"Kind of a wise-ass response," said Philip Tierney, who was watching a replay of the Mavro interview on the screen of his office computer.

"I thought it was catchy," said Sykes, who was watching over Tierney's shoulder. "The culture-clash thing."

"Does he know where culture-clash landed his artistic advisor for the past two years?"

"There's no need to get personal, Philip."

"So what do you do next?"

Sykes took a seat on the corner of Tierney's desk. "Find a venue to show his work and get that video played everywhere I can."

Tierney flicked an imaginary speck off his silk tie. "What venue did you have in mind?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Ah."

"Someone who needs a hot show."

"Everyone needs a hot show."

Sykes nodded in agreement. "You know what I mean."

"You mean someone on the brink."

"Something like that."

Tierney stared at the computer screen, now blank. After some thought he turned back to Sykes. "Remember Austin Geller?"

~~~~~~

Luis Aguado's old Dodge pickup was parked on a cobblestone street in SoHo, in front of a brick building darkened with age that had a sign in front that said Gallery Geller. Luis and Mavro were unloading one of Mavro's paintings from a stack in the truck's cargo bed. They carried the bubble-wrapped panel through the gallery's front door, Mavro gradually having come around, after some hassling, to Sykes's ideas for how they could partner on his paintings.

Inside the modern, track-lit space, they passed by Sykes, who was talking to a sixtyish man in a slightly-frayed, once-elegant suit, the gallery's owner, Austin Geller.

"He's in that sweet spot," Sykes said when Mavro had gone by, "where he's discovered his style but isn't predictable yet."

Geller nodded. "In technical terms, a rookie."

"If he wasn't a rookie," Sykes said with an edge, "I wouldn't be representing him and you wouldn't be getting your piece of the action."

"Don't get defensive. I like what I see."

He and Sykes looked over to where Mavro and Luis were pulling the bubble-wrap off the painting and leaning it against the wall with several others. Standing by, overseeing the installation, was Helen Carty.

Geller cleared his throat. "I know you realize there'll be expenses – wine, food, the music..."

"How much?" Sykes asked.

"And a good-faith deposit on the space."

"Just tell me how much."

"I'll pencil it out, but ballpark I'd say fifty-thousand. Which of course you'll recoup from the first sale."

~~~~~~

That evening, Sykes poured wine for Helen at a warmly-lit table at Balthazar, an art-crowd restaurant on Spring Street. "Which of course you'll recoup from the first sale," he said, filling her glass half way and pouring some for himself.

"Fine," Helen said, "don't worry about it."

"I hate having to do it this way."

"It's done. Relax." She smiled, clinked his glass with hers and took a sip. Waited while the big table over in the corner calmed down from laughing at somebody's joke. "I've got a list from the museum we can email a link to for the video. I'm calling in a few chits to get some cable play."

"Thank you." He looked away for a moment, watched a waiter go by with a seafood platter, a triple-decker, then looked back. "Should I be there or not? Be honest."

She started to say yes, stopped herself. "Why? What do you think?"

"We kept me off the video."

"This is different. This is a party. You can add a certain... underworldliness."

He nodded, looked down at his wine.

"Hey, bad joke. Of course you should be there." She reached over and rubbed his hand. "How are you fixed for party wear?"

"I'll find something."

"Your shnozz is looking better."

Sykes touched his nose, the bandage now smaller.

"Excuse me, sir."

They looked up and saw their waiter in his black vest standing there with a folded piece of paper.

"The gentleman left this for you," the waiter said, and placed the piece of paper on the table.

Sykes looked at it, looked at Helen who shrugged. The waiter gave a slight bow and left. Sykes picked up the paper, unfolded it and read the hand-written message: 24 DAYS

He looked up and scanned the busy room, stopped his eyes at the entrance.

Standing there, without expression, was Rizza Zekov. He stared back for an unpleasant moment, then turned as though he owned the place and walked out the door.

~~~~~~

Zekov spent the night on his yacht, which was berthed at the North Cove Marina, an exclusive yacht harbor bordered by the financial skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, a short walk from Wall Street. The vessel was a sleek sixty-three foot Riva he'd gotten a few years back, the result of a situation not dissimilar to the one Sykes was in, just bigger numbers. But, big numbers or small, every dollar counted with Zekov, because God forbid anybody should ever find out that he didn't collect on a deal.

He'd come a long way from his days of running with a tough teen gang in Brighton Beach, a section of Brooklyn where his immigrant Russian parents had settled among the community's growing Slavic population. His quickness with numbers and a "feel for the deal", as he put it, made him a natural for finding money for the businesses being started by the area's new arrivals, some of whom weren't anxious to comply with inconvenient codes of the law, Zekov taking a generous cut for himself. His gang was a ready-made collection agency for problem payments, a few of the strong-arms still with him all these years later.

Sykes knew there was an even chance that Zekov would be on the boat – it was where he liked to spend nights with whoever his mistress was at the time. His wife turned a blind eye to it, her having a lover of her own somewhere on the West Side. And so Sykes got himself down here this morning and was standing on the fantail trying to explain his new solvency scheme.

"It's my chance to square with you," he said.

Zekov watched him in silence as he used his fingers to pick up a sausage from the alfresco breakfast that had been set out on the deck table for him.

"More than square," Sykes said. "I got the kid to give the gallery an exclusive on his work. But only on condition I'm the majority owner. Which, of course, I turn over to you."

Zekov chewed and used a linen napkin to wipe his greasy fingers and lips. "You got some nerve trying this again. What happens when your great discovery flops?"

"He won't flop. There's already buzz. He's going to be a name. But we don't have to make a deal till we're sure. That's the beauty of how I set it up."

Zekov exchanged a glance with one of his henchmen standing nearby. "This gallery guy," he said to Sykes.

"Geller."

"What if he don't wanna sell?"

"He'll sell. He's on the ropes. He's got nothing else going. The only thing that can give the place value is my deal with the kid." A shaft of morning sun glanced off the glistening new World Trade Center that soared above the marina, Sykes using his hand to shade his eyes. "And besides, when have you ever not been able to make a deal?"

Zekov gave him one of his flat stares. "You know what happens if this don't happen?"

"Of course I know."

Zekov kept the stare. "Let's see how this shindig goes."