The next day about noon I found a parking s.p.a.ce at the corner of Wooster and Spring Streets, New York City. I parked, tossed the MapQuest printout on the F-150's bench, rubbed my eyes, shrugged tension from my shoulders. It had been a rotten drive in heavy rain.

I hate New York. Too big. Too much.

I took it in. The street was paved with cobblestones. The building was right on the corner. Yellow brick, five stories. The bottom floor was a storefront: black aluminum-framed plate gla.s.s that had been tinted near-black. Matte-silver words on the door said CHARLES A. WEINBERG. The overall message: Extreme coolness here, tourists will be mocked.

That reminded me of Evan, my buddy from the telephone. I fished in the glove box for a Sharpie, pocketed it, got out, locked the truck, and hunched across the street through the rain.

I pulled the door and winced at the noise that hammered me. Music, I guessed, way too fast, way too loud. I stepped in and forearm-wiped rain from my face.

It was dark enough so that my eyes needed time to adjust. Once they did I saw that around the perimeter of the gallery, every eight feet or so, a spot shone on whatever they were selling-paintings and sculptures, mostly. In a far corner I swore I spotted an Ace Hardware wheelbarrow, rusted, lit like the Mona Lisa.

In the center of the s.p.a.ce, two kids stared at me. College age? It's hard for me to tell anymore. Everybody under forty looks ... unfinished. The boy was short and couldn't weigh more than a buck and a quarter. He had bleached and buzzed hair, rabbity eyes behind chunky black gla.s.ses. Big surprise: He wore a black shirt, black pants, black shoes.

The girl was dressed the same way. She was taller than me and as skinny as the boy. Looked like a vulture that hadn't found any roadkill for a while. She had a shaved head with a Chinese character tattooed above each ear. Her eyes were smarter than the boy's.

I pointed at him. "Evan?"

He either didn't hear me over the music or pretended he didn't. I stepped closer and said it again. He ignored me again. The tall girl shifted her weight.

Another step. I said, "Can you turn it down?" Had to more or less shout it, even though I stood two feet away.

The boy said, "The music?"

I cupped my hands. "Is that what it is? Thought it was three Germans banging on washtubs and shouting their times tables."

The boy gave me deadpan rabbit eyes, but the tall girl half smiled and stepped behind a part.i.tion. The music died.

"Thank G.o.d," I said. "Evan?"

He said nothing. The girl returned. I said, "I'd like to speak with Chas Weinberg. He around?"

The girl said, "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I said. "Got a piece of paper?"

She found a slip. I pulled my Sharpie and wrote: Tander Phigg hanged himself 2 days ago. Folded the sheet. "If Weinberg reads this," I said, handing it to her, "he'll want to see me."

She turned and started toward the back of the gallery. I said, "Wait. Is this Evan?"

She stopped. "That's Evan all right."

Evan stared at me, arms folded across his chest. But not for long. I got my left hand under his chin, grabbed his throat, and jacked him to his tiptoes. The girl said, "Hey," but she didn't put much into it.

I quick-stepped Evan backward until his bleached head thumped drywall. I watched the fear in his eyes, tried to convince myself I took no pleasure from it. I bit the cap off my Sharpie and said, "Hold still."

On his forehead, in the neatest block letters I could make, I wrote: MANNERS.

He squeaked when I released him, rabbited off to the back where they must have a bathroom. As he pa.s.sed the tall girl she read his forehead, smiled, covered the smile with a hand. "I'll be right back," she said.

I wandered. It was an Ace Hardware wheelbarrow. The tire was half inflated, and surface rust fought with the sky-blue paint. A card on the nearby wall said it was a found object by so-and-so. There was no price tag.

I heard steps, turned. The tall girl said she would take me to Chas.

I thumbed at the wheelbarrow. "Is this for sale?"

"Of course."

"How much?"

"That piece is forty-six hundred."

New York.

The cheap elevator had obviously been added just to meet handicapped-access regs. While we waited for it I introduced myself. The tall girl looked at my hand a few seconds, took it. "I'm A," she said.

"A?"

She blushed some and nodded. The elevator doors rattled open. We stepped in. "What's your real name?" I said.

"Alexandra."

"Not cool enough for New York?"

"Apparently not."

"But a nice name back in ... Wisconsin?"

Quick swivel. "How'd you know?"

