Duma Key(113)

Then they began to applaud. It went on for almost a full minute. I stood there gripping the left side of the podium, listening, dazed.

The rest of the presentation took about twenty-five minutes, but I remember very little of it. I was like a man conducting a slide-show in a dream. I kept expecting to wake up in my hospital bed, hot and shot through with pain, roaring for morphine.

xii

That dreamlike feeling persisted through the post-lecture reception at the Scoto. I had no sooner finished my first glass of champagne (bigger than a thimble, but not much) before a second was thrust into my hand. I was toasted by people I didn't know. There were shouts of "Hear, hear!" and one cry of "Maestro!" I looked around for my new friends and didn't see them anywhere.

Not that there was much time to look. The congratulations seemed endless, both on my talk and on the slides. At least I didn't have to deal with any extended critiques of my technique, because the actual paintings (plus a few sketches in colored pencil for good measure) were squirreled away in two of the large back rooms, safely under lock and key. And the secret of avoiding getting smashed at your reception if you're a one-armed man, I was discovering, was to constantly keep a bacon-wrapped shrimp in your remaining paw.

Mary Ire came by and asked if we were still on for our interview.

"Sure," I said. "Although I don't know what else I can tell you. I think I said it all this evening."

"Oh, we'll think of a few things," she said, and damned if she didn't tip me a wink from behind her nineteen-fifties-style cat's-eye glasses as she handed her champagne flute back to one of the circulating waiters. "Day after tomorrow. bient t, monsieur. "

"You bet," I said, restraining an urge to tell her that if she was going to speak French, she'd have to wait until I was wearing my Manet beret. She wafted off, kissing Dario on one cheek before slipping out into the fragrant March night.

Jack came over, snagging a couple of champagne flutes on the way. Juanita, my housekeeper, looking trim and chic in a little pink suit, was with him. She took a skewered shrimp, but refused the champagne. He held out the glass to me instead, waiting until I swallowed the last of my hors d'oeuvre and took it. Then he clinked his own against it.

"Congrats, boss you rocked the house."

"Thanks, Jack. A critic I can actually understand." I swallowed the champagne (a swallow per flute is all there was) and turned to Juanita. "You look absolutely beautiful."

" Gracias, Mr. Edgar," she said, and glanced around. "These pictures are nice, but yours are much better."

"Thank you."

Jack handed Juanita another shrimp. "Will you excuse us a couple of seconds?"

"Of course."

Jack drew me to the side of a splashy Gerstein sculpture. "Mr. Kamen asked Wireman if they could stay behind a little at the libe after the joint cleared out."

"He did?" I felt a tickle of concern. "Why?"

"Well, he spent most of the day getting down here, and he said that him and airplane heads really don't get along." Jack grinned. "He told Wireman he'd been sitting on something all day and sorta wanted to climb down off it in peace."

I burst out laughing. Yet I was also touched. It couldn't be easy for a man of Kamen's size to travel on public transport... and now that I really considered the matter, I guessed it would be impossible for him to sit down in one of those paltry airplane bathrooms at all. To stand up and take a leak? Maybe. Barely. But not sit down. He simply wouldn't fit.

"Anyway, Wireman thought Mr. Kamen deserved a T-O. Said you'd understand."

"I do," I said, and beckoned Juanita over. She looked too lonely standing there by herself in what was probably her best outfit while the culture vultures ebbed and flowed around her. I gave her a hug and she smiled up at me. And just as I was finally persuading her to take one of the glasses of champagne (my use of the word peque o for small made her giggle, so I assumed it wasn't quite right), Wireman and Kamen the latter still holding the gift-box came in. Kamen lit up at the sight of me, and that did me more good than several rounds of applause, even with a standing O thrown in.

I took a champagne flute from a passing tray, cut through the crowd, and handed it to him. Then I slipped my arm around as much of his bulk as I could and gave him a hug. He hugged back hard enough to make my still tender ribs squall.

"Edgar, you look terrific. I'm so glad. God is good, my friend. God is good."

"So are you," I said. "How'd you happen to turn up in Sarasota? Was it Wireman?" I turned to my compadre of the striped umbrella. "It was, wasn't it? You called and asked Kamen if he'd be the Mystery Guest at my lecture."

Wireman shook his head. "I called Pam. I was in a panic, muchacho, because I could see you were freaking out about the gig. She said that after your accident you listened to Dr. Kamen when you wouldn't listen to anyone else. So I called him. I never thought he'd come on such short notice, but... here he is."

"Not only am I here, I brought you a gift from your daughters," he said, and handed me the box. "Although you'll have to make do with what I had in stock, because I didn't have time to shop. I fear you may be disappointed."

I suddenly knew what the present was, and my mouth went dry. Nevertheless I lodged the box under my stump, pulled away the ribbon, and tore off the paper. I was barely aware of Juanita taking it. Inside was a narrow cardboard box that looked to me like a child's coffin. Of course. What else would it look like? Stamped on the lid was MADE IN THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC.