“He has a problem with his ears. It affects his balance. He's a really great guy.” Paris smiled wanly as he approached, and he smiled at her hesitantly and sat down. He took the cowboy hat off and set it down on a chair, and as he did, Paris couldn't help noticing that he looked like he had ten years of clay under his nails. But there was no denying, he was an interesting-looking man. He looked almost Native American himself, but said he wasn't when she asked. He said he hated them, and they were the scourge of Santa Fe.
“They're all drunks,” he said, as Paris recoiled. And after that he went on a tirade about blacks. He somehow forgot to mention Jews. He managed to make racial slurs on just about everyone else, including their Mexican waiter, which the man heard, and he turned around to give all three of them an evil look. Paris was sure he would spit in their food, and she didn't blame him a bit.
“So, Sydney tells me you're an artist,” Paris managed to say sweetly, trying not to worry about the waiter and their food. But she had to get through this somehow. It was not going to be easy, and all respect for Sydney's judgment had vanished when the man appeared.
“I brought you some pictures of my work,” he said proudly. His name was William Weinstein, which may have explained why he left Jews off his hate list. He had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Santa Fe ten years before. He took an envelope out of his pocket, rifled through some pictures, and handed them to Paris. They were ten-foot phallic symbols made of clay. The man had penises on the brain.
“It's very interesting work,” Paris said, pretending to be impressed. “Do you use live models?” she asked more in jest, and he nodded.
“Actually, I use my own.” He thought that hysterically funny and laughed so hard he almost coughed himself to death. Along with the clay under his nails, enough of it to create another sculpture, his fingers were stained with nicotine. “Do you like to ride?”
“Yes, but I haven't in a long time. Do you?”
“Yes, I do. I have a ranch, you ought to come down. We have no electricity and no plumbing. It's a two-day ride to my ranch.”
“That must make it very hard to get in or out.”
“I like it that way,” Bill said. “My wife hated it. She wanted to go back to New York. She died last year.” Paris nodded, paralyzed with astonishment that Sydney had wanted her to meet him. She didn't know what to say.
“I'm sorry about your wife.”
“So am I. We were married for nearly fifty years. I'm seventy-three.” And with that, mercifully, their food arrived. Paris had ordered a quesadilla, which was as bland as she could get. The artist had ordered some evil-looking concoction covered with a mountain of beans, which he seemed to like and said he ate almost every day. “Beans are the best thing you can eat. Healthiest food there is. Even if they do make you fart. Do you like beans?” Paris made a choking sound, and Sydney seemed not to notice. She said he had been a friend of her father's, who had also been an artist, and had had a great fondness for Bill's wife. Paris couldn't even imagine what the poor woman's life had been like, trapped on a ranch with him. She could only assume she had committed suicide, as her only avenue of escape. And as she thought about it, Paris excused herself, and went to the ladies' room. And as soon as she got there, she locked the door and reached for her cell phone. She got Bix at the office.
“Is he cute?”
“If you don't get me out of here, I may have to kill Sydney before the end of lunch. Or myself.”
“Not cute, I guess.”
“Beyond belief. He's a Neanderthal in a cowboy costume, who makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick.”
“Listen, if his dick is that big, it might be worth going to Santa Fe. I might even come with you.”
“Will you shut up? Call me in five minutes. I'm going to tell them you have an emergency at the office.”
“What kind of emergency?” He sounded vastly amused. Paris wasn't.
“I don't care what kind of emergency. The emergency is this goddamn lunch.”
“You're being very expressive. Did he show you pictures of his dick?”
“More or less. The sculptures are the worst thing I've ever seen.”
“Don't be such an art critic. Maybe he's a nice guy.”
“Look, he's worse than your drooler. Does that paint a picture for you?” She was getting more desperate by the minute.
“He can't be.” Bix sounded skeptical. “That was the worst blind date I ever had.”
“So is this. Now call me on my cell phone in five minutes.”
“Okay, okay, I'll call you. But you'd better think up a good emergency. Sydney's no fool. She'll see right through it.”
“Sydney is a total fool if she wanted me to meet this guy. In fact, she must be psychotic. Maybe she hates me.”
“She doesn't hate you. She told me last week how much she likes you. And Paris?”
“What?” She was ready to kill someone. Bix if need be.
“Bring me a picture of his dick.”
“Just call me…I mean it! Or I quit.”
