God Doesn't Attend the Auction

a short story seeking denouement

James Horatio Rosso loved naïve and grotesque art, and without much whiskey, he would use those same terms to define his family. At 46, when he was diagnosed terminal-and-soon, he instructed his attorney, Alan Lake, to “dig a hole wide enough and deep enough so that my entire collection can be buried with me and the greedy cunts that are my kin can’t benefit from its sale.” Alan agreed, but only to placate his dying client. Once Jimmy entered hospice, Alan secreted an army of appraisers from Unger & Company Auctions into Jimmy’s private gallery. Nine weeks later, the Northeast’s greatest collector of naïve and grotesque objets d’art was dead. Two weeks more and every piece in the gallery was ready for the block.

I called Alan when I saw the announcement. I texted him. I barged into his office and waited at his home. He ducked me for months. Two days before the auction, he finally texted back and agreed to meet me at Tana del Leone for lunch. “And don’t bring her,” I typed.

The autumn air had come early to Pennsylvania and so Dario, the head waiter, tried to convince me to take a table inside. “Please, Mr. Francis,” he frowned through his mustache, “I will serve you myself today, but you would rather not sit out here. Oggi è una giornata gelida. It’s too cold. Not damp, but too cold. Maybe you’ll be all right, then. After all, the sun is shining and it’s not damp. That’s what killed Mr. Rosso, I think. You and he lunched here last year on a day much like today — outside — but it was damp. Not like today. I feel terrible about it, and I miss Mr. Rosso.”

“No, Dario,” I sat down and lit a cigarette, “Jimmy Red didn’t die from Scranton damp. He was damp himself. It was the drying out that killed him.”

“Che cosa?” Dario tilted his balding head.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Mr. Lake will be joining me soon. I’ll have a Guinness while I wait.”

I was halfway through the pint when Alan — snake in an overcoat and fedora — slithered up to my table. Jimmy’s widow, wrapped in leopard fleece and resentment, was on his arm. They sat down and Alan waved for Dario to come over.

“I told you not to bring her,” I scolded Alan. “Hello, Vivian. I told Alan not to bring you.”

“Of course you did,” Vivian said as she rummaged through her purse. “Why are you sitting out here? It’s fucking cold.”

“It’s private.”

Dario came to the table and smiled, “Ah, Mr. Lake! Hello, Mrs. Rosso! How are we today? It’s a bit, uh… crisp! Sì. It’s a bit crisp today, but the sun is lovely. Exciting day on Saturday, no? Auction time. I will be there to see my late friend’s wonderful collection go for the bidding.”

“Bring me a brandy and a hot tea,” Vivian commanded. She lit the cigarette she finally managed to extract from her bag. “And don’t bring me the cheap shit.”

“Please,” Dario feigned offense, “we only serve the best brandy here.”

“Not the brandy,” Vivian barked, “the tea. Don’t bring those cheap fucking tea bags that always break.”

“Che cosa?”

“Il buon tè.” I told Dario. “After all, Mrs. Rosso is very special.”

“Blow me,” she cackled.

“And for you, Mr. Lake?”

“Uh,” Alan stammered and looked up from his phone, “yes. I’ll have a lager to start.”

“Another Guinness,” I added, “and please bring the list of today’s specials.”

Dario went off for the drinks and the menus. I lit another cigarette. Vivian puffed on hers and glared at me through her mascara. Alan sat back in his chair and scrolled through his phone.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll begin. What the fuck, Alan? Not only are you going against Jimmy’s wishes, but the auction is onsite? In his gallery? In his sanctuary!”

“Now don’t you start with your bullshit,” Vivian pointed at me. “Dig a hole? Fuck you and fuck Jimmy. Goddamn morons. I’m glad you were there to hold his hand. I sure as hell wasn’t going to do it.”

“He didn’t want you there,” I said, “and I’m not interested in what you have to say. Alan, you agreed.”

He put his phone down and sighed, “Come on, Michael. Did you really think we were going to dig a hole? It’s art. It’s important art. You want to destroy it? Could you really live with yourself if we did? You’re a collector yourself.”

“Then why not donate it to a museum? I sent you five possibilities.”

“So it can rot in crates?” Alan countered. “At least this way, the people who would like to enjoy it can —”

“Fuck off,” I spat. “Half of it will be won by anonymous corporate bidders. It’ll sit in climate controlled vaults and be nothing more than malleable assets. Cut the shit.”

“He’s right, Alan,” Vivian nodded, “so stop insulting the man. I want the money, Michael. That pile of ugly is expected to bring five million. I want the money. It’s payment for all the hell that Jimmy put me through. It’s reconciliation for all the misery and the loneliness and always being on the edge of a fucking cliff.”

Dario came with the drinks and the menus. “Such a wonderful sun today. No? I will return for your orders shortly.” He took the time to smile at each of us before departing.

