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“Well, basically, you’re a cop without any of the things that hold cops back. Warrants, lawyers, Internal Affairs, the Fourth Amendment. You just . . . go out and beat on people less powerful than you.” I typed, The protection against unreasonable search and seizure is the core of the American justice system . . .
“Bad people!”
I didn’t look up from my laptop. The Founding Fathers intended to protect all classes equally from the predatory nature of authoritarian government . . . “Maybe. But it’s not like you followed a chain of evidence to figure that out. It’s not like you have to report to someone every time you use your power. You just seek and destroy and no one tells you no. It’s like the Wild West, but you’re the only ones with guns.”
“Samantha, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” MacArthur yowled at the change in our tone. Mommy and Daddy were fighting and it made his stomach hurt. “You’re not out there with us; you don’t see what the bad guys can do, what they are. You don’t feel the . . . the compulsion of the Eidolons. They won’t stand for us staying in and playing video games in our PJs. You can’t comprehend the power they have. The power we have, the responsibility, the stakes. You’re just . . .”
I gritted my teeth. “I’m just the only thing standing between us and the landlord. I’m just the only one of the two of us still living in the real world and not playing the world’s most elaborate game of cowboys and Indians.” The Third Amendment prevents the quartering of soldiers in private homes without the consent of the owner . . .
“That’s not what I meant, baby.” He touched the eagle on his button honking The Wages of Sin Are Reaganomics reflexively, reassuring himself. I wasn’t sure which of us he was calling baby. “People love us . . .”
“People love you because you’re magic, and face it, Jay: you used to be all about giving authority the middle finger. Now, you are Authority, with a capital A. You don’t even paint for real anymore! All war, no art. And no Wall Street big shot has a tenth of the power you’ve got pinned to your fucking coat. You got a stencil for that?”
I shouldn’t have said it. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known that within a month, I’d be resting my head on a bag of kale while my vision slowly blurred and grew dark around the label on a tub of creamed honey. But I didn’t know. Because Jason hadn’t told me they’d moved on from pimply teenagers with super strength shaking down tourists. He wanted to protect me. Sad trombone. One time when we were juniors, Jason tagged the side of a posh day care center: an unvaccinated toddler playing with wooden blocks shaped like viruses—measles, whooping cough, smallpox—while his mother looked on in pride. Underneath, he’d written, IGNORANCE KILLS.
Doesn’t it just.
• • •
A man came into Art Mart just before Halloween, which is basically Christmas for art supply stores. I had no reason to think a single thing of it. He looked like one of those dipshits who come to a gallery show and buy the most expensive piece just because it’s the most expensive piece. He was the picture of a class war—early-middle-aged, fashionably bald, the kind of body you get from well-spoken steroids you can take home t
o Mother, dark suit, one of those peacocking shirt-and-tie combos: sapphire-blue button-down and a huge knot in his emerald paisley tie.
“Welcome to Art Mart, the one-stop shop for ghoulish bargains; how can I help you?”
The bald man looked me over. “Are you Samantha Dane?”
I blinked away a zombie haze of retail autopilot. “Yes?”
He snapped his fingers at me. “I know your work! The Gallery System Is a Noose Around the Neck of the Artist, right? I actually own Boomer Fucks Love It When You Shoot Black and White. It hangs right above my fireplace. What happened to you? So much promise.”
“Boomer fucks love it when you fail,” I quipped, as I have quipped many times before.
“Quite,” Baldy laughed, but it seemed like he was laughing because that’s what humans do when someone tells a joke, not because he thought I was particularly witty. He put one meaty mitt in his deep, dark pocket. “Well, Miss Dane, I’ll confess I did not come to buy orange construction paper or spooky stencils. I heard through my friend Professor Yates that you worked here, and I was just dying to meet you. I administer an endowment for young artists, and every morning, I look at the fire in my hearth and see your work and wonder, Damn, why doesn’t powerful, outsider art like that ever get the chance it deserves while the same boring Yosemite landscapes get calendars and coffee mugs and place mats on every table?”
I couldn’t believe it was really happening. Daddy Warbucks was gonna make me a star. We’re in a movie now. Everything’s A-OK. But then my stupid mouth, which is a more authentic artist than the rest of me, decided to vomit up some senior-project-mission-statement bullshit. “Well, I mean, probably because outsider art isn’t about mass production . . .”
Mr. Business Q. Endowment waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, but mass production comes with the kind of money that buys security. Which, yes, my dear, boomer fucks also love. Because that kind of money makes problems just . . . poof! Blow away like leaves. Here.” He gave me his card. “Come to my office tomorrow. You’re perfect for the endowment. I’ll have no trouble convincing the board.”
“I can’t tomorrow. It’s my birthday,” I mumbled weakly.
“The next day, then,” said my new best friend. “Do we have a deal?”
He held out his hand. I took it, automatically. That’s what humans do when someone in a suit sticks out his paw. I squeezed hard. My dad always told me even a girl should shake hands like a man. I want to say it felt strange, that it tingled or burned. But he just had dry, warm palms—and he didn’t let go.
“When you see Jason,” he whispered throatily, “tell him Reaganomics saved this country.”
The businessman let go of my hand. I looked down at his thick, embossed card.
ISAAC AMENDOLARA
SECURITIES & FUTURES
“Happy birthday, Samantha Dane,” Isaac said cheerfully, and left.
I never saw him again, even when he killed me.
• • •
