Outcasts

Chapter 16 - The Kid, Too

Being careful not to spill on her bathrobe, Helen brought two cups of coffee over to the kitchen table, setting one down for Sykes who was hunched in his T-shirt over her iPad, reading the Arts section of The New York Times.

"Well?" she said.

"This guy a relative?"

"Never mind. What's he say?"

"He says I paint well."

"I'm sure. Let me see." She hipped him aside and turned the iPad so she could read it.

The screen showed a photograph of Mavro's portrait with his skateboard, the headline under it reading OLD-MASTER STYLIST NAILS MEMBER OF THE BOARD.

Helen read aloud from the article: "In any physical enterprise – sport, dance, combat – there is a gesture, a pose, that defines its essence. To capture that essence in a work of art is what a master brings to the game." She looked at Sykes. "Not bad."

"I blush."

Helen turned the iPad back to him and sipped her coffee, watching him read. "What else?"

"He talks about lighting and my father, which is nice."

"And character?"

"That's what the painting is about."

She bent down and kissed him. "Exactly."

~~~~~~

Sykes nodded good-morning to the doorman as he stepped out of Helen's building onto Central Park West, heading south on this mellow spring day.

But the mellowness was fleeting.

When he stopped at the first cross-street to let traffic pass, a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned and met the hard face of one of Zekov's henchmen. The man nodded toward the black Escalade waiting at the curb. A second henchman held the rear door open. Sykes looked from one to the other. Seeing no choice, he got in the car.

He sat in the back, wedged between the two men. In front there was only the driver, who turned into the park at 81st  and cut across to the Upper East Side.

Ten minutes later, not a word having been spoken, they pulled up in front of the townhouse that had the black iron gate. The henchmen got out, Sykes between them, the three going up the front steps, the gate shutting behind them with a resounding clank. Inside, they marched him up the winding staircase to a dim hallway that led to a tall walnut door.

One of the men knocked and a gruff voice called, "Come in." The henchman opened the door and nudged Sykes into the library.

Sykes looked across the room to where Rizza Zekov was sitting in a leather armchair, in a pool of light slanting down from a tall window. He nodded to the henchman and the man backed out, pulling the door quietly shut.

Zekov studied Sykes, who didn't move. "So – time."

Sykes nodded.

Zekov looked down at a copy of The New York Times opened on his lap, Sykes thinking that the man must be one of the few people left who still read an actual newspaper.

"This is nice ink you got this morning," Zekov said.

"It is," said Sykes.

"But it don't change what is."

"No, it doesn't."

"But it might change the how."

Sykes frowned at that.

Zekov lifted his head toward an easel that was set up at the side of the room. "Take a look."

Sykes hesitated, then walked over to the easel, which had a large blank canvas on it. Laid out on a table beside the easel were a dozen new tubes of paint, and a selection of sable brushes.

"What's this?" Sykes asked.

"The canvas is ready, you can start painting."

"Painting what?"

Zekov raised his chin. "Whatta you think?" He dropped the paper next to the chair, straightened his tie and the lapels of his perfectly tailored suit. "Go on."

Sykes took a moment. He looked at the canvas, looked at Zekov who assumed a dignified pose. Sykes took off his jacket, tossed it onto a chair, and picked up a charcoal pencil that was in with the brushes.

Zekov asked, "How's the light?"

"The light's fine, but I have to sketch you first." Sykes turned to the canvas, glanced at Zekov, and tentatively started sketching.

"After me," Zekov said, "there's my daughter's wedding."

Sykes cocked his head for perspective, continued sketching.

"After her, my wife."

Sketch, sketch.

"I figure the going rate for a famous portrait guy is, what, hundred grand a pop?"

"Give or take."

"So, factoring my discount, by the time we do all my relatives and friends, you maybe get yourself square."

Sykes started to speak but Zekov held up his hand. "Don't worry, I'll feed you."

Sykes went back to sketching.

After a moment Zekov added, "The kid, too."

A slow smile from Sykes. With a compelling subject before him, in just the right light, the artist settled into his work.

~~~~~~

My sincerest thanks for your reads and support. The screenplay version is ready to be presented to the usual suspects. I will keep you posted. It was a pleasure knowing you were there for this coming together of unlikely cohorts. Please keep in touch.