Joe Burke's Last Stand Part 30

"So, where did you find PrettyLocks?"

"Just around the corner from MoneyBags," Joe said, straightening. Mo tossed her head. "Look," Joe said. "Pax. I like being your old buddy.

Rob's a nice guy, actually."

"You can tell?"

"Guaranteed. Joe Burke's seal of approval."

Mo thought. "She is pretty."

"Mmm." Joe never knew what women meant when they discussed looks.

"Dynamite kim chee," he said.

"Stay in touch, Joe." Mo patted his arm and turned towards the crowd.

Rhiannon was standing in front of a large photograph, head tipped back, absorbed.

"Isn't Vermeer a painter?" she asked as he moved next to her.

"Yep, Dutch, sixteen hundreds--I think. Not many paintings survive, but they're all great."

A tag on the wall beside the photograph read, Jade Willow Lady / Vermeer. She was wearing a white cook's jacket. Her glossy black hair was pulled back and pinned up behind her head. She held a spatula in front of her. Her free hand was palm up, ready to reach. It was as though she had seen Mo with the camera and had paused as she was turning toward the grill. Light fell on her face through wisps of steam. The print was taller than it was wide, cropped below her forearms. The background was distinct but shaded. The light was all on her face as she considered her balance in the act of maintaining it.

She was magnificent. She rose above time by letting it go, holding nothing back.

"He, uh . . . painted a girl, a young woman, in much the same way, although she wasn't cooking anything."

"Awesome," Rhiannon said.

"Jade Willow Lady."

"Who?"

"She cooks at Tops in Kaneohe. Mo and I went to look at her once.

That's what I called her."

"So beautiful," Rhiannon said. Joe went for more wine.

As he maneuvered to the table, he noticed a man, about seventy, with a familiar profile. Joe realized that he was Mo's father. "Excuse me,"

Joe said, reaching for a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "I was just thinking about taxes during the reign of Caesar Augustus. Would you have an opinion on that?"

"Ha, ha. A lot depended on who was doing the collecting. Are you looking for a system to replace the I.R.S.?"

"It's time, don't you think? I'm Joe Burke, a friend of your daughter's. I read your book."

"Arthur Soule," he said, shaking hands. "You've got endurance."

"I enjoyed it."

"Actually . . . " He took a sip of wine. "I've come to believe that systems matter less than the people who run them." He had a dapper air, amused and ironic.

"I couldn't agree more," Joe said.

The two carried on, getting into the stock market and economics in general. Arthur seconded Henry Hazlitt's argument that selective tax breaks were almost always counterproductive when seen in the context of the society as a whole. From time to time Joe looked for Rhiannon. She was moving slowly about the main room, studying each picture and talking with men who were circling her like bees. When he and Arthur ran out of conversation, he caught her eye and pointed questioningly at the door. She nodded, and they slipped out into the early evening air.

"I'll walk you home, if you're headed that way," he offered.

"I suppose I am," she said. "That was fun."

"You looked like you were having fun. I noticed Wendell Sasaki paid you a lot of attention."

"He's nice."

"He has a gallery, did he tell you?"

"Yes. He said to come by any time."

"I bet he did," Joe teased. She pulled a light cotton sweater from her bag and put it on with lithe movements.

"It's cooling off," she said.

"Good pictures, huh?"

"I liked them," Rhiannon said, "but I don't know anything about photography. Winifred is very nice."

"Mo--that's what I call her. She is."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"No," Joe laughed. He was going to brush off the question, but he saw that Rhiannon was serious. "Almost," he said. "We are too much the same, I think. Too pigheaded, or self-centered, or something. She's connected to Rob, the guy we met when we first went in." Rhiannon brightened. The afternoon c.u.mulus clouds had dissipated in a pale blue sky. Pink wisps of cirrus trailed to the west. They walked down Kapiolani Boulevard and turned up Keaumoku.

"Did you go to school here?" he asked.

"Roosevelt. I graduated last year."

"You don't sound like you've been here all your life."

"Five years," Rhiannon said. "My parents got divorced and I came out here with my mom."

"Oh. Where's your father?"

"He's in New Haven. He's a chef in a great Italian restaurant. I'm going to see him soon; I've been saving up. I mean, he's paid for the ticket, but I want to have my own money when I get there."

"Right," Joe said. "I'm from Maine and upstate New York, originally.

I've been in New Haven. I love those old Yale buildings."

"Awesome," Rhiannon agreed. "My father doesn't think much of Yalies."

"Good man," Joe said. "So, what does your mom do?"

"She works in marketing," Rhiannon said abruptly.