“Rickman? Trouble?” Smithback snorted. “Oh, God. She’s the definition of trouble. Listen, I want to read you something.” He pulled a sheaf of papers out of a notebook.
“ ‘When Dr. Cuthbert pitched the idea for an exhibition on Superstition to the Museum Director, Wright was very impressed. It had all the makings of a blockbuster exhibition, something on the level of The Treasures of King Tut or The Seven Levels of Troy. That meant big money for the Museum, Wright knew, and an unparalleled opportunity to raise funds from corporate and government sponsorship. But some older curators were unconvinced; they thought the exhibit smacked of sensationalism.’ ”
Smithback stopped. “Look what Rickman did.” He pushed the paper over to her. A big line sliced across the paragraph and a marginal note in fat red marker read: OUT!
Margo giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Smithback demanded. “She’s butchering my manuscript. Look at this.” He jabbed his finger at another page.
Margo shook her head. “What Rickman wants is a snow job for the Museum. You two won’t ever see eye to eye.”
“She’s driving me crazy. She’s taking out everything that’s the slightest bit controversial. She wants me to spend all my time talking to that nerd who’s curating the exhibition. She knows that he’ll only say what his boss Cuthbert tells him to.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve never seen such a company man in your life.” He looked up, and groaned. “Oh, God, here he comes now.”
A young, slightly overweight man with horn-rimmed glasses materialized at their table, holding a tray balanced on a shiny leather briefcase. “May I join you?” he asked shyly. “I’m afraid this is practically the only seat left in the house.”
“Sure,” said Smithback. “Have a seat. We were just talking about you, anyway. Margo, meet George Moriarty. He’s the guy who’s curating the Superstition exhibition.”
Smithback shook the papers at Moriarty. “Look what Rickman did to my manuscript. The only things she didn’t touch were your quotations.”
Moriarty scanned the pages and looked at Smithback with almost childlike gravity. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Why air the Museum’s dirty linen, anyway?”
“Come on, George. This is what makes for an interesting story!”
Moriarty turned to Margo. “You’re the graduate student working on ethnopharmacology, aren’t you?” he asked.
“That’s right,” she said, flattered. “How did you know?”
“I’m interested in the subject.” He smiled and looked at her briefly. “The exhibition has several cases devoted to pharmacology and medicine. I wanted to talk to you about one of them, actually.”
“Sure. What did you have in mind?” She looked at Moriarty more closely. He was about as average a Museum character as she could imagine: average height, a little pudgy, hair an average brown. His rumpled tweed jacket sported the heather tones that were regulation Museum-issue. The only things unusual about him were his large wristwatch, shaped like a sundial, and his eyes: an unusually clear hazel, shining with intelligence from behind his horn-rims.
Smithback sat forward, shifted irritably in his chair, and stared at the two. “Well,” he said, “I’d like to stay on and witness this charming scene, but I’m interviewing someone in the Bug Room on Wednesday, and I need to finish my current chapter. George, don’t sign any movie contracts for that exhibition of yours without talking to me first.” He stood up with a snort and made for the door, threading a complex path between tables as he went.
= 8 =
Jonathan Hamm peered down the basement corridor through a thick pair of glasses that badly needed cleaning. Leather leashes were wrapped around his blackgloved hands, and two hounds sat obediently at his feet. His assistant tracker stood beside him. Next to the assistant was Lieutenant D’Agosta, holding soiled, heavily creased blueprints, his two deputies leaning against the wall behind him. Police-issue pump-action Remington 12-gauges hung off their shoulders.
D’Agosta rustled through the blueprints. “Can’t the dogs smell which way to go?” he asked irritably. Hamm let out a long breath. “Hounds. They’re hounds. And they’re not on a scent. They haven’t been on a good scent since we began. Or rather, they’ve been on too many scents.”
D’Agosta grunted, withdrew a sodden cigar from his jacket pocket, and began to raise it toward his mouth. Hamm caught his eye.
“Oh yeah,” said D’Agosta. He pushed the cigar back into his pocket.