Harmony In Flesh and Black Read Online Free Page A

grease from the grill. “It’s what the collector likes best, a painting no one’s seen for ages. Everyone wants to find and buy a picture before it’s offered. Anything that’s marked For Sale, already tagged with chalk marks and price stickers, has lost value in the collector’s eye.
    â€œEliminate the middleman. The collector, if he relies on his own judgment, as Clayton does, loves to take the first fruit straight from the tree. You should have seen the tree this one was on.”
    â€œThe virgin you’re talking about is a painting,” Ophelia said. “I get it. How interesting.” She yawned and took a long, elaborate sip from her glass. It seemed to Fred that Molly was taking her time cutting carrot and celery sticks inside.
    â€œI want your opinion, Fred,” Ophelia said as he began shaking charcoal into the grill.
    Ophelia never wanted anyone’s opinion. It was her opening gambit when she had something to brag about, such as a fabulous honor or a large sum of money.
    â€œIt’s a new series I’m starting, and I can see the book in it already, though I don’t want to crowd my first best-seller prematurely. What do you think of the title Finding the Me in You? ”
    Fred could see it right away. Another winner, guaranteed. Molly’s sister, the genius.

3
    After dinner Ophelia drove off toward her home in Lincoln in her Mercedes of subdued maroon. Molly and Fred washed up together in the kitchen while Sam and Terry, enjoying freedom from homework at the kitchen table since it was Friday, rode their bikes outside in the dusk with friends from down the street.
    They played Hearts together after that, before Molly sent the kids up to pretend to sleep, as they were permitted to do on Friday and Saturday nights—they could read or do whatever they wanted that sounded like sleeping.
    In the evenings the phone at Molly’s house rang frequently and was for Molly or Sam or Terry. Fred was surprised when Sam called down at around 10:45.
    â€œIt’s for you, Fred. It’s Clayton. Mr. Reed.”
    Fred picked up the kitchen extension.
    â€œThat creature cheated me,” Clay said.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œYou have my painting?” Clay asked.
    â€œI guess so,” Fred told him. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it. He wrapped it. Smykal did.”
    He had clean forgotten the painting. That was one of the problems with Clay’s having kept him out of the foreplay. It hadn’t been Fred’s business, and he’d not had the scent of the quarry in his nostrils. But he recalled the stink of Smykal’s place now and regretted it.
    Clay said, “Unwrap it. I’ll call back.”
    Fred said, “What do you mean, he cheated you?”
    â€œHurry, Fred, would you?” Clay urged. “Open the package, look at the painting, see if a letter’s in with it, and call me back? I’m at the Ritz bar.”
    â€œWhat’s that about?” Molly asked, drying her hands after washing the coffee cups she and Fred had been using.
    â€œWhat that’s about,” Fred told her, “is what made me late getting back: a picture I picked up for Clayton that sounds like a problem. A virgin, Clay said. Let’s take a look. Rare bird where it came from, if true.”
    They went through the kitchen into the garage, turning lights on. Fred got the package out of the car, and they worked on Smykal’s string and tape together, using scissors, going carefully.
    â€œIt stinks,” Molly said, her nose wrinkling at the greasy package.
    â€œClay sounds like he’s been conned,” Fred said. “Which is what happens to your average paranoid. He digs his own trap, playing games, then tiptoes in.”
    â€œIf that’s a virgin,” Molly said, standing back and looking at the picture with her hands on her hips, “if that’s a virgin, no wonder it’s an