41 Tippi

"Damn if you don't look just like your momma," Carson Wells said.

"You knew my mother?" Tippi asked, knowing not to believe a word this man was saying. He wore a slim-fitting electric blue suit over a black T-shirt and had on a pair of well-made tasseled loafers, also black. Even though it was dark and raining, the man insisted on wearing sunglasses. He either thought he looked dynamite with the shades or had bad eyes. The glasses were so dark that Tippi couldn't really tell.

"Of course I did," Wells said. "Last time I saw her was after her book signing at Graceland. One Night with You: The Joanna Grayson Story. She and I had a little heart-to-heart over a club sandwich and milkshake. Promised to be in touch if she found out anything new about Peter Collinson and all his down and dirty business."

Tippi had contacted Wells on behalf of Monsieur Gaultier, meeting him in the lobby of the Peabody early that morning. Workers on ladders were decking the halls with garland from the second-floor railing and putting up a very tall artificial Christmas tree. It was raining outside and a bit cold and somehow all the holiday frivolity made her think of Mother. She had on a black rain jacket knotted over her pencil skirt and white silk top. The jacket had belonged to Joanna. She'd made a picture in it during her time with Hammer. Something to do with lesbian vampires.

"Monsieur Gaultier said you were a con man."

"Oh, come on now," Wells said. "That just hurts."

A waitress came over, set down cocktail menus, and asked if they were ready to order. She and Wells both said no at the same time and the woman shrugged and turned right back around to the bar.

"You don't trust me."

"I heard you were a federal agent," she said. "Is that true?"

"Maybe," he said. "I like to keep all my bases covered."

"You worked for Homeland Security after 9/11," she said. "Caught a bunch of soldiers sending museum pieces back to the States. And then you went on to work for a man named Wolfe who sells antiquities on the black market."

Wells leveled a hard look at her and crossed his legs. He put a very long index finger to his lips. Shh.

"Gaultier has an offer for you."

"Oh, okay," he said. "Do tell, baby."

Tippi explained everything exactly as Gaultier had told her. No more. No less. The waitress came back around, impatient to get their order, the lobby growing crowded with tourists to see the grand duck walk. A lot of restless kids behind velvet ropes. A doorman in his red jacket with epaulets and fancy hat held up a cane announcing the big event would happen promptly at eleven.

"This is happening later today," she said.

"Today?" Wells said. "Shit. I can't knock the dominoes over that damn fast. This is going to take some phone calls and smooth persuasion. You understand? All these people, my government contacts, can be mistrustful as hell."

"I'll tell Gaultier."

"Wait," Wells said. "Wait. I didn't say I couldn't do it. I just said it would be difficult."

"Have them there at exactly five o'clock," Tippi said. "If you don't, the geniza will be lost forever."

"How the fuck do you know about the damn geniza?" Wells said. "Nobody knows about the geniza."

Tippi stood up and offered her delicate and manicured hand. Wells craned his neck behind him and then looked about the ornate lobby, worried someone was watching them. He finally stood up, too, and stared at her open hand. "Does it have to be today?" he asked.

"Monsieur Gaultier has every confidence you'll make this happen," she said. "His current situation is untenable."

"Untenable," Wells said. "Well, shit. Ain't everybody's."