The Loo Sanction Read Free Page B

combine those primitive, lumpy Etrurian characteristics typical of Marini with an almost oriental twist of the heads of both horse and rider that was most uncharacteristic. But the fat rider’s stubbed cigar of a penis was a Marini signature. Jonathan walked slowly around the casting, pausing occasionally to take in some detail, his concentration totally committed. So absorbed was he that it was a while before he noticed a man leaning against the far wall, posed under a dim light that had been arranged with almost as much care as that given to the
Horse.
He wore an extremely trendy suit of dusty gold velvet, and a ruffle of starched lace stood at his throat. His arms were folded across his chest, his stance poised and practiced, but an inner tension prevented his posture from appearing relaxed. He watched Jonathan steadily, following him with gray eyes so pale they seemed colorless.
    Jonathan examined the man with frank curiosity. It was the most beautiful male bust he had ever seen—an unearthly, bloodless beauty such as masters of the Early Renaissance sometimes touched upon. Intuitively, he knew the man was aware of the effect of his cold beauty, and he had stationed himself in that particular light to heighten it.
    â€œWell, Jonathan?” Vanessa had been standing back out of the light. Her voice was hushed most uncharacteristically.
    Jonathan glanced again at the Renaissance man. Something in his demeanor made it clear that he did not intend to speak and did not wish to be spoken to. Jonathan decided to let him play out his silly game.
    â€œWell what?” he asked Van.
    â€œIs it genuine?”
    Jonathan was surprised at the question, forgetting as often he did that his gift was quite unique. As some people have perfect pitch, Jonathan had a perfect eye. Once he had seen a man’s work, he never mistook it. It was, in fact, upon that gift that his reputation had been founded and not, as he preferred others to believe, on his scholarship. “Of course it’s genuine. Marini cast three of these and later broke one. No one knows why. Some defect probably. But only two now exist. This is the Dallas
Horse.
I didn’t know it was in England.”
    â€œAh—” Vanessa fumbled for a Gauloise to cover her tension, then she asked offhandedly, “What price do you think it would bring?”
    Jonathan looked at her, startled. “It’s for sale?”
    She took a deep drag and blew smoke up at the ceiling. “Yes.”
    Jonathan looked across at the Renaissance man, who had not moved a muscle and who still watched him, the colorless eyes picked out by a shaft of light just under the dark eyebrows.
    â€œStolen?” Jonathan asked.
    â€œNo,” Vanessa answered.
    â€œDoesn’t he talk?”
    â€œPlease, Jonathan.” She touched his arm.
    â€œWhat the hell’s going on? Is he selling this?”
    â€œYes. But he wanted you to have a look at it first.”
    â€œWhy? You don’t need me to authenticate it. Its provenances are impeccable. Even a British expert could have certified it.” He addressed this to the man standing on the opposite side of the bar of light illuminating the
Horse.
When the man spoke, his tessitura was just as one would have predicted: precise, carefully modulated, colorless.
    â€œHow did you know it was the Dallas
Horse,
Dr. Hemlock?”
    â€œAh, you speak. I thought you just posed.”
    â€œHow did you know it was the Dallas
Horse
?”
    As curtly as possible, Jonathan explained that everyone who knew anything at all about the Marini
Horse
s knew the story of the one purchased by the young Dallas millionaire who subsequently picked it up at the plane himself, loaded it into the back of his pickup, then brought it to his ranch. In unloading, it was dropped and broken. Subsequently it was brazed together by an auto mechanic and, because it was imperfect, it was relegated to adorning the barbecue pit. “Any novice