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“It’s just, I want to know where my pieces are going. I don’t understand who this guy is.
     Is he a collector? A dealer? Is he, what is he? What does he do for a living?”
    Inez shrugs. “I understand he manages a commodities fund. He has an office on Maiden Lane—but I gather he’s not a slave to
     it. I know he does
this.
Collecting. That’s all I know. Oh, and he takes trips sometimes. He saw my prayer wheel up on the wall there and he talked
     to me about Nepal and I mean, Annie, when this man talks…”
    “What?”
    “Well, you forget your questions. You wind up just… watching him.” Inez laughs. “You’ll see. You’ll meet him. He told me he
     wants to
work
with you.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Beats me.
He
said it. Just do me a favor, OK? You’ll be dealing with him directly, that’s OK. But don’t screw me.”
    Annie is astonished. “Inez, I love you.”
    “Oh, that’s so touching I don’t know what the fuck to say. But maybe when you’re on your way to your opening at the Louvre,
     maybe eternal devotion will slip your mind—”
    “Inez.”
    “
Everything
through me.”
    “Yes. Inez.”
    “Or I mean I will run you over. I will flatten you.”
    She makes a face. She pushes her lips out, which pulls taut her slabby cheeks. She rises up in her seat and puts her fists
     on the desk and leans forward, and Annie is put in mind of the prow of a John Deere tractor. Flattening is conceivable.
    Then Inez laughs and hands her the check for twelve thousand dollars.
    And Annie’s unmoored. Afloat. She talks with Inez for a few more minutes, but she hardly knows what she’s saying. She’s got
     twelve thousand in her purse. She’s got more money coming. She’s got a career. She’s kissing Inez goodbye and then Lainie,
     and she finds herself in the elevator and then the lobby, and amid swirls of fresh air she steps out onto the street. Sunlight
     jumps up off the sidewalks. She’s got twelve thousand dollars in her purse and her head is stuffed with cotton, the utter
     incomparable bliss of success—
    “Annie Laird?”
    She turns.
    It’s the man with the gothic cheekbones.
    He says, “I passed you a while ago—”
    “I remember.”
    “But by the time I decided it was you, I was all the way to Broome Street. And then I had to stop at Paula Cooper. But as
     soon as I could, I ran back here.”
    He also has brown irises flecked with yellow. He also has a charming lopsided smile.
    He says, “I’m glad I caught you.”
    She regards him quizzically. He tells her, “I’m Zach Lyde.”
    My patron?
    This babe is my patron?
    He says, “I bought a few of your things.”
    “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I have a, um, a check in my purse.”
    She feels like the youngest, simplest sister in a fairy tale. At the happy windup, with her pockets full of gold.
    He says, “I know I didn’t pay what they’re worth, not nearly, I know that. But then
I
didn’t set the price. I might like to buy others, though, and I’m prepared to offer much more—”
    Annie asks him, “How do you know me? We haven’t met, have we?”
    “Inez showed me your picture. In the catalog.”
    “Oh.”
    “It does not do you justice.”
    She forgets to say thank you. She simply nods and lowers her eyes. Awkward silence. On the sidewalk, next to his soft Italian
     loafers, there’s one of those senseless “running beans” that some street-artist keeps stenciling all over SoHo. Annie squints
     at it. How can
any
of this make sense? Twelve
thousand
dollars. A patron who’s a work of art himself. Her boxes flying all over the world—
    Which reminds her.
    “Japan?” she asks him. She lifts her eyes again and asks, “Are you really sending my pieces—”
    “Likely.”
    “So will I ever see them again?”
    “Oh, of course.” That skewed, reassuring smile. “Would you like to talk about it? Would you have time for lunch?”
    “Now?”
    He keeps looking at her. She checks her watch. “It’s