An Object of Beauty: A Novel by Steve Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

next. The taxi pulled up to a Georgian brownstone with gardens neat and trimmed and a crisp white door with a brass knocker. On the street were laborers unloading party chairs and caravanning them into a side door. She got out of the taxi, and the driver, a vociferous cabbie with a resonant voice who had entertained her by singing the songs of John Lee Hooker, pulled the picture from the backseat. The white door of the brownstone swung open with a faint jingle-bell tinkle, and Saul Nathanson waved with full panic, shouting, “Don’t come up the steps!”
    So many interpretations. Was he shouting at Lacey, the painting, or the taxi driver? “Don’t step on the walkway!” Was the concrete wet? But Saul ran toward them more sheepish than commanding, and they all stayed put.
    “I thought by having you bring the picture,” Saul said, panting, “that we were taking delivery of the picture in Washington. But it seems to be disputable that this might constitute taking delivery in New York.”
    Lacey looked at Saul, then at the taxi driver. He pulled his cap back and scratched his head. “Oh yeah, sales tax,” he said.
    “What?” said Lacey.
    “My wife sells jewelry. There’s always a sales tax issue.”
    Saul pointed at the driver with a silent “bingo.” “We’ve got to have it shipped to us from New York by a reputable carrier.”
    Lacey muttered, “I’m reputable.”
    “But unlicensed. We’ve got a questionable situation here. You’ve got to take it back. It’s a difference of almost ten thousand dollars,” said Saul.
    The statement hung in the air, until the taxi driver said, “You mean that box is worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
    Lacey turned to him. “Who are you, Rain Man?”
    Saul was balanced on his toes. “I’m so sorry, Lacey, we tried to turn you around, but we just learned it an hour ago. Here’s something for you”—he handed her a folded hundred-dollar bill—“and don’t let the painting touch the walkway.”
    “I’ll be a witness,” said the grinning taxi driver, implying there could be another tip due.
    “I can’t even invite you in,” said Saul. Then he turned to the half-opened door. “Estelle! Wave hello to Lacey!”
    Estelle poked her head out of an upstairs window. “Hello, Lacey. Saul’s insane!”
    Saul, standing away from them as though the state boundary line ran right down the middle of his sidewalk, pressed the driver. “Could you put it back in the taxi, please?”
    “I’m not touching it,” said the driver. “It could be an insurance nightmare.”
    “Well, I can’t touch it,” said Saul.
    “I got it in once; I can get it in again,” said Lacey, hefting it toward the still open cab door, as Saul stuck to his side of the imaginary line that separated him from a ten-thousand-dollar tax bill.
    The driver was now gliding the taxi around potholes and speed bumps and slowing the car with the gentle braking that he reserved forfares involving infants and the elderly. “Rats,” said Lacey. “I wanted to go to the museums, but now I’m stuck with Pricey.”
    “You can go,” the driver said.
    “What do I do with Pricey?”
    “Check it at the museum, in the cloakroom. There’s nothing but guards around there. Safe as a bank.”
    “Hell, I had it on a train. You’re the one who spooked me about how much it’s worth. Okay. Let’s go to the National Gallery.”
    The taxi arrived, and Lacey pulled her burden from the cab. She gave the driver a healthy tip, all to go on Sotheby’s expense tab. “Thank you so much, O kindly taxi driver.”
    “Adios, amigo. By the way, my name’s Truman,” he said. “What time you coming out?”
    “An hour?” she answered.
    Lacey went to the cloakroom, deposited the Avery, then passed through a security check so lax that she instinctively swung her head back to the cloakroom to see if the Avery was still there.
    She wound down the vast interior stairs of the National Gallery. The cavernous entrance had