"Don't worry," I said. "Give it six more months, n.o.body'll be able to tell."

The doors opened. I stepped into Chas Weinberg's apartment.

I'd expected it to be more or less like the gallery downstairs-cold, black, modern. It wasn't. The first thing I noticed was light, plenty of it: huge windows on the north and east sides. Even on a rainy day it was bright, especially compared to the gallery. The second thing I noticed was quiet music. No Germans banging on washtubs; jazz guitar instead, coming from hidden speakers.

It was a big s.p.a.ce, this room alone an easy forty by forty. I wondered if Weinberg owned the building. If he did, he was a rich man.

Some of the furniture was squared off, modern, the way I expected. But some was old as h.e.l.l and hand-carved. I saw walnut, ebony, southern yellow pine. The styles, ages, and woods were jumbled, but they all looked right together.

Here and there on the walls were paintings, perfectly lit. I didn't recognize them, but from the way they were presented I figured they were the cream of the crop.

As I scanned I did a double take: I'd nearly missed Chas Weinberg himself, sitting in a peach-colored chair not six feet away from me. Next to him were an end table and a matching chair.

He sat still, legs crossed, taking me in. I faced him and did the same. He was deep into his eighties, thin. Even sitting he looked tall, had to've been my height in his prime. Still-thick white hair flowed from a widow's peak, and his eyebrows matched the hair. His face was craggy in the right way.

Chas Weinberg motioned with a long hand. "Sit, sir, I insist. Sit and tell me why an old mediocrity like Tander Phigg bothered to hang himself."

His voice was higher than I expected, but it wasn't squeaky-was almost a singsong. Weinberg was used to hearing himself talk, and he didn't mind the sound.

As I sat, a man whipped silently past, silver tray in hand. He was dressed like the ones downstairs, black on black on black, buzz cut up top. But he looked older than Evan and Alexandra. Pushing thirty, maybe. He unloaded the tray on the table: coasters, two tall gla.s.ses, pitcher of water, no ice. He poured, then turned to leave. Weinberg snapped his fingers. "Wait here please, Esio."

Esio stopped, spun, stood at attention.

Weinberg leaned, extended a long hand. "Charles Weinberg, sir. You are?"

I said my name.

"A pleasure, Mister Sax. Before we discuss Tander Phigg, crashing bore and suicide, will you humor me on a point?"

"Sure."

He pointed at my T-shirt. "What is this?" He saw the question in my eyes. "This 'Champion Spark Plugs'? Que es?"

I looked down. "For crying out loud, Champion Spark Plugs are Champion Spark Plugs. The shirt's a freebie from when I ran my own shop. You know, the sales reps come by with stuff."

"Yes, but what is it? What is Champion Spark Plugs? I ask because that's a truly iconic logotype. And what sort of shop did you run?"

I looked at him awhile. I wondered if he was kidding around, decided he wasn't. Esio had produced a BlackBerry and stood with thumbs poised to take notes.

I said, "Champion and spark plugs is like McDonald's and hamburgers."

Weinberg nodded over tented fingers. "Esio," he said, "see if anybody's done anything with this Champion Spark Plugs." Esio was already on it, thumb-typing away.

I said, "My shop worked on European cars. Mostly Germans, but some Saabs and Volvos, too."

"Really!" He looked me up and down with smiling eyes. I half wanted to punch him in the face, or at least pull my Sharpie again. Weird thing, though: The other half of me wanted to please Weinberg, wanted to keep him interested. I said, "Before that I raced cars. NASCAR."

"Goodness," he said. "Were you a television superstar, walking around in one of those cute little billboard jumpsuits? Did you hold hands with your Implants Barbie wife and pretend to sing 'The Star-Spangled Banner'?"

"Drank myself out of a ride before I made the big time," I said. "That's how I met Tander Phigg. AA."

Weinberg sighed, sipped water. Esio left us. As he disappeared behind a j.a.panese-looking screen, his BlackBerry rang.

I gave Weinberg a two-minute recap on Phigg. He listened well. When I was done he tapped his teeth and squinted. "'Twas many years ago, and Tander Phigg was a barely memorable player during a very memorable time. Indeed, but for that awful name I doubt I'd recall him at all."

Esio returned, silent as usual. Weinberg sensed him and flicked a go-away hand, but Esio approached anyway and spoke in his ear, then stood at attention.

