He had an audience, a good size one, just as Sykes had predicted. They watched him up there on the scaffold in one of the museum's vaulted spaces, working away on a new mural, sweeping his brush back and forth, putting on a show.

He went to dip his brush in the paint, frowned when he spotted a familiar face below.

Looking up at him was The Wiz and most of the skateboard posse.

Mavro called down, "Hey, what's up?"

The Wiz called back, "We got the tickets."

"So I see."

"Thanks for thinking of us."

"No problem."

The Wiz gave the mural a quick once over – the primitive human figures with their beasty heads capering against splotches of paint that looked like fireworks. "Nice work," he said, and added sardonically, "I love your colors."

"Thanks," Mavro said.

"They pay you?" 

"Meals and a trans card."

"Yeah, right." The Wiz made as though he was impressed by the nicely dressed crowd and regal surroundings. "Be sure and let us know when you're coming back to the real world."

"I'm just a guest here."

"Hey, take what you can get."

"Always."

There was an awkward pause, uneasy stares.

"Anyway," said The Wiz, "we're gonna look around, see who else has their painting act together." He turned with the others and started walking across the wide floor. "Thanks again," he called over his shoulder.

"Any time," said Mavro as he watched them go.

Crossing the big room from the opposite direction was Victor Sykes. He exchanged nods with The Wiz, the two recognizing each other from when The Wiz swiped that champagne at Mavro's opening. Sykes came over to the scaffold and called up to Mavro. "You had lunch?"

~~~~~~

They sat at a small table in the museum's balcony cafeteria, chewing on sandwiches, surrounded by the hum of the midday crowd.

Sykes took a sip of soda to wash down a bite of his ham on rye. "A guy can go ten lifetimes and not have a shot like this."

"So whatta you want?" said Mavro.

"We need as many paintings as you can turn out. You cash in, you can do all the board bullshit you want."

"Hey, what I do is my business."

"Yeah, well, at some point you're going to have to make some choices for yourself."

A female voice broke in. "Excuse me?"

It was a woman who wanted Mavro to sign the flyer she was holding, one that the museum had put together that told about his work. He signed it – just Mavro, not using his last name, Deluca, which few people knew – and handed it back with what Sykes could see was a forced smile.

"So," Mavro said after the woman had left, "what choices you talking about?"

Sykes leaned in closer. "Like between farting around with that bunch who just left or putting your ass into something that'll maybe get you somewhere."

"Those are friends."

"Right. Just remember that a lot of people stuck their necks out to make this happen for you."

"And for you."

"That's called a win-win. And I'll be long gone while you're still in your glory."

Mavro looked off in the direction the woman had gone. "I'm like a freak show here."

"Get over it. You can cry on your way to the bank."

Mavro brought his eyes back to him. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what? Tell me."

Mavro held the stare – then pushed his plate away and stood up. "Lemme get back to work."

"What about the paintings?"

"Relax, I'll do them in my sleep."

~~~~~~

The Freilinghaus apartment on Central Park South had a spectacular view from the two-story living room that overlooked the entire park. The furnishings were just the right combination of elegant and inviting, made for entertaining. The music played by the man in black tie at the piano was a smooth medley of Porter and Gershwin, Lloyd Weber and Sondheim. The museum-class artwork was perfectly lighted.

Paul Freilinghaus, who had discussed Africa's influence on art with Mavro at his opening, left the group of guests he'd introduced to one another and brought his drink over to Victor Sykes. He and Philip Tierney were standing in front of one of Mavro's man/beast paintings, a single figure whose fangs appeared to have just done damage.

"I negotiated through the bank," Freilinghaus said, indicating the painting, "to buy it from the man who bought it at the opening. They delivered it today."

"It's in tall company," Sykes said, indicating a nearby Mark Rothko canvas, one of his abstract fields of color.

Freilinghaus smiled at the compliment. "We missed the boat that night at the opening." He looked at Tierney. "Have you told Mr. Sykes what we'd like to do?"

"I started to tell him about the option," Tierney said, "but it might be better to hear it from you."

Freilinghaus nodded and turned to Sykes. "We'd like first look at anything Mavro paints."

Sykes looked appropriately pleased, murmured an appropriate response. He took a sip of his drink and glanced across the room, saw Helen Carty just coming in.

"We think he's going to be important," Freilinghaus continued.

"I think you're right," Sykes said, slightly distracted, watching Helen touch base with Nan Freilinghaus and take a glass of wine from a tray being offered.

"Of course we'll pay for the privilege," Freilinghaus said, and then smiled at Helen who came over to join them. "Well, good evening."

Helen returned the smile and offered her cheek, shook hands all around and smiled politely at Sykes. There was obviously some distance between them.

Freilinghaus filled her in. "We were just discussing the virtues of Mavro. Or Mavro's work."

Helen had some news on the subject. "I think I'll be getting PBS to do a segment."

Freilinghaus raised his glass to her. "It would make a wonderful segment – but I'd appreciate it if you could let me get some buying done first." He turned to Sykes. "Where is he by the way? I was hoping you might bring him."

"He's a dedicated man," Sykes said. "I'm sure he's doing his thing right now."

And indeed he was – one-hundred and fifty feet above the East River.

~~~~~~

Mavro and The Wiz were riding in front of the skateboard posse, the dozen of them pushing and gliding their boards along the elevated pedestrian ramp on the Williamsburg Bridge, rolling above eight lanes of traffic and the tracks for three subway lines that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn.

The two point men peered ahead toward a line of blinking yellow lights and brought their boards to a stop, the others pulling up behind them. On the other side of the lights and some barriers and temporary fencing, a section of the pedestrian ramp had been removed to give access for structural repair work.

"This it?" The Wiz asked Mavro.

"Take a look."

They eased their boards forward and stopped at the fencing, bent forward to look down. Where the ramp section had been removed there was an unnerving void – a few shadowy girders, a section of train track, then nothing but a yawning drop to the black currents of the East River far below. 

Mavro nodded across to where the void ended and the ramp began again – about the same distance as that alley he'd chickened out of jumping across. "First one over there takes it." He'd heard about two boarders from Hell's Kitchen having bet on jumping it, but only one had actually tried, and he'd screwed up and almost got killed.

Mavro looked at The Wiz sizing up the distance and asked, "You up?"

The others watched to see how The Wiz would respond.

"Let's do it," he said.

He and Mavro and the posse pulled the barriers and some of the fencing aside, opening a clear run to the void. They inspected the approach, Mavro kicking aside an empty soda can and some orange peels, then both got on their boards and pushed back up the ramp. They stopped and turned around mid-ramp, eyeing the void, each with a foot on his board.

Before he could let himself have second thoughts, Mavro said, "You set?"

"Call it," said The Wiz.

Mavro took a hard look at what was waiting. "Go."

They pushed off and pointed their boards at the beckoning void, pushing, pushing, getting up speed, rocketing down the ramp.

The posse stood on both sides of their path, urging them on, waving their arms.

The void loomed closer, Mavro intense, crouched for the takeoff. The Wiz flicked his eyes at him, the void closing in.

And then it was there.

They launched themselves at the same instant, sailing out over the gaping space.

The posse cheered, drove their fists in the air.

The Wiz was his usual graceful self, sailing through the twilight sky, profiled against the city skyline, landing effortlessly on the other side.

Mavro didn't.

He lost touch with his board, his trajectory lost momentum. The posse saw what was happening and everyone froze. Mavro started tumbling out of control.

From his high-point over the void, he started falling, falling...