A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,99

and minimalist. A platform bed with no headboard and a midcentury modern dresser. Blackout shades and an upholstered chair. There was no nightstand, but two sconces perched above the pillows, protruding from the wall on spider arms.

Klinman made no move to sit down. He set his drink on a small doily on the dresser and folded his arms. “What do you—”

“No, you listen.” Gabriel pointed a finger at Klinman. It was dirty from his messing about in the studio and seemed to diminish his authority. He also hadn’t noticed how tall Klinman was. His courage and anger began to ebb. Still, he had come for a reason.

“That’s it,” he said. “I’m done forging your pictures. You’re making money, everyone is making money off of me. And I’m not making shit.”

“Please don’t raise your voice, I have guests. You are making money, I’ll remind you. But all right, if you don’t want to work anymore, that’s fine. I can find someone else.”

A siren called out, getting louder as it passed the building, then quieting again. “Just try,” Gabriel said. “I’d like to see you find someone who can do Connois like I can.”

“I’m sure there is no one,” Klinman said, “but there are others who can do others.”

Klinman’s nonchalance surprised Gabriel. He had expected the man to apologize, offer more money. Then he would have the opportunity to refuse him. Gabriel had even entertained a scenario in which he got to punch Klinman. But here was a reaction that he hadn’t planned for. He saw now he should have.

“Ha,” he scoffed. “Try to find others when the police are after you!”

Klinman stared at him. Gabriel had rendered him speechless.

“I have evidence,” Gabriel said. Which he didn’t. Why had it not occurred to him to get evidence? “The German expert, he’ll support me.”

Klinman’s stare began to change. Soon he was smiling widely at Gabriel, a look of derision rather than mirth. “You’re going to report me to the police?” he said. “Rich.” His smile emitted a sound that might have been a cackle. “Hilarious. The German expert will support you? I doubt that very much, since he is my business associate.” He was laughing for real now, and Gabriel felt his ears go hot with embarrassment. Of course Schnell had been in on it. His drawing wouldn’t have fooled a real expert. Gabriel had no reply.

“Turn me in,” Klinman said, suddenly serious, “and it is you who will be sketching other prisoners’ assholes. That I can promise you. Now, would you like to stay for dinner? We can have someone pull up a chair and make you a plate,” he said, giving Gabriel a chance to respond.

Gabriel said nothing, unable to make his mind work out the words of protest in French. Klinman was all politeness now. Gabriel was a favorite nephew and not an attempted blackmailer. Gabriel shook his head. Finally, he understood his role. He was the rube, in way over his head.

Klinman shook his head sadly. “If you’ll excuse me, then, my guests.”

Gabriel could hear Klinman’s voice in the big room, but couldn’t make out the words. The guests laughed. He stood in Klinman’s bedroom. The man was right. Gabriel was expendable. How could he not have seen that?

He sat on Klinman’s low bed. The mattress was thin; he could feel the planks of the bed frame beneath it. He had never understood why rich people so liked the hard Asian way of sleeping. He preferred to sleep like Louis XIV, in a featherbed so soft he might be suffocated. He hoped he’d suffocate. This was just another reminder of the gulf between him and the rest of the world. The rest of the successful world.

His bank account was practically empty and Klinman hadn’t called him in weeks. Gabriel regretted his outburst, but all his calls to Klinman went unreturned. When he asked Colette if she’d seen her uncle, she treated the question like a joke. “What, you like him more than you like me?” She had been distant, increasing her evenings out with the girls (he hoped this was true, that she was not lying to him about who she was out with) and telling him she needed some space. Reluctantly, Gabriel spent more nights at his shared flat, staring at the textured ceiling. It was all turning to shit. He was still poor and The Man was still rich.

Really, what was Klinman doing that he couldn’t do himself? Providing period paper. That couldn’t be that hard to