"Evan downstairs wants to call the police and report a hate crime," Weinberg said. "Please explain."

I explained. When I was done Weinberg looked at me ten seconds. Then he threw his head back and laughed like h.e.l.l. Esio took the cue, laughing just as hard and for exactly the same duration.

Finally Weinberg took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blue suit and dabbed the corners of his eyes. He said to Esio, "Tell Evan to put down the phone, take the rest of the day off, and return tomorrow with a clean forehead."

"Bug and tar remover," I said.

They looked at me. "Bug and tar remover, like you use to clean the front of your car?" I said. "It'll take that Sharpie right off. You can get it at Walmart, if there's one nearby."

Weinberg cracked up again, doubling over, saying "bug and tar remover" over and over. When he had it out of his system he told Esio to relay the message. "And do get a picture of Evan before he leaves, please."

I let him settle down. After a while I said, "Tander Phigg."

"Of course," he said. "As noted, he was a mediocrity, a not-quite. I believe the current word is wannabe."

I waited. Weinberg sipped water and squinted at nothing, pulling memories. I listened to a jazz duo, guitar and ba.s.s, on the invisible speakers.

Finally Weinberg nodded to himself and told it.

He thought Phigg had appeared on the scene in 1960 or so. I asked if it could be '58. He snapped his fingers and said yes, it was before JFK.

By then, Weinberg was an established kingpin in Manhattan's modern art and queer scenes. He'd graduated from Yale in '43, had done a Navy stint counting crates on New York Harbor docks at the tail end of World War II. Then he'd launched one of the first avant-garde studios. In 1949, he said, he'd bought the building we were sitting in.

In 1958, when Phigg wandered down from Fitchburg and declared himself a boho photographer, carpetbaggers like him were a dime a dozen to New York's artsy types. "So predictable," Weinberg said. "The ghastly portfolio, the Charlie Parker fetish, the two-month beard, the Karl Marx phase, the Jackson Pollock phase. Of course, the gay tryst was often part of the checklist, and we didn't complain about that."

Weinberg meandered for ten minutes, rehashing stories from the time that had nothing to do with Phigg. I let him, hoping he'd talk his way around to a Phigg memory sooner or later.

It paid off. Weinberg snapped his fingers. "He was a photographer, wasn't he?"

I nodded.

"I remember because they were at the absolute bottom of the totem pole, all those boys from Indiana who bought Ha.s.selblads because they couldn't draw a straight line." Weinberg nodded, remembering like h.e.l.l now. "A few of us were forced to admit, bitterly and with no goodwill whatsoever, mind you, that this Phigg might have a dram of actual talent."

The memory led to others. There'd been rumors that Phigg's father was loaded, even more so than most carpetbaggers' parents. The rumors were confirmed when he invited a few of Weinberg's comrades to his apartment-that doorman building on the Upper West Side.

Weinberg looked at me like he'd delivered a punch line, but from my nonreaction he saw I didn't get it. "It was the worst thing he could have done, don't you see? Any credibility he'd built up through merit was dashed forever when we learned he was merely slumming down here."

"Why?"

"Because it was a revolution, dear heart. We were proud to live the way we lived. This was very early, before SoHo was SoHo, really. I'd bought this building with money I didn't have. I daresay it's the smartest thing I've ever done, but we didn't know that then. I didn't rent out lofts to be trendy; I rented out lofts to pay the mortgage."

"But the kids you rented to, the carpetbaggers," I said. "They all had rich daddies, didn't they?"

"Of course, but they had the decency to hide the fact," he said. "And Tander Phigg's failure to grasp that was indicative. He never quite got it. He was a born outsider."

I thought about that. "He wasn't enough of a phony."

"If you insist." He waved that long hand, thumbed his chin, remembered some more. "As I say, it just about dashed his credibility forever. Everybody froze him out for a year or more. And you haven't seen a proper freeze-out until you've seen one conducted by a bunch of art queens. Tander Phigg might as well have been invisible."

A gust slapped rain against the windows like bird shot, hard enough to make us both look.

After a while I said, "So you all gave him the cold shoulder for a year. Did he make a comeback?"

"He did, bless his heart, and a grand one at that. Some said it was calculated. Bosh and piffle, said I, Tander Phigg wasn't capable of such cunning."