roars and vows to put yet anodder hole in the son ma bitch’s nose. He’s coming closer. Fleischmann seems calmer, but he still accelerates his mission… another red dot (“three and a half”)… another red dot (“one”)… red dots red dots red dots (“two,” “four” for the orgy scene, dear God!… then “nine one seven”—)… all these red dots. ::::::That must be what they mean when they talk about the “measles.”::::::
If those numbers meant what Magdalena was beginning to believe they meant, Fleischmann had just spent 17 million dollars, or $17 million minus $83,000, assuming 917 meant $917,000, in less than fifteen minutes. And if Marilynn Carr, with her fair white thighs and English bob, got 10 percent from the seller, the ghostly husky, and 10 percent from the buyer, Fleischmann, she had just made $3,400,000 for herself, assuming Norman had explained the commissions accurately.
Flebetnikov’s Russian roar was drawing closer and closer.
A.A. said to Fleischmann, “Why don’t we get out of here? I know Flebetnikov. He’s not a rational person.”
For the first time since this whole thing began, Fleischmann smiled. “And miss all the fun?”
Fleischmann insisted on waiting for Flebetnikov. He stood right outside the entrance to the booth. A.A. looked very nervous. Fleischmann was suddenly the picture of happiness.
Flebetnikov arrived, roaring in Russian. A tall, dark, anxious-looking man was by his side.
“That’s Lushnikin,” A.A. whispered to Fleischmann. “He’s the art adviser for most of the oligarchs.”
Flebetnikov was growling like a bear. He roared at Lushnikin in Russian… something ending with “Goshen.” For the first time he noticed Fleischmann. He appeared startled; also wary. Perhaps guilty?
“Comrade Flebetnikov!” boomed Fleischmann. “You interested in Doggs?” With his thumb he indicated the booth behind him. “I was, too. But all the good stuff is already gone. At Miami Basel you got to be fast. See it, like it, buy it.”
From Flebetnikov’s expression you couldn’t tell whether he detected the sarcasm or not. He blinked. He looked bewildered. Without another word he turned and entered the booth, yelling, “Lushnikin! Lushnikin!”
Fleischmann departed, chuckling to himself, no doubt envisioning the red-dot desolation and defeat awaiting the Comrade inside the booth. Norman was practically on Maurice’s heels, Norman and A.A. Norman had a hazy smile on his face, an interior smile so to speak. He was thinking of himself transformed into a rich man by just being there when it all happened, if Magdalena knew anything about it. He didn’t even look to see where she was, he was so deep into his imaginary world. He had walked thirty or forty feet down the row before her existence occurred to him. He didn’t want to get separated from his glorious friends, but he hesitated long enough to swivel his head this way and that. When he spotted her, he beckoned her with a big sweeping motion of his arm… without waiting for her, however. He wheeled about on one heel and continued in Fleischmann’s glorious wake.
Not knowing what else to do, Magdalena began walking after him. On either side, within the booths near the entrance… red dots. It was astonishing. So many pieces had been sold so fast… Red dots, red dots, red dots… “The measles outbreak”… but of course—that was what they had been talking about! All the red dots… 17 million dollars’ worth in Fleischmann’s case. Who knew how many more millions all those other red dots represented?! Then it began to make her sick. Think of how shallow and wantonly wasteful these people were! These americanos! Think of Fleischmann spending almost 17 million dollars on seven obscene pieces of glass… $17 million in thirteen or fourteen minutes, for fear a fat Russian might lay hands on this idiotic stuff first… all for show!… a 17-million-dollar personal exhibition… Norman didn’t see that… He was absorbed by it. A little Cuban girl named Magdalena no longer existed, did she. Norman had put her out of his mind. Her resentment rose up like flames. Arson it became. She took grim satisfaction in feeding the fire. That bastard. ::::::Norman, you’re a disgusting suck-up to money. No display of money strikes you as trashy, does it. Insulted me! Why should I put up with him any longer?::::::
Involuntarily, unbidden, four things popped into the Wernicke’s area of her brain: her BMW… registered in the name of Dr. Norman Lewis, since he, in strict point of fact, owned it; her pay… which she received in the form of a check signed by Dr. Norman N. Lewis; her apartment—her home, as she