The wind whipped the shopping bag around in Sykes's hand as he carried it up the museum steps. When he got inside, one of the security guards gave it a search, gave him a nod, and he headed back toward Philip Tierney's office. On the way there he passed through the public space where Mavro had been doing his mural. Workmen were dismantling the scaffold, hammering the sections apart. Sykes frowned and walked to one of the portals.

Tierney wasn't in his office, but that wasn't who he'd come to see. "They aren't wasting any time out there," he said to Helen Carty as he walked to her glassed-in cubicle.

She looked up from her desk.

"The scaffold," Sykes said.

"That wasn't my choice, Victor." She saw him glance toward Tierney's desk. "And it wouldn't have been Philip's either. I don't have to tell you what we went through to get this going in the first place."

"Right," he said, and made an effort to relax. "I appreciate it."

"Anyway, come in. Any news?"

"He's still out of it." Sykes held up the shopping bag. "I'm taking some things down to him."

"You'll let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Actually, I need a picture of him."

"That's easy, they're right here." She reached to her computer mouse. "How's Janna doing?"

"Probably not as good as she makes out."

"I spoke to her earlier. I'll call her again."

A series of thumbnail photographs flicked onto the computer screen.

Helen said, "These are the ones we took at the opening. Pick what you want."

Sykes stepped over, scanned the pictures and pointed to one. Helen clicked the mouse and the printer kicked in.

"What's it for?" she asked.

"I'll let you know."

They watched each other while the printer printed. Both seemed on the verge of saying something, but both let the moment pass.

The print slid out. Helen slipped it into an envelope and handed it to him.

"Keep me posted," she said. "People are already asking for him."

"I will," he said, and held up the envelope. "And thank you."

~~~~~~

The patient was sleeping, hooked up to a network of wires and tubes. Sykes stood by the bed watching him, not looking encouraged by what he saw. He turned to the nurse who was hanging an i.v. bag onto a stanchion. "How's he doing?"

"Just what you see." She connected the i.v. to Mavro's remaining arm, slipping the needle into a vein.

"What I see isn't good."

"He lost an arm and a lot of blood. What's to be good?" She moved the i.v. stanchion closer to the bed, checked the monitors blinking over Mavro's head.

Sykes held up the shopping bag. "I brought some of his things."

"Leave them on the chair there. I'll be back in a minute."

Sykes watched her go, set the bag on the chair. Heard a soft chirp and pulled out his cell. "Yes?"

In his library on the Upper East Side, Rizza Zekov was sitting at his desk, phone cradled under his chin. "I understand there was an accident."

Sykes shut his eyes. "Hello, Rizza." He cursed himself for not changing his number when he got his new phone. Not that it would have put Zekov off. The man had ways of finding out whatever he wanted – like the wellbeing of the key player in this deal of theirs.

"Where's that put things?" Zekov said.

"Where it puts things is that he can't paint."

"That ain't a good place."

"No, it's not."

"What're you doing about it.?"

"Right now I'm hoping he'll survive."

"You're time's almost up."

"I know that."

"So?"

"I'm sure you'll find me when it is." He broke the connection, looked at the bed.

Mavro was staring at him.

Sykes stared back, caught by surprise. He started to speak, was cut off by the returning nurse.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave," she said. "Doctor has work to do."

Two orderlies were standing behind her.

Mavro shut his eyes.

~~~~~~

Jerry's International Palette Shop, an art supply store on Fourth Avenue downtown, was an easy bus ride from Belleview, but Sykes, with Helen's envelope in hand, decided to walk. He knew what he wanted, told one of the clerks when he got there, and watched him pull a long length of canvas from a roll on the wall. Sykes measured where he wanted it cut and the clerk complied with a razor.

Sykes then went over to a sectioned bin of stretcher bars and pulled out several long pieces, two six-foot lengths, two four-foot lengths, and two with notches to use as braces. He wasn't sure if Mavro had a staple gun and stretching pliers, so he'd better get those as well. And while he was at it, a new set of paints and some brushes.

"You deliver, right?" he asked the clerk.

"All five boroughs."

"Can you get this and some other stuff to me today?"

"Depends where."

"Long Island City?"

"I'll check. There might be a charge."

