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“We’re buying everything.”
I laugh, because that’s such a Trap thing to say. I pick up a canvas basket to hold my selections. “Here,” I order him as I make my first choice, a huge book on Michelangelo’s sculpted slaves. “Put your big muscles to work.”
He refuses to take the basket. “I’m going to need my hands free.”
I know exactly what he can do with those hands. “Not here,” I whisper, pretending to study a book about virgin saints. I can feel myself blushing, and Trap starts to laugh.
“You, Princess, have got a dirty mind.”
I’m still protesting when a tall, thin man approaches. He’s wearing a brown pin-stripe suit that matches the thinning hair combed across his scalp. His bifocals have slipped low on his nose, and his burgundy tie is just slightly askew.
“Mr. Prince,” he says. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“No apology necessary,” Trap says. I wonder if Ichabod Crane catches the way Trap tightens his jaw as they shake hands. I wait for the familiar five-point release as Trap taps his index finger against the nearest book. His voice is almost easy as he says, “I don’t believe you’ve met my Fine Arts Specialist at the freeport. Martin Updike. Alix Key.” And then, for my benefit, he adds, “Martin manages all of the Met’s stores.”
It’s easy for me to shake hands; I don’t mind the physical contact. I just have to bite back a grin at the name of my job. Trap dreamed it up when he gave me my freeport employee lanyard, and I’m still not used to the title.
After Mr. Updike and I have murmured how pleased we are to meet each other, the tall man practically bows in front of Trap. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous,” he says. “But I’ve taken the liberty of creating a new holiday card with the Bellini we acquired through your generous donation last year. Of course, the design will be exclusive for your use, as long as you desire. I must admit, I didn’t expect to have the privilege of showing it to you in person.”
Bellini—a Venetian master who painted in the fifteenth century. I can’t imagine how much Trap donated to the museum for them to buy such a treasure. But he’s explained it to me before. He needs the tax write-off. And with any luck, he’ll land new freeport clients from among his fellow donors.
Still, a Renaissance masterpiece? And an exclusive holiday card to send the freeport’s season’s greetings? I’m impressed.
“I’m sure the card will be perfect,” Trap says. “My assistant will follow up with you next week. But Alix and I are here today for a different reason.”
Mr. Updike stands a little taller. His eyes narrow behind his tilted glasses. He looks like a giraffe studying the horizon for the choicest trees to harvest. “Of course,” he says. “Anything I can do to help.”
Trap looks at me. The corners of his mouth are turned up in the slightest of smiles. I can see the fire stirring in his eyes. “We’d like to buy your books,” he says.
Mr. Updike waits for the rest of the sentence. Books about Bellini… Books about Venice… Books about Renaissance painting… When Trap doesn’t say more, Mr. Updike clears his throat. “Our books,” he says. “Which ones would you like?”
“All of them.”
“Excuse me?”
“All of them,” Trap repeats. “We’re building an art history library at Diamond Freeport to support Alix in her job. And we need one copy of every book you have in the museum.”
12
TRAP
* * *
I’ll give Updike credit. It only takes him a moment to hide his astonishment. He clears his throat like he’s trying to cover up the sound of a fart. “Our entire collection. We can certainly do that,” he says, like I’ve asked for an extra bookmark.
“Excellent.” I look at Alix. She’s staring at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.
“Obviously, we can’t strip our stores down to bare shelves today,” Updike says.
Obviously.
“Might I suggest that we start by drawing up a list of our complete inventory? Our acquisitions clerk can organize it by publisher, to expedite the purchase process. I assume you intend to take delivery at the freeport?”
“You assume correctly.”
“An order this size…” I see that he’s starting to recognize the reality of my request.
I’m the single largest donor the Met has seen in fifty years. They’ll do just about anything to kiss my ass. If I asked for a list of the bookstore’s inventory, they’d give it to me. Hand-deliver the information to Dover, if that’s what I said I needed.
