A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

the years. Let me tell you right up front why I invited you to have a talk with me. What I really hope to have you do is, eventually, put in a word for me so I can get an interview.”

      “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don’t even know him.”

      “But you’re going to know him. Right? All I say now is if, having met me, and having met Mr. Maule and talked to him, you think you can put in a word for me with a clear conscience. See, we think this man deserves to get his proper recognition.”

      Angie’s coffee had arrived. She added a little nondairy creamer, picked up the heavy cup, and sipped at it absently. Not as bad as you got in a lot of these places.

      She was intrigued by the man across from her, but had the feeling that she wasn’t close to understanding him. She said: “You know … some people might say you have a hell of a lot of nerve.”

      “I know.” Kaiser let his gaze slide over her shoulder. His forehead wrinkled as if the mild accusation pained him. It was hard to tell how much, if any, of the pain was real “People do say that, all the time. It’s one of the hazards of my business, and so far I’ve managed to live through it.” Then suddenly he looked directly at her, grinning. He had an engaging grin.

      Angie found herself hesitating between annoyance and laughter. “I tell you, I don’t even know the man, this Mr. Maule,” she said at last. “How in the world am I supposed to persuade him to give you an interview? Assuming that I wanted to?”

      Her companion nodded thoughtfully. He raised his cup to his lips—she noticed now that he was wearing a golden wedding ring on one strong finger—then put it down as if struck by a sudden idea. “If you don’t want to risk offending the reclusive Mr. Maule by helping me boost his reputation—then how about just helping me defend it, for a start? You won’t have to ask him anything.”

      “Excuse me?”

      Kaiser shook his head and put on the expression of one forced to contemplate something distasteful “There are a few rumors about him—I don’t believe them for a moment. And I wouldn’t pass these stories on to anyone I didn’t know was going to be his friend. They’re ugly things, and I’m not going to repeat them in full even to you. But there’s one in particular—it has to do with the way his condo here in Chicago is said to be decorated. Outrageous, sexist, obscene—you get me, I’m not talking about art here. I’m talking exploitation.”

      “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

      “I’m not talking artistic nudes. I mean really exploitive pictures of women. Bondage and sadism. Photographs and paintings, even murals painted right on the walls. Let me repeat, I don’t believe the truth of such a thing for a minute. But if I can’t get in to see the place, how can I deny it authoritatively?”

      “Mr. Kaiser, I hope you don’t think I’m going to try to sneak you in there. To snoop around his paintings and pictures, I suppose you’d want to take photographs too. Whatever your good intentions. As I keep telling you, I’ve never even met the man myself, I—”

      “Sure, sure.” Her companion’s tone was soothing, and he made sideways brushing motions with his large, capable-looking hands. “No, no, I’m not trying to push you into doing anything like that.” The way Kaiser made it sound now, that he might talk Angie into sneaking or smuggling him in must have been really the furthest idea from his thoughts. “But let me say this. If you, after having actually been in the apartment, would consent to talk with me once more, very briefly, just to verify that these terrible rumors are all so much crap, excuse me, I’d be very pleased. See, believe it or not, I am very conscientious about what I do. And to kill these rumors I’d like to have the direct testimony of a reliable witness. I’ll never quote you directly without your permission, I’ll never use your name.”

      Later, Angie was to wonder what might have happened if she had simply got up at that point, or some point earlier, and walked out. But it didn’t matter, because that was not what she did.

      She did slide out of the booth and stand up, but she wasn’t angry. There was something almost irresistibly attractive about the man, and his story sounded just wild enough to have the possibility of truth.

      “You already have my phone number at work, Mr. Kaiser,” she said. “However you got it. If you want to call me again, in a few days, I’ll tell you then whether I want to talk to you again or not. If my answer is no, then I expect you not to—

      “Great. Excellent.” It seemed that the young man was genuinely pleased. He stood up gracefully now to shake her hand. “That’s all that I can ask of you now. And when you get into that apartment, just look around. Keep your eyes and your mind open. That’s all I ask.”

* * *

      Angie spent most of the next two hours at the Museum

Of Contemporary Art, which was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, over on Ontario east of Michigan. On her way over to the museum, where she was to meet John Southerland, she several times slowed her walking pace to look up thoughtfully at the gigantic multi-use building in which John’s mysterious Uncle Matthew lived—where he maintained a condominium, at least, and spent some of his time. Immensely tall, formed gracefully of bronzed steel and glass, it stood among its twenty-, thirty-, forty-story neighbors like an adult among small children. The Southerlands had plenty of money, and evidently this kinsman, old friend, or whatever he was, did too.

      She wondered which of the Southerlands, if any, had really called in a Celebrity Publicist and