Page 143 of Homeport

“Harry, sure. Four, maybe five in a couple-year period. This was the best of the lot, though. Knew we had something special when he brought in the mold and wax copy. Now that I think on it . . .” And he did, taking a long deep drag, blowing it out. “That was the last piece I did for him.”

“Was it?”

“Ayah. I don’t recollect seeing young Harry after that. Students at the Institute . . .” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “They come and they go.”

“Did he work with anybody else?”

“No, far as I know, I did all Harry’s casting. He was interested in the process. Not all the students give a hot damn about this end of it. Just what they think of as art.” He sneered a little. “Lemme tell you, pal, what I do is goddamn art. A good foundryman is an artist.”

“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I was so desperate to find you—the artist who worked on this wonderful little David.”

“Yeah, well.” Obviously pleased, Whitesmith sucked in smoke. “Some of those artist types are snots, pure and simple sons of bitches. Figure a guy like me’s just a tool. I gotta be an artist and a scientist. You get a prize winning sculpture outta here, you got me to thank for it. Most don’t bother, though.”

“I knew a foundryman in Toledo.” Ryan sighed lustily. “I considered him a god. I hope Harrison was properly appreciative of your work.”

“He was okay.”

“I guess he used a flexible mold for the David.”

“Yeah, silicon. You gotta be careful there.” Whitesmith jabbed with his cigarette for emphasis, then nipped it between his thumb and forefingers and flicked it away in a long, high arch. “You can get distortions, shrinkage. But the kid knew his stuff. He went with the lost-wax method for the model. Me, I can work with all of them, wax, sand, plaster investment. Do the finishing and tool work if the client wants. And I stick with my work, all the way. Don’t like being rushed, either.”

“Oh, did Harry rush you?”

“On that last piece he was a pain in the ass sideways.” Whitesmith snorted through his nose. “You’da thought he was Leonardo da fucking Vinci on deadline.” Then he shrugged. “Kid was okay. Had talent.”

Though it was a long shot, Ryan took out the sketch of The Dark Lady. “What do you think of her?”

Whitesmith pursed his lips. “Well now, that’s a sexy broad. Wouldn’t mind casting her. What are you using for her?”

A little knowledge, Ryan thought, could be a dangerous thing. Or it could be just enough. “Wax with a plaster investment.”

“Good. We can work fine with that. Fire the plaster right here too. You don’t want air bubbles in that wax, ace.”

“No indeed.” Ryan slipped the sketch away again. The man was too solid, he thought, too cooperative to be involved. “So did Harry ever come around with anyone?”

“Not that I recollect.” Whitesmith’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Oh, I just wondered if the friend who told me about the piece, and you, ever came by with him. He spoke so highly of your work.”

“Ayah, and who’d that be?”

“James Crispin,” Ryan improvised. “He’s a painter, so he wouldn’t have come around unless he was hanging with Harry. I’ve researched the formula,” he added. “If I bring it in along with the wax cast and mold, you’ll do the work?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

“I appreciate it.” Ryan held out a hand. “And I’ll be in touch.”

“I like the look of your lady there,” Whitesmith added, with a nod toward Ryan’s portfolio as he turned back to the foundry door. “Don’t get the chance to work on anything that classy often. I’ll treat her right.”

“Thanks.” Whistling lightly, Ryan walked back toward the car. He was congratulating himself on an easy and successful morning’s work when another car pulled into the lot.

Cook got out, stretched his back, gave Ryan a mild stare.

“Morning.”

Ryan nodded, adjusted his pretty rose-colored glasses and slid behind the wheel of his rented car while Cook walked to the offices.

Close, very close, Ryan thought. But there’d been no flicker of recognition in those cop eyes. For now, he was still one short step ahead.

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