“I’m not eating,” Vivian said. She downed the brandy and stood up. “I’m going to noon mass. No, Alan, stay with Michael. The cathedral is only a few blocks. I’ll walk. It’s not damp and the sun does feel nice.” She butted out her cigarette and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Michael. I know James was your friend and that you loved him. I loved him, too, a long time ago. Twenty years of marriage and I can’t say that even half of it was any good. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have demanded more consideration for myself and for my children. Maybe I should have demanded he give up the life. I think he loved that more than anything. Maybe. Who knows, right?” She was crying now and frantically searching her purse. “Maybe the violence would have come home if he had left it in the streets. I don’t know. None of it matters now. The collection is going up for auction, and I’m going to live comfortably off that and the rest of his blood money. And I don’t give two fucks if you don’t like it. This is the only justice I have.” She pulled her hand from her bag and flourished a handkerchief. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go pray for robust bidding.”

“God doesn’t attend the auction,” I said, “only the funeral.”

Vivian dabbed her eyes and giggled and walked off toward the church. When she was out of earshot, I scowled at Alan, “Put down your fucking phone.”

“Sorry,” Alan said, “there’s just a lot going on.”

“Did Unger really appraise it at five million?”

“Actually,” Alan sipped his lager, “they appraised it at six-point-two million. They left room for unpredictable market conditions.”

“A million dollar cushion?” I growled. “Fucking auctioneers. Market conditions, my ass. Fucking cowards.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alan said. “It’s on a certified for six-point-two. That’s what we insured it for.” He sipped his lager again and echoed, “That’s what we insured it for.”

“And Unger?” I asked.

Alan shrugged, “A parachute, you know. We’re all friends. Everyone’s protected.”

“Everyone?” I confirmed.

“Everyone,” Alan insisted. He chugged his lager and stood up. “I have to go, too,” he said as he dropped a twenty on the table. “Enjoy your lunch. Is Carmine here?”

“I’m about to ask.”

“Give him my blessing. And Vivian’s.” Alan buttoned up his coat and added, “We’re even now — for that thing — if you so choose.”

I finished another cigarette before Dario returned.

“They go?” Dario asked. “Were they not hungry?”

“Is Carmine here?” I asked.

“Sì, Mr. Leone is in the back office. I will tell him you wish to see him.”

“Wait,” I grabbed his arm. “Sit down, please.”

Dario hesitated. He looked around and then lowered himself into the chair next to me. “It is serious business, then?” He rubbed his mustache and wiped away his smile. “Please, how can I serve you?”

“I’m about to cash in a favor from Carmine. From Mr. Leone,” I explained. “This favor will involve employing your special talents. I want to know if you’re up for it before I ask.”

“How much and for how much?”

“Twenty large to light a match.”

“Who gets hurt?”

“No one,” I said.

“No one,” Dario repeated and scratched his chin. “This is certain?”

“Yes.”

Dario leaned back in the chair. He reached into his apron and produced a cigarette. He lit it, took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know, Mr. Francis,” he shook his head. “I want to help you, of course. But I am retired. Voglio la vita tranquilla. Non lo so.”

“It’s not for me,” I said, “it’s for Mr. Rosso.”

“Morto!” he laughed. “What does he care now? I went to see him when he was ill… when he was dying. He talked endlessly about how all the art in his gallery was going to be put into the ground with him. Stupido. I told him so. I told him that if the cross is false and there is nothing after, he could not care. I told him that if the cross is true, and he is in Heaven, he would not care. Mr. Rosso said that if any of it is true, that he would be burning in Hell. I told him that if he is damned, he would not care. No matter what, Mr. Rosso is dead. He does not care.”

“I care,” I said.

“Why? Will you get money?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Satisfaction,” I nodded.

“No,” Dario’s voice got low. “You will get hurt. You say no one will get hurt. But you will. Mr. Rosso wanted it all buried so his family could not make money from it. Mr. Lake is involved in the sale. That means that no matter what happens, certain people are going to make certain money. Whether it is sold or whether it is burned. Either way, Mr. Rosso’s spiteful ambition will not be fulfilled. Why waste a favor from Mr. Leone? Why lose more of yourself to accomplish nothing?” Dario extinguished his cigarette and stood up. “I know it has been years since you and I worked together, but I always felt at liberty to offer my opinions before, during, and after. Forgive me if this time I have crossed a line. But at the risk of offending you further, ask yourself: Which gives Mrs. Rosso the better end of the stick, the gavel or the match? One more question. It is one that your grief has perhaps prevented you from asking. You did not approach me about this until today. So I can assume that Mr. Lake, whom you have not seen for months, said something to you just now that spurred you into action. So ask yourself, did he make it too easy for you?”

I didn’t answer. Dario stared at me for a moment. He frowned and said, “I will tell Mr. Leone you wish an audience.”

“Thank you,” I said, “and please bring me a bowl of the Zuppa Tuscana and the gnocchi to follow.”

Dario’s smile returned, “Very good, Mr. Francis.”