The nurse gently touched the patient's shoulder. "Mavro?"

His eyes fluttered open, squinting to focus.

"You friend is here."

He turned slowly and looked up from the bed, saw Sykes standing over him and said groggily, "Hey, man, what's happening?"

Sykes looked down at him and smiled. "You're turning into a sack rat."

"I guess."

"How you doing?"

"Mezzo-mezzo."

"That's better than last time."

"I'll take your word."

Sykes stepped back from the bed. "I brought you something."

Mavro looked past him to where he was pointing.

Propped against the wall between the foot of the bed and the hall door, hauntingly realistic, was the life-size portrait of Mavro. The empty right sleeve of his T-shirt hung loose, his sinewy left arm held a skateboard. The plain background accentuated the power of the figure. Mavro's confident expression left no doubt that he was back in the game.

"Janna calls it Member of The Board," Sykes said.

"Leave it to Janna." Mavro stared at the image. "Oh, man..."

"You might have to work on your balance a little."

"This is..."

"Maybe lay in some left-handed brushes."

They shared a moment staring at the painting.

Mavro said, "I guess wipeouts got their upside."

"Let's not get carried away."

"Sykes?"

"What?"

"It was some ride."

"I can imagine."

Mavro looked at the painting. "So's this."

"I'm glad you like it." Sykes glanced over his shoulder. "I brought something else."

Mavro started to ask what, but his jaw dropped before he could.

Through the door, with The Wiz in the lead, came the skateboard posse. They surrounded the bed, The Wiz going over and giving Mavro an awkward hug. There was a moment of self-conscious silence – then everyone started talking at once.

"How long before you're out?" The Wiz asked.

Mavro glanced over at the nurse.

"He'll be back soon enough," she said.

The Wiz looked at the painting, the one-armed boarder. "You are legend, man. Everybody wants to ride with you."

"But I missed," said Mavro.

"No, man, you made it. You made it big. Wipeout of the year."

Mavro blinked, Looked at Sykes who had gone over by the door. The artist gave Mavro a thumbs-up and quietly left.

~~~~~~

Two days later, morning rush hour, the street outside Sykes's hotel was its usual bustling scene, nobody paying particular attention to the shiny black Escalade SUV parked across from the hotel entrance. Zekov wasn't in the car, but his men were. Watching. Waiting.

Sykes was in his room, stretched on the bed in the T-shirt he slept in, stubble on his chin, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Didn't move when the hotel phone on the bed table rang. Or when it rang a minute later. Or when it rang a third time. Finally it stopped.

He continued to lie there, staring up.

Then his cell chirped. Chirped again. It was on the bed table, too. He reached over and angrily grabbed it. "What!" He blinked, looking chagrined. "I'm sorry, I thought... How are you?" He pushed up on his elbows while he listened. "Just here, mostly. Low profile." He listened some more, glanced at the mini-clock on his phone. "I think I can make myself presentable by then." He said goodbye and stared at the phone.

Took a moment to rub his eyes and clear his throat, got up and straightened his pants. He stepped barefoot into the hall, leaving the door ajar, and walked down to the window at the end. He looked down at the street, saw the black Escalade SUV parked at the opposite curb, same place it had been when he checked an hour ago.

He went back to his room, got on his cell and speed dialed a number. Waited for the connection and said, "Hey, it's Sykes. Listen, I need you for something."

~~~~~~

It was late afternoon when, at the end of the block, a familiar beat-up Dodge pickup came around the corner, looping around a double-parked taxi as it slowly approached the hotel.

Crouched inside the hotel doorway, Sykes watched the vehicle from the shadows. His eyes flicked across the street to the black Escalade still there.

When the pickup drew even with the doorway, Sykes slipped out and, using the truck as a moving shield, scuttled along the sidewalk. He darted between two parked cars, opened the truck door and jumped in.

He pulled the door shut, stayed on the floor out of sight, and looked up at the driver. "I owe you, man."

The driver, handyman Luis Aguado, kept his eyes straight ahead. "I'll put it on your tab."

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sykes hopped out, checked behind him, and went up the steps.

Went inside and made his way to the doorway of Helen Carty's cubicle office. "Hi."

Helen looked up from her desk "Hi. I'm glad you could come."

"What's going on?"

She got up and took him by the elbow. "There's something I need to show you." Turned him around, getting a puzzled look, and headed him back out the door.

She led him through a vaulted room filled with artwork and visitors. Past Mavro's half-finished mural, now cleared of scaffolding. At the end of an arched hallway, she gestured toward the open door to a reception room.

Inside, she steered Sykes past nodding and smiling guests to a man standing at a cocktail bar in the corner, introducing him to Sykes. "Victor, this is Lucas Bilski, whose art column I'm sure you know."

Bilski shook Sykes's hand. "Mr. Sykes, a pleasure. What'll you have?"

"A beer would be fine."

Bilski asked Helen.

"Beer sounds good."

When the bartender handed them their glasses, Bilski raised his. "To the artist in all."

Sykes and Helen raised their glasses and sipped, Sykes trying not to look as clueless as he felt.

Bilski said, "There was a photographer named Sykes, did black and white fashion work."

"That was my father," Sykes said.

"I sensed a connection. Maybe it's the edge in your lighting."

"You know my work?"

Bilski gestured with his glass across the room.

On the far wall, dramatically lit, dominating the gathering, was Sykes's life-size portrait of Mavro.

Standing on either side of it, both grinning, were dapper Philip Tierney and Janna in her black-on-black.

Sykes was stunned. Helen took his arm. "It's on loan from the subject," she said, "who sends his affection."

"What's it doing here?"

Helen started walking him toward the portrait, the roomful of guests parting and clapping. "It was Janna's idea to do a special tie-in. Philip saw the painting and jumped at the chance. Apparently they've kept in touch since the gallery opening."

"Kept in touch?"

"What do I know? They're your friends."