Page 2 of Damaged

Al Capone’s eyes widen, and he nods at the sculpture as if he’s suddenly very interested in it as art.

I’m selling this piece the way I usually do—I don’t talk about its history, its technique, or the artist.

Money and status.One-hundred-grand. Some big shark.

What I’m really saying,It’s expensive. I don’t think you’re a big shark.

“How much is this one?” He points. He takes a step closer to me, and I can smell his whiskey breath.

“Oh, quite a bit,” I say. I don’t give him a number. I act like it’s not in his price range. “Sotheby’s almost got their hands on it. This would be expected to go close to sixty thousand at auction, but of course the house takes a cut.”

“So come on, honey. How much?” He pulls his shoulders back, peacocking. He’s drunk and wants to flex his wallet.

Thehoneymakes me flex my leg. I want to kick him in the crotch, but instead I give a bright fake smile. “Forty thousand.”

He looks left and right at his friends and shrugs. “And these things only gain value, right?”

“That’s the idea,” I say, and he quiets down again. I know this kind of buyer. He’s got a complex, where he believes asking too many questions will make him seem poor.

The real rich have enough money not to ask questions. Especially for something worth only forty grand.

But something isn’t sitting right with me. I stand to make a two-thousand-dollar commission, yet I don’t care at all. I like this Rossello. The woman’s dramatic sweep of arm overhead, the detail of the dimples on her hips. I don’t want it sitting on this bro’s ping-pong table.

“It sounds like a no-brainer.” He shrugs. “That’s what? Half of this quarter’s bonus?” he says, looking at his boys.

“Oh… shoot. You know what?” I lean forward and look at the sculpture’s placard. “This Rossello is already spoken for. I’m so sorry.”

The man stares at me for a moment. His wide cheeks are expressionless. “You mean I can’t buy it?”

“It’s been bought. It totally slipped my mind. I apologize.”

He shrugs a third time, like maybe I did him a favor by keeping him from showing off his bank account. “I liked this one. I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.” I can tell he feels like he has the moral upper hand now after I caught him fondling the statue. “You’re what, twenty-five? You shouldn’t have the memory of a goldfish, sweetheart.”

My eyes are wide from the insult, and the trio turns and walks off towards the bar before I can respond.

I shake off the comment quickly. I’m shocked by something else.

In the one year that they’ve had me on the floor, I have never self-sabotaged a sale.

I even closed on a piece to a tall Russian woman that my boss Richard told me was one of Putin’s mistresses. I didn’t feelgoodabout it, but that was the business.

I’ve been confident and personable and good at what I do. At least compared to the scared girl I was when I had initially planned to quit rather than interact with rich strangers when told I was going on the sales floor.

Now I cross my arms. I’m scared in a different way. There’s a lump in my throat and a bigger one growing in my guts.

No job is a dream job. I try to remind myself of this. I think what bothers me is that these pieces belong in museums and not on end tables watching naked pudding fights or whatever goes on in the penthouses of oligarchs.

Again, the problem is money. I can’t afford to live in New York with a museum job. Besides, there’s approximately five such job openings at the major museums a year that aren’t filled internally.

I need to not get spoiled. I’m close to the art and artifacts that fascinate me, even if I don’t appreciate where a lot of this stuff ends up. It’s not my money to spend anyway.

The real question is, when did I become such an ungrateful complainer?

I wait for the finance pack to leave and go to the bar myself. “Dry martini, please. No olives.”

The bartender nods, and a minute later, he sets a glass filled to the brim in front of me. I take a delicate sip before I’m comfortable holding it.

I don’t want to nurse this drink. I’m not going to pretend that I’m a tough girl and say I think gin is tasty. It’s not.

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