a miniature Johnnie Walker, and by the time he made it to the bed Sammy was snoring loudly.

At the window he looked out over the city lights to the country beyond.

And he thought of how much his world had widened.

—

He watched a full moon shine over the city, closed his eye as the memory stole his breath. He dialed her, waited for the machine, and spoke of the peak of the clouds, of Misty Moon and ten sleeps. It made no sense at all.

He would find her.

He would die before he quit.

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