Friends Like These(25)

“Wait, you’re blackmailing me?” I laughed, hoping Finch would come to his senses.

Instead, he just shrugged. “You could argue they have the right to know. Take a few days to think about it. I’ll be back in touch.”

Sending Finch to Keith— an already legitimate, if still green, art dealer— was the only thing I could think to offer. And, surprisingly, Keith had been totally game. He was doing well enough, but he was still building his client list. What he seemed to care about most at the time was that Finch was very good-looking and extremely charismatic. Keith knew that his way to the top in the brave new digital world would be through artists who also made good celebrities— pretty faces, unique history, good on Instagram— and he loved Finch’s Arkansas-trailer-park backstory. Did he care whether Finch’s art was any good? Sure. But Keith had more than enough skills of his own to close any gap.

A week later, Keith was thanking me for sending Finch his way. And Finch was delighted about the stipend Keith had given him to tide him over. It hadn’t taken long for Keith to sell something of Finch’s, though no one ever could have predicted then just how fast or how high Finch’s star would rise.

I thought back to the biggest “art incident” Finch had ever staged— all the traffic and pedestrian lights along the busiest four-block stretch of Times Square going simultaneously red for one minute and thirty seconds. For a moment, a whole neighborhood had held its breath. It had been memorable. Cell phone video taken by pedestrians was readily uploaded to a site in exchange for a small honorarium, then spliced together into a loop that— along with the companion paintings and sculptures Finch created of the scene— had been sold to a collector for over $1 million. The combined installation was still on view at MoMA.

Now Finch narrowed his eyes at me, chin lifted. “Okay, I won’t fire Keith— on one condition.”

“What condition?”

A sly smile spread across Finch’s face. “Get me an in with Stephanie. A chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

“With Stephanie?” I asked. “You cannot be serious.”

“Deadly,” he said.

“Stephanie hates you, Finch.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” He looked up at me with an unfortunate twinkle in his eye.

“Also, have you met Stephanie? She’s not exactly easy to manipulate.”

“I think she’s more malleable than you realize,” he said. “Just tell her how fucked up my childhood was, my dad with the drugs and all that— how much I had to overcome to get out. Make me seem, you know, sympathetic. Multidimensional. Oh, and tell her how hard I work. It’s art, but I do work my balls off.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear that. And if I say no?” But I already knew. It was always the same threat, implied or explicit.

“Then not only will I fire Keith, but I’ll tell your little Vassar gang how you used to beat the shit out of people on the regular. How you almost killed that kid. I mean, you can pretend you were just saving me back then. But you and I both know you enjoyed beating him half to death. I saw it in your eyes.”

I shook my head and stayed quiet for some time. Finch wasn’t wrong, I did go too far. And not just that one day. There had been others before. That was just the last time, because the police were called. But I’d spent all the years since becoming a different person. I was a different person now.

“So you’re blackmailing me. Again?”

Finch smirked. “I’m offering incentives.”

I closed my eyes. Fuck.

“And what if I try with Stephanie, but I still can’t convince her?”

“The main thing is that I see evidence of your effort.” Finch clasped a hand on my shoulder. “And if I don’t, then I guess we’ll see whether these friends of yours really do love you unconditionally.”

I pulled away from him and stood. I needed out of that room. In the hall, I bumped right into Maeve. Her blue-gray eyes sliced me open. Back in college Maeve and I were around each other so much that I got past being tongue-tied. But these days, every time I saw her I felt choked anew by awkwardness.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Derrick,” Maeve said, even though I was the one who bumped into her.

“No, no, that was my— how are you?” I asked. It came out rushed and also stiff. I crossed my arms, which only made it worse. “I just— I feel like we haven’t had a chance to talk at all since we got here.” I motioned to her. “You look great.”

“Oh, um, thanks.” She tucked her long, shiny blond hair behind her perfect little ear and smiled uncomfortably.

What was wrong with me, commenting on the way she looked, gesturing to her body? This was what happened when you spent an inordinate amount of time obsessing about somebody and comparatively little time actually interacting with them. You acted like a freak.

“Sorry.” I shook my head and tried to recover, my hands in my pockets now. I smiled— nice, sweet, harmless. “You look happy, that’s what I mean. How are things with . . . Bates?”

As much as I hated saying his name, I needed to recast our conversation— if I knew full well about the boyfriend, then there was no subtext to anything. But I wouldn’t go so far as to mention Beth. That would just be depressing.