Malcom DeWhitt turned the cut glass tumbler in his hand and gazed through the amber liquid swirling inside to the light from his office window. Below in the street a siren wailed longingly, burped a few short blasts and then fell silent. He moved next to the heavy-duty glass and peered down to the street, seeing nothing of interest beyond the momentary passing of an emergency vehicle, and then with considerable theatre he sipped from the glass.

"You can't beat a good bourbon," He said dreamily, letting the liquid coat the back of his tongue before it slid warmly down his throat. Malcom, at fifty-six and wealthy beyond rich, wore the requisite power suit, styled hair, exotic destination tan and bundled it all in an indulgently plump frame. The teeth glistened obediently with the thousands of dollars the dental procedures had cost. The smile charmed and the voice was a buttery baritone.

"You're welcome." The answer was tinged with amusement. The owner sat comfortably in a soft leather padded chair, long silken legs crossed at the knee, hands folded over her stomach and a voice to match the smile spreading across her face.

"Holly you are the only woman I know who can select the right gift at the right time for all occasions."

"Such bull, Malcom. I could have brought you a postcard and you would have said the same thing. Getting your precious piece of art is all you care about."

"Allow me a little gloating." He sipped again and returned to his chair behind the desk. "It's one of a kind, Holly. Made from Rodin's own preliminary moulds and sketches. This was a product of his journey to the monument that now appears in museums around the world... and this one is an original"

"Gloat away, Malcom, you won again."

"Now, now, don't be cynical." He examined his drink and sighed. "So, how was the trip? I know it was successful but... otherwise?"

"Splendid, your seller was more than eager to accept the offer since the tax people were prepared to chain his boat to the dock with him in it. I even managed to squeeze in a few days in Antibes after closing the deal."

The laugh was also buttery. "Is it here yet?" He asked, eagerly.

"It's coming in tomorrow on a commercial flight. Your people can pick it up after you clear it through customs."

"Oh, I thought maybe that was part of your service." Disappointed.

"Sorry, Malcom, I negotiate, I don't do windows or paperwork." She pushed her tongue over her teeth and held her head up expectantly.

Malcom grinned and took another small, slow sip of bourbon, his dark eyes blinking with ecstasy, and changed the subject. "So Jean Tremblay has run afoul of the taxman." The grin became a chuckle and then a hearty laugh. Holly brushed some imaginary lint from her mint green suit jacket and waited out her client's moment of indulgent pleasure.

She was content to spend a short period in audience to her clients considering the generous fees she extracted for her services. People like Malcom DeWhitt, while having the resources, generally lacked the finesse required when trying to acquire things they just had to have. It was her expertise in negotiating and expediting that brought her to the lofty towers of these collectors as their intermediary.

DeWhitt and Winter maintained their suite of offices on the thirtieth floor of their wholly owned, thirty-two storey building, leasing the balance to a variety of businesses that provided a very handsome income. They provided all the maintenance and security for the building, additional to the base lease, ensuring an even greater return. This was the air Holly enjoyed breathing and what allowed her to charge her steep commissions.

Malcom had been almost rabid in his covetous pursuit of Rodin's miniature sculpture of his original Balzac work. Jean Tremblay had enjoyed taunting him with its ownership for years, until a careless falling out with the French tax people forced him to endure the humiliation of selling the piece, among a number of others, to cover his debt. Malcom had immediately sought out the only person he would trust with the task of getting it for his price and hired Holly Lakefield to negotiate the deal with orders to show no mercy. She hadn't.

Cast in bronze as the original was but only nineteen inches high as opposed to the eight foot, one inch, original figure, the French writer's image was portrayed in a rough and slightly distorted style, a departure from Rodin's normally lifelike and naturalistic work. The intent, it was determined, was to convey the emotional state of the writer—an ironic salute to Jean Tremblay's own state.

Now Malcom could wallow in his victory over his competitor and boast his ownership to others among the circle of art collectors with whom he socialized. Of course his latest coupe was due to the woman ensconced comfortably across from him and at that moment she was content to let him wallow a little longer before reminding him of her fee.

"God, I bet he cried. Did he cry?" Malcom set his glass down and leaned forward on his desk, eyes glistening.

"Sorry, Malcom, he took it like a man... a defeated man but nevertheless..."

"Still, it must have ripped his black heart out."

"I think I've listened to enough of your drooling over Jean's defeat, could we settle up, I have another appointment." She said without annoyance.

"Ahh, Holly, ever the mercenary." He opened a drawer and removed a leather cheque book folder and scribbled an amount, signed and dated it and passed it across to her. "As agreed."

She read the amount, smiled and buried it in her custom, calfskin purse. "Well, congratulations once again, Malcom. If you need my services for acquisition again at any time, please call. It has been a pleasure." She offered a slender hand and he stood, taking it in both of his.

"I could think of another use of your services, Holly." His voice dripped heavily with inference.

She withdrew her hand and walked to the office door. "You couldn't begin to afford that, Malcom dear. Stick to getting what's possible." She tossed him a parting smile and left him staring wistfully at the closing door.



Malcom stood as his aide entered the office with the carton containing his purchase. He felt his heart tick up as his hands ripped at the tape sealing the edges.

"Any trouble?"

"No sir. Smooth as silk. Miss Lakefield was very thorough with all the details, I merely signed the import and duty forms and they gave me the package." Ted Palliser stood at appropriate attention in front of his employer, watching the moment through his dark framed glasses. His fingers fiddled at the seam of his trousers as Malcom struggled with the shipping tape. Ted was the consummate yes man, ready to perform at any given moment without any consideration for personal dignity. Suck up, was his designation around the office. He accepted that along with the handsome salary that prompted it.

Finally the lid folded back and a small explosion of packing 'popcorn' blew onto the desk. Malcom dug down and lifted the bubble-wrapped item out and shoved the carton aside.

"Christ it's heavy! Heavier than I thought." He tore open the pack and removed the sculpture, holding it at arm's length and making an awe-shaped oval with his mouth. "It's magnificent. Look at it Ted, It's magnificent."

"I'm sure you'll get every nickel's worth of pleasure from it, sir."

"I hope that wasn't a snide estimate, Ted. This baby cost me a lot more than a few nickels."

"Figure of speech, sir." Ted forced a smile. "Where will you keep it?"

"For now, right here." He came around his desk and walked to the bookshelves on the opposite wall, setting the sculpture between a set of foreign language dictionaries and a photo of he and the governor performing an en garde moment with their clubs on the golf course. "There. Perfect." He went back to his desk and stood admiring his trophy. The other shelves held similar objets d'art but the Rodin was his prize. A reflection on Jean Tremblay's predicament with the tax people slithered through his mind but vanished as his aide pulled his attention back into focus.

"Sir, I've taken the liberty of contacting the insurance company. They will send a man sometime tomorrow to evaluate and include this on your policy." Ted oozed.

"Yes, I know. Thanks, Ted. I already spoke to Gordon and he has all the details necessary to have it covered. The evaluation will simply be a formality."

Ted forced another smile, curling his fingers into his palms. "You're welcome, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Only that this is not to be mentioned to anyone outside of this room."

"I just told you that I—"

"I didn't mean the insurance company." Malcom flapped a hand. "Nobody else. I'll let Wilson know myself."

"So after the lawyer then... nobody else?"

"What did I just say? Now get Phil in here. I want a picture of me and the sculpture."

"So now Phil can be told...?" Malcom turned a dark shade and the blinds went down behind his eyes. Ted left immediately... confused.



The deal in France had netted Holly a handsome commission and since being back she'd washed Jean's final thrust, so to speak, from her mind and enjoyed a private period of celebration, showering, drinking and parading nude about her spacious condo. Travelling was nice—home was better. The food, the bed, television and even her favourite wine were better here at home. In the middle of one of her celebratory moments—another shower and a small box of handmade chocolate truffles—the jangle of the telephone became a spoiler and she decided to let her machine answer. When it did and she heard the voice of her 'uncle' she sighed aloud, wrapped her towel around her, drained her glass and picked up the receiver.

"Oh good, you are home. How was France?"

"Marvelous."

"Successful?"

"It was." She preened slightly.

"I shouldn't have to ask."

"What did you want, Jacob?" The towel slipped and she tried holding it with one hand then huffed and let it drop.

"I made an interesting purchase at an estate sale while you were away."

"That's wonderful." Her interest flagged considerably. Jacob owned a used goods store; Holly called it junk. She settled a flank on the arm of a chair and held her arm across her chest as she listened to his story.

"Seriously, Holly. I think I've struck gold."

She stooped and picked up the towel, rewrapping herself and moving around to sit in the chair. "What did you get, Jacob?" He was not to be deterred.

"A set of Tarot cards in almost pristine condition."

"Jacob, you can buy those in a game store for heaven's sake."

"Not these, Holly. At least I hope not. I went to the library and dug out old books on playing cards and collectors; I needed to see photographs up close. This deck has one particular card, the fool, and concealed in the border design is a pair of initials and a year—the year is 1504."

Holly's interest immediately perked up. "What are the initials?"

Jacob coughed a watery sound that was intended as a chuckle. "I knew that would catch your interest."

"The initials, Jacob."

"A.D."

"Are you sure?"

"Come and see for yourself. It says, A.D. 1504."

"Albrecht Dürer..." Holly expelled a long breath. "Is the deck intact? Tell me all the cards."

Jacob muttered something and she listened as he fumbled with the phone and the package. "There are 56 suit cards. Each of the four regular suits has four face cards and cards numbered from ace to ten. Then there're, let's see, 22 with pictorial symbols including the fool card with the rest numbered from 1 to uhm... 21."

"That sounds complete." Holly said. "A full Tarot deck has 78 cards."

"Well, what do you think?"

"What did you pay?"

"Ten dollars." Another gurgling laugh followed.

"Sounds like a really big deal. I'll call you back, but it won't be any time soon, Jacob. I'm trying to wind down from the trip."

"Just glad to have your interest, darlin'."

"Right now that's all it is, Jacob. Meanwhile, I'm getting chilly sitting here in the nude."

"Aah such an image, my child. Makes an old man's heart flutter."

"As long as it's just your heart. We both know uncle is only an endearment."

"Holly, I would never—"

"Absolutely. Good bye... uncle."