Sykes said fine, that he'd be back in a few, and went off to get the other things.

~~~~~~

He had a key to get into Mavro's building, took the freight elevator up and carried the canvas and stretcher bars into the deserted work space, Went back to the elevator and got the paints and brushes and tools, and Helen's envelope. He'd hitched a ride with the delivery truck, tipped the driver who'd helped him get the stuff onto the lift in one trip.

He got an area cleared off on the floor and went to work stretching the canvas. He realized it would've been easier to let the store do it, but he was anxious to get started and didn't want to wait. And besides, he wanted his hand in all parts of this project.

He'd notched the bars together and was stretching the canvas around them when he heard the freight elevator go down and come back up. Heard footsteps get off and walk across the floor.

"What's going on?" Janna said as she set a bag of groceries on the workbench.

"Hi. Did you see him?"

"Only for a second, he's still out. I must've just missed you."

"You speak to Helen?"

"I just did." She nodded toward the stretched canvas. "You gonna tell me?"

"You'll see when I'm finished."

"You primas are all the same." She pulled a container of orange juice out of the bag and looked around for a glass.

Sykes leaned the six-foot stretched canvas on a makeshift easel that Mavro had made, opened Helen's envelope and slid Mavro's photograph out, propping it next to the canvas.

Janna found a glass and poured some orange juice, watched Sykes while she sipped. "You want some o.j.?"

"No thanks, I'm fine." He started working with a charcoal pencil he'd bought, making quick graceful strokes on the canvas, using the photograph for reference.

Janna watched him until she finished her juice, rinsed the glass and took the groceries out of the bag, put them away in the old refrigerator and in the homemade cabinet beside it. She could see he was going to be at this for a while and went to leave. "I'm gonna go back, maybe meet Helen later. There's sliced turkey and bagels if you wanna make a sandwich."

"Thanks, I'm sorry I'm involved here. Call if you need me."

"I will." She was almost to the elevator.

"Janna?"

She stopped, turned around.

"I mean it," he said. "Even if it's, you know, just to talk. We're in it together."

She stood there and watched him, a look he thought might border on appreciation. "Thanks," she said, turned and stepped onto the open elevator, gave a small wave and rode down.

It had been bothering him, her being alone here now. She could pick a few pockets for money if she had to, which, when he thought about it, was a thought he wished he hadn't had. When her family had left the Bronx to move back to Uruguay, she'd stayed in New York, first moving in with an aunt, and then shacking with this or that boyfriend, supporting herself in the way she'd discovered she had an aptitude for. He should probably say something to Helen, about the housing thing, but since he was on iffy terms with her, maybe that should wait.

Anyway, back to work.

He went at it with the charcoal for another half-hour, then switched to a large soft brush and started underpainting, using broad strokes, establishing areas of dark and light in the full-length sketch he'd made.

He'd changed into a T-shirt and jeans he'd found in a bag of dirty laundry, and as the work progressed, paint spots began speckling the clothes. At one point he heard his cell phone chirp, dug it out of his other shirt, saw that it was a text from Janna saying she was spending the night on Helen's couch. It wasn't like her to bother telling anybody that, and he smiled at the progress.

When he switched to a smaller brush his strokes became more defined, each dart of the brush engendering a lifelike detail. At one point he reached over to the workbench and picked up one of the skateboards that were awaiting Mavro's artwork, propped it next to the canvas.

He worked through the night, through the next day, the image of Mavro taking over the canvas. Finally, with smears of paint on his face and hands as well as the clothes, he stood back and appraised his work. Gave it an approving nod and tossed the brush onto the workbench and stretched his arms over his head.

He went up to the roof to wind down, gazed across the river at the city lights just coming on, letting himself get lost in thought.

After a while he heard the fire door open and shut, heard Janna's light footsteps come up behind him. "Hi."

He turned around from his reverie.

"It's beautiful," she said.

He looked back toward the city as though that's what she meant. "It is."

"Stop it, you know what I mean."

He smiled. He did. "Thank you."

She came over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "It's bigtime. I really mean it."

"I'm glad it works."

"So what now?"

"I let it dry."

"Seriously."

He thought for a moment. "It's a touchy time. I want to do it right."

"Hey, Sykes?" She gave him a serious look. "Don't over think it."