Finch started to laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Come on, man. I know you in a way these people don’t, remember?”
That was true. It was how we’d gotten into this complicated situation to begin with.
Finch had shown up out of nowhere at the launch of my first book. It was a perfect night at the Strand, filled with adoration and beautiful girls and me at the center— the bright and shining literary star. Finch lingered afterward, looking unwashed and desperate. I hadn’t seen him in a decade, but that didn’t stop him from diving right in.
“I need some cash, man, just to get me on my feet,” Finch said, approaching me outside the store. His tone was sheepish, but his directness was alