Stars and Bars: A Novel

  “What are you doing here, sir?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The ten o’clock flight to Boston? The man with the Winslow Homers?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Henderson remembered. “Oh, look, phone him up and postpone. Tell him I’m ill. I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Monday, then. God.” He rubbed his eyes. “I overslept. Clean forgot. Sorry, Kimberly.”

  “There are messages.”

  “Already?” He looked at his watch. Nine forty-five.

  “A Ms. Düsseldorf and Mrs. Wax.”

  “Fine.”

  Kimberly left. Henderson propped his sabers behind the door and sat down. He could see a section of Central Park through his window. The plane trees were just coming into leaf; the sun on the smooth hillocks made it look vernal and fresh.

  Ms. Düsseldorf. That was Irene. It was a code he insisted on: she had to use a pseudonym—a city—whenever she phoned. The last time it had been Phnom Penh.

  He wondered whom he should phone first. His mistress or his ex-wife. He should phone Melissa, he knew; she liked her calls returned. He phoned Irene.

  “Hello, Irene. It’s—”

  “Tonight, don’t forget, that’s all.”

  “I’ll see you there. I haven’t forgotten. Christ, I asked you.”

  “Don’t be late. I’ll give you fifteen minutes, then I’m gone.”

  “I won’t. Bye.”

  Henderson stood up and took off his jacket. He moved to the door to hang it up and paused there for a moment, his jacket in one hand, his square jaw in the other. He stroked his jawbone gently, like a man coming around after a novocaine jab. What on earth was he doing, he asked himself, getting more deeply involved with Irene when what he really wanted to do was remarry Melissa? He shook his head. This too was typical: a clear and predetermined course of action had become complicated by his own maverick and wayward desires and his seeming inability ever to resist them. Now he was being driven to the brink of having to make a choice. The worst possible state of affairs.

  As he fitted his jacket onto the coat hangar he saw the envelopes in the inside breast pocket, and among them the red and blue flashes of the airmails. Rushing out of the apartment that morning he’d snatched up his post without looking at it.

  He laid the two airmail envelopes on his desk, feeling sensations of reverence and trepidation behind his rib cage. They were from Britain; his own handwriting was on the envelopes—he always sent stamped, addressed envelopes to ensure prompt replies. On one the postmark said NORTHAMPTON. With a blunt thumb he ripped it open.

  Dear Mr. Dores,

  Thanking you for your letter of 7 March. I remember Captain Dores well. He was my company commander during the operations around Pinbon in ’43. He was a fine and fair man and popular with the other lads.

  I am sorry to say that I was taken ill with cerebral malaria and sent back to India where I spent three months in hospital. By the time I rejoined the unit your father had died six weeks previous, and there was not much left of the company I’m sorry to say as we had seen a lot of action.

  I suggest that you write to the following, who were in the company when your father was killed: Lance Corporal David Lee, Royal British Legion, 31 Hardboard Road, Chiswick, London, and Private Campbell Drew, Royal British Legion, Kelpie’s Wynd, Innerliethen, Peeblesshire. I last saw these chaps at a regimental reunion in 1967 so cannot vouch as for their being still about.

  As I said, Captain Dores was respected by all the chaps. It was a great sadness to us all to hear of his death at the time.

  Trusting I have been of some assistance.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sergeant (ret.) Graham Bellows

  2nd Battalion, Loyal West Kents.

  Another blank, but at least he had another name to write to. He had already written to Drew. He looked at the postmark on the other letter—GALASHIELS—and this, doubtless, was his reply.

  Drew’s handwriting was large and jagged; he clearly pressed down very hard on his Biro.

  Dear Sir,

  With reference to your letter about your father. I was in the company near Pinbon when he died. It was a very difficult time for us all, operating as we were behind enemy lines. We had fatalities almost every day from disease, enemy action and even accidents. Your father was a good man and a good officer. It was a great blow to us all when he died.

  Yours faithfully,

  Campbell Drew

  Henderson smoothed Drew’s scored crisp page flat on the desk. He sat back and exhaled. At last. Someone who had been there. But the letter was maddeningly obtuse and uncommunicative. What exactly had been going on that day—the twenty-first of March, 1943—in Burma? More precisely, what were the circumstances of Captain Dores’ death? How, where, when and by whom? He felt a sudden envy for this heavy-handed Scot. Drew had known his, Henderson’s, father; had served under him and conceivably joked and suffered with him; had shared a kind of intimacy, in short, that had been denied his son.

  He stared at the reproduction of a Monet landscape that Mulholland, Melhuish had sold in London in 1963 for forty-five thousand pounds. The colors shifted. He let his eyes cross and attempted to go into a brief trance, hoping to expunge the sadness that seemed to brim in his body. It didn’t work. Why didn’t he feel more tired? he wondered. As a chronic insomniac surely he had a right to feel permanently exhausted.

  Kimberly buzzed him.

  “Mrs. Wax, sir. Line one.”

  With only the briefest pause, Henderson picked up the phone.

  “Melissa,” he said enthusiastically. “Just got your message.”

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “Of course not.” He wondered what he hadn’t forgotten. Everyone reminding him today. “See you later, then.”

  “Exactly.” He fenced. “What time did you say again?”

  “About seven. Bryant’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Likewise. Seven it is.”

  Mrs. Wax hung up. He thought he heard a spat kiss come winging down the wire. That was something, he reflected, with dubious pleasure. He frowned. One of the most onerous of the multitude of conditions Melissa had laid down—before she would even consider the thought of their getting together again—was that the children of her second marriage should “learn to love Henderson as a father.” Henderson, for his part, was so eager to please that he agreed to anything, including the rather staid ban on pre-remarital sex. Hence this meeting tonight. He remembered; it was Bryant’s birthday, and Bryant was his stepdaughter-to-be. He did some computing. Melissa’s at seven. He was meeting Irene at nine, in the bar of a restaurant in SoHo. He should make it all right. Now all he had to do was buy the girl a present.

  Henderson looked at his in-tray: three letters. With some guilt he realized it was only now that his mind was turning to his work and he had been in the building an hour. His own private concerns, as ever, took up an increasing portion of his day … He forced himself to concentrate.

  Business couldn’t be said to be booming at Mulholland, Melhuish. Which was precisely why he’d been brought out from England: to get things moving, whip up some trade, start making a name for the firm. He thought suddenly of Pruitt’s news: prospects of an Impressionist sale. He winced; he should really be finding out more, exhibiting some curiosity, instead of reading letters and phoning girlfriends. After all, it was his area.

  Mulholland, Melhuish had needed an “Impressionist man” and accordingly had sent for him. For some reason, the key factor in establishing an auction house in America was a large Impressionist sale. Only then did you seem bona fide; only then did you acquire a reputation. Or so the pattern had proved in the case of the New York offices of the other famous London auction houses. Little real, profitable business was attracted until there had been a significant Impressionist sale. It was a rite of passage. Why this should be so wasn’t exactly clear; it was just one of the illogical rules of the game.


  He drew concentric circles on his blotting pad. Mulholland, Melhuish had opened their New York office eighteen months ago. Since that day there had been no significant Impressionist sale. He had been brought over as a final gamble. As he was an authority on late-nineteenth-century French painting, his expertise, his academic contacts, his knowledge of the private collectors were meant to lure and instill confidence in potential clients.

  At first—another sign, another omen—it had gone gratifyingly smoothly. In the first fortnight he had acquired for sale a large Berthe Morisot. Morale was raised; relief and hope became an almost palpable presence in the offices. But since then, nothing.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. This news of Pruitt’s was a company triumph, but something of a personal failure for him. He just hadn’t been working at it hard enough, he realized. His personal life and its problems were taking up too much time. If only Melissa had been more tractable. If only he hadn’t met Irene …

  He got up and looked at the crammed shelves of heavy art books, thumbed catalogs, sale room records. He wandered through into Kimberly’s tiny office. She was typing, her gleaming nails snicking off the typewriter keys. Did they ever chip? he wondered. Did she ever get worried, break into a sweat? He ran his fingers through his thick hair and hitched up his trousers. He smiled aimlessly at Kimberly’s curious glance. He really should go and find out about this sale, otherwise people would think he was sulking.

  A head came around the door.

  “Good Lord, I thought you were in Boston.”

  It was Thomas Beeby, his boss. Beeby was very tall and thin and would have looked like a classically distinguished English gentleman had it not been for his surprisingly plump, rosy cheeks, which gave him the disconcerting look of a superannuated cherub.

  “Postponed, Tom,” Henderson said. “Seems the man’s sick.” Kimberly’s nails rattled on without a pause.

  “But that’s wonderful. You’ve heard the news?”

  “About the sale? Yes, I was on my way—”

  “Seems we may have the Gage collection.”

  “Oh?” Gage, Gage. The name rang no bells as a patron of the arts. “Gage.”

  “Come along, I’ll tell you all about it. Thank God you’re not in Boston.”

  He followed Beeby along the corridor to his office. From the floor below came the sound of the sale room filling up. Porcelain today. A deferential Toothe eased by to take it.

  “It’s all right, Ian,” Beeby said. “Henderson’s not in Boston. He can go now.”

  Go where? Henderson thought.

  “Oh. Right you are,” Toothe said, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Henderson felt a brief elation. The little swine, he thought, never told me about this Gage collection, wanted to sneak off and keep it for himself.

  Beeby put his hand on Henderson’s shoulder.

  “This is it, Henderson,” he said. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  They entered Beeby’s office, slightly larger than Henderson’s but no less functional. It had a better view of Central Park, however. The sun still shone on the trees; a distant honking rose up from Madison Avenue. Beeby lit a cigarette. Henderson could sense his excitement and he felt a sudden generous warmth toward the tall man. It was Beeby who had brought him to America, who had pulled the strings and created the job, and for that Henderson would be forever grateful.

  “Loomis Gage,” Beeby began. “Reclusive, southern millionaire. An old man with a small but very select collection. Some seventeenth-century Dutch—‘school of’ stuff—rather dull, nothing significant. But. But. Two fine Sisleys—’72, he says—two Van Dongens, a big Derain, a Utrillo, a small Braque and two Vuillards.”

  “Well!”

  “I want you to get down there, Henderson. Check it out and then get it for us. Go straight for no seller’s commission. Promise him a full-color catalog. Exhibition in London if he wants it. Anything.”

  “Right.” Henderson began to share Beeby’s excitement. He started adding up rough sums in his head, computing the 10 percent buyer’s commission Mulholland, Melhuish would charge. They would do very nicely, thank you. More importantly it would signal their arrival in the New York auction-house world.… However, one aspect of this miraculous opportunity perplexed him.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Tom, but—purely personal curiosity, this—what made him bring the paintings to us?”

  “Sheer good fortune. He claims to have known old man Mulholland in the twenties. Asked to speak to him. When I told him he was dead he almost hung up. Then I said I was Archie Melhuish’s son-in-law and he cheered up again. Stroke of luck, that’s all,” Beeby smiled joyfully. “Trumps came up.”

  Henderson smiled with him. Good old Tom, he thought, nice to see him looking happy for a change.

  “I want you to get down there by Sunday.”

  “Sunday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course.” Henderson kept smiling. “Where is it? Exactly.”

  “He lives in a place called Luxora Beach.”

  “One of those purpose-built condominium things?”

  “Actually I’m not all that sure.” Beeby frowned. “It’s in Georgia, I think. Or Alabama. Somewhere like that. All I know at the moment is you’ve got to be in Atlanta on Monday.”

  “Bit vague, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But deliberately. He’s concerned about his ‘pryvacy.’ Hasn’t even given me his phone number yet. He’s calling back this afternoon with the details. Anyway, sew it all up as quickly as possible.”

  “Right you are.” He had an idea. “Wonderful news, Tom,” he said to the beaming Beeby. “Very pleased. Congratulations.” Impulsively—unusually—they shook hands.

  Back in his office Henderson got Kimberly to phone Irene.

  “Mrs. Düsseldorf?”

  “OK, Henderson, what is it?”

  “Do you fancy a few days’ holiday? Starting tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Where are we going?”

  “The South.”

  chapter two

  HE was still feeling pleased with himself an hour later when Pruitt Halfacre came into his office.

  “Free for lunch?” Halfacre asked. Today Henderson’s benevolence knew no bounds.

  “Grand news about this Gage collection,” he said as they walked down Madison.

  “Oh, yes. Yes,” Halfacre agreed. He seemed a bit woebegone.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “We need to talk, Henderson.”

  “Well, sure. What about?”

  “Can we save it till lunch? I’d like that.”

  They walked down some steps into a pale-honey and lime-green restaurant. The bar area at the front was full of brilliant women and tall, broad-shouldered men. Everyone spoke in loud firm voices and seemed laughingly at ease. Sadly, as he knew it would, Henderson felt his own confidence begin to ebb away. There must be some law of Newtonian physics to explain this phenomenon, he considered, something about the power of a superior force to sap and drain energy from an inferior one of the same type. He looked about him at the fabulous lunchers. Pruitt shouted clear strong welcomes to people he knew. I want to be like you lot, Henderson thought, as he felt his shoulders round and his chest concave; I want your confidence and purpose, I want your teeth and tans, he pleaded, stepping out of the way and apologizing to a waiter. It’s not fair.

  They shouldered their way to the bar, Henderson slip-streaming Halfacre. He caught gusts of a dozen different scents. Jasmine, rose, nectarine, musk, civet. Gems flashed demurely, expensively.

  “Henderson, may I be totally honest with you?” Halfacre said in a deep voice at his ear.

  Henderson looked around in astonishment. “Can’t we get a drink first?”

  A film-star barman approached.

  “Morning, gentlemen. What is your need?”

  “Dewar’s on the rocks,” Halfacre said. “With a twist. Henderson?”

  “I’ll have a Budwe
iser, please,” Henderson said. “Straight up.”

  The barman was not amused. He dipped a glass in a crunching, glistening coffer of ice and filled it to the brim. He sloshed copious amounts of whiskey into it, cut a twist of lemon and dropped it in. How can they do that to perfectly good whiskey? Henderson thought. Ice in everything too. A profligacy of ice in this country. Immense wealth of ice. He drank some of his beer.

  “You were saying”—he turned to Halfacre—“something about total honesty.”

  “Pruitt, your table’s ready.” It was the waiter.

  “Thatcher, hi.” Halfacre and Thatcher hugged manfully, with much clapping of hands on shoulders. “I heard you were here. How’s it going?”

  “Not so bad. I’m working on a novel.”

  “Great! … Hey, Jesus. Sorry about Muffy. I heard. I guess she couldn’t hack it.”

  “You win some—”

  “You lose some. Bastard, man.” Halfacre spent a second deep in thought. “Thatcher, this is a colleague, Henderson. Thatcher and I were at school together.”

  “Good to know you, Henderson.” Thatcher’s grip was knuckle grinding.

  “How do you do?” Henderson muttered, entirely unmanned by now. Thatcher led them through the shining throng to their table. Henderson felt as if his neck had disappeared and his shoulders were about to meet in front of his chin. He sat down with a sigh of relief. Halfacre seemed to have forgotten about their projected conversation so Henderson happily let it ride for a moment. He studied the menu and studied Halfacre above its uppermost edge. He looked at Halfacre’s plain, lean face, his sharp jaw, his short hair, his—just donned—modish tortoiseshell spectacles. He considered his Harvard Ph.D., his “old” family, his modest but comfortable private income. Here was the paradigm, the Platonic ideal. American man, late-twentieth-century model. Look how easily he wore his clothes, how at home he was in this smart restaurant. Consider the masterful aplomb with which he could initiate and terminate casual conversations. Listen to the rigidity and reasonableness of his opinions. What was more, this man was engaged to an intelligent and beautiful girl. And what is even more, Henderson thought, this man is eleven years younger than me.