The Loo Sanction Read Online Free Page B

for them. Under the protection and blessing of the government, he had performed a half-dozen counterassassinations (“sanctions,” in the crepuscular bureaucratese of CII).
    Tired and depressed, he had pushed open the door to his flat, and walked in on a party in progress. Every light was on, his whiskey had been broken out, Haydn played on the phonograph, and the furniture had been moved about to facilitate examination of the eleven Impressionists lining the walls.
    But it was a party for only one person. An old man sat alone in a deep wing chair, glass in hand, his tattered overcoat still on, its collar up to his ears revealing only tousled gray hair and a bulbous, new-potato nose.
    â€œCome in. Come in,” the old man invited.
    â€œThank you,” Jonathan said, hoping the irony had not been too heavy.
    â€œHave some whiskey?”
    â€œYes, I think I will.” Jonathan poured out a good tot of Laphroaig. “Could I freshen up yours?”
    â€œOh, that’s good of you, son. But I’ve had sufficient.”
    Jonathan tugged off his raincoat. “In that case, get the hell out of here.”
    â€œIn a while. In a while. Relax, lad. I’m feasting my tired eyes on that bit of crusted pigment there. Manet. Good for the soul.”
    Jonathan smiled, intrigued by this old leprechaun who looked like a cross between a provincial professor emeritus and a dirty dustman. “Yes, it’s a first-quality copy.”
    â€œPig shit.”
    â€œSir?”
    The visitor leaned forward, dandruff falling from his matted hair, and enunciated carefully. “Pig shit. If that’s a copy, I’m a glob of whore’s spit.”
    â€œHave it your own way. Now get out.” As he approached the gnomish housebreaker, Jonathan was deterred by a barrier of odor: ancient sweat, body dirt, mildewed clothing.
    The old man raised his hand. “Before you set to bashing me about, I’d best introduce myself. I’m MacTaint.”
    After a stunned moment, Jonathan laughed and shook MacTaint’s hand. Then, for several hours, they drank and talked about painting. At no time did MacTaint take off the tattered, heel-length overcoat, and Jonathan was to learn that he never did.
    MacTaint downed the last of the whiskey, set the bottle on the floor beside his chair, and regarded Jonathan with an evaluative squint from beneath shaggy white eyebrows, the salient characteristic of which was maverick hairs that hooked out like antennae over the glittering eyes. “So! You are Jonathan Hemlock.” He chuckled. “I can tell you, lad, that your appearance on the scene scared the piss out of a lot of us. You could have been a vast nuisance, you know, with that phenomenal eye of yours. My colleagues in the business of reproducing masters might have found it difficult to pursue their vocations with you about. There was even talk of relieving you of the burden of your bleeding life. But then! Then came the happy news that you, like all worthy men, were at heart a larcenous and acquisitive son of a bitch.”
    â€œI’m not very acquisitive anymore.”
    â€œThat’s true, come to think of it. You haven’t made a purchase for—how long is it?”
    â€œFour years.”
    â€œAnd why is that?”
    â€œI parted company with my source of money.”
    â€œOh, yes. There was rumor of some kind of government association. As I recall, it was the kind of thing no one wanted to know about. Still. You haven’t done half badly. You own these grand paintings, two of which, if I may remind you, came through my own good offices.”
    â€œI’ve never been sure, Mac. What are you? A thief or a handler.”
    â€œA thief, by preference. But I’ll flog another man’s work when times are hard. And you? What are you—other than a frigging enigma?”
    â€œFrigging enigma?”
    MacTaint scratched the scruff on his scalp. “You know perfectly