Chapter Five

During their morning toast and eggs, Peter finally asked Nick to explain why the call from Stephano, an art professor at the university, had bothered him so much. At first Nick just shook his head, focusing on his plate, using his toast and fork in tandem to subdue his egg over easy. Peter preferred his egg over hard and folded in one piece of light toast. A one-handed affair that he could not only eat while riding a bike, but which required no plate or silverware. When Nick was gone, he ate standing over the sink. This morning he sat alongside Nick at the counter. Determined not to be discouraged in his line of questioning, Peter tried again. “I know talking about it won’t help you feel better, but it would make me feel better to know why you’re so moody, so why not have some mercy on me?”

Nick sighed and gave him a resigned, sidelong glance. “Since I’m the executor of Walter’s artistic estate, they want me to sign some paperwork stating that it was an original. I told them I’d go down there this morning.”

Peter did not immediately know why this should cause Nick any great distress, but clearly it did.

“I still don’t understand why that would upset you, though.” Peter was trying to augment his understanding of his lover without prying, but it was hard. Prying was what he did; it was his art form, even.

“It’s just bringing up a lot of memories for me; that’s all. Walter completed that piece about six months before he died. It was a hard time for me.”

Peter nodded. Obviously it would have been a hard time for anyone, but especially for a guy like Nick, who didn’t talk much but thought a lot. From his expression, Peter could tell he was thinking right this second. Deep, brooding thoughts churned through the mind of Nick Olson, sending flickering microexpressions across his furrowed brow, his heavy-lidded eyes.

It killed Peter to see him this way—made so unhappy by a phone call and a hunk of rock that had been fashioned to look like his penis. Finally inspiration struck. “Do you want me to come with you to the university?”

“Nah.” Nick mopped up flecks of yellow yolk with intense precision, as if he were manipulating paint.

“Can I come anyway? I need to write a piece on the theft, and it would give some closure.”

“I feel no closure whatsoever.”

“I mean to the article.” Peter munched at his sandwich, eyeing Nick, noting that he wasn’t putting his elbows on the table as he usually did. Best manners at breakfast indicated that Nick had gone far within. He was probably dining with the ghost of Walter, who, being from an older generation, had had higher standards at table. Peter’s desire to interrupt that inner conversation could not be denied. “So, can I come?”

“What?” Nick popped up for air, looking around as though he’d forgotten Peter was there. “Come where?”

“To the university with you.”

“Sure, but you won’t enjoy it.” Nick pushed his plate away, caught hold of his coffee cup, and finally leaned forward on his elbows.

“So long as I’m being paid, I fear no boredom,” Peter said airily.

“Oh, it won’t be boring. I’m going to meet with Stephano. He’s handling the whole thing.” Nick had a certain meaningful tone—a tone that assumed Peter knew and already disliked this Stephano person as much as Nick apparently did.

Peter tried to picture this individual and pulled a blank. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

Nick smirked and said, “Then get your mental notebook ready. I’ll be very interested to hear what you think.”

An hour later, Peter entered a small office in the basement of the Fine Arts building and was introduced to a man who he could not, in any way, believe had been named Stephano by one or more of his parents.

Doughy and pale, with thinning brown ponytail, Stephano—just Stephano, no last name—had the face of a man who had reared entirely on cream cheese and white bread. Even his clothes were the standard white-man uniform of khaki shorts plus polo shirt. His socked and Birkenstocked feet gave a hint that he might have been a campus rebel back in the time of the Doobie Brothers but had since firmly joined the administration. On his desk sat a stack of Artforum magazines, along with a dish of candy corn and a small, thin aluminum can containing some sort of arcane energy drink.

But was only when he shook Stephano’s warm, soft hand that Peter began, internally, to compose text about him.

In terms of generic characters that one is likely to find teaching at the average four-year collegiate institution, Failed Professional is definitely one of the most common and commonly derided. This is not entirely fair. Most university professors choose to teach—excel at teaching—consider it their calling above all else. But there are always others who are simply looking for a hot meal and regular access to impressionable eighteen- to twenty-five-year-olds—particularly in the creative arts fields.

For this reporter, placing Stephano on the continuum of competence was a cinch.

“You’ve probably seen my work around town.” Stephano spoke mainly to Peter.

“The sculptures on Cornwall Street,” Nick supplied helpfully.

“Oh, those,” Peter did a little mental scramble while he searched for anything positive to say about them. Finally he managed, “Very colorful.”

Even if he hadn’t had his aesthetic horizons expanded by an artist boyfriend, he would have been able to see that Stefano’s sculptures had very little artistic merit. They were all powder-coated steel things approximately eight feet tall and two feet in diameter. They looked, to Peter, like folded and crumpled ductwork, like the sort of product that might occur if one told a high school freshman to go to the Occupational Studies center and weld a piece of modern art. Lacking both grace and meaningful substance, the eight Stephano sculptures dotted the sidewalk on Cornwall Street at random intervals and went largely unappreciated by the general populace, who mainly used them for ashtrays.

Peter recalled that upon first seeing that the sculptures had been installed on Cornwall Street, Nick had nearly crashed his car in baffled horror at the city art commission’s decision. He had wondered aloud to Peter if the artist was sleeping with someone influential. Peter had thoughtlessly quipped that artists were always sleeping with someone influential, which had struck too close to the bone and therefore had ended the conversation.

Observing Stephano now, Peter had to wonder who that person might be, because Stephano was not much to look at.

Aloud, Peter said, “The city must have your work insured for a lot, being out near the bars like they are.”

“Oh the city doesn’t own them. I just loaned them to the planning commission,” Stephano said.

“But aren’t you worried they’ll be damaged?” Peter asked.

“Powder-coated steel can take a lot of wear and tear.” Stephano smiled at him. It was a somewhat condescending smile.

Apparently impatient, Nick broke in. “You said you had some papers for me to sign?”

“I thought I did,” Stephano said. “But it turns out that there’s a snag.”

“What snag?”

“It’s ironic that I should have just been talking about loans, since it turns out that Untitled Five didn’t belong to the university at all. It was on loan as well. I guess there was a handshake agreement that De Kamp was going to bequeath it to the sculpture garden upon his death, but he never got around to sending us the actual paperwork.” Stephano’s brows drew into an irritated furrow.

“And you want to know if I have it?” Nick leaned back in his chair and took that deep, slow breath that he always took when he was annoyed.

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you think that you could—I know this is asking a lot, but do you think as executor, you could say that it was ours?” Stephano asked. “It really was what De Kamp intended.”

“Even if Walter had meant for the university to have the statue, which I do believe is probably the case, how would that make any difference?”

“The sculpture garden is insured as a whole. If we could come up with some sort of dated letter or—”

“You want him to forge a letter?” Automatically, Peter reached for his notepad and mechanical pencil, whose abrupt appearance Stephano regarded with an expression of shock and dread.

“What are you writing?”

“Notes about what you’re saying,” Peter said.

“He’s a reporter. He works for the Hamster,” Nick explained.

“You said he was your significant other.” Stephano cast an affronted and accusatory eye on Nick.

“It’s not as though they can’t be simultaneously true.” Peter clicked the lead in his pencil up. “So you were just asking Nick to fabricate a letter to say that Untitled Five had in fact been given to the university when it had not so that the university could claim monies it has no legal right to? I think that might very well be considered fraud.”

To Peter’s surprise, Nick chuckled and laid a staying hand on his arm. “Down, newshound. I’m sure the man has a good reason.”

Flushed and sputtering, Stephano continued, “I wasn’t asking Mr. Olson to commit fraud.”

“It sure sounded like that to me.” Peter raised a skeptical brow.

“Look, you don’t understand. The university has cut funding for the arts department dramatically. We need that money for the art department to remain competitive on the national scale. I am convinced that if De Kamp could understand our position, he would gladly have made good on his promise to sign over the piece.” Sweat beaded Stephano’s brow, but conviction rang through his voice.

“You know, I do believe that Walter intended for the university to have that piece.” Nick’s tone remained reasonable. “But you have to understand that transferring a highly valuable piece of art is not as simple as my backdating a letter.”

“Which would undeniably be fraud.” Peter had to point it out. “As well as forgery, since he would have to sign De Kamp’s name.”

“If the sculpture could be located, then I would certainly be able to donate it myself, and I would be happy to, but since it’s gone missing, my hands are really tied,” Nick said.

“That wouldn’t solve the art department’s funding crisis, though, since someone would have to steal it again in order for the insurance to be paid out.” Peter glanced up from his notebook. The gears in his mind had begun to turn. What he had previously assumed to be a drunken prank suddenly had become a way for someone to make some relatively quick cash.

“What we all want more than anything is for that sculpture to be returned,” Stephano solemnly assured him.

“Let’s hope whoever stole it grows a conscience, then.” Peter snapped his notebook shut.

Nick rose to leave, and Peter followed suit. Stephano caught them at the door.

“There’s no reason for this conversation to leave this room, is there?” He searched Nick’s eyes. “You understand I never meant to imply that you should do anything illegal. I was just trying to think of a way for some good to come out of this.”

Nick waved Stephano’s sweaty concern aside. “I understand how desperate you must feel. No one needs to know what we talked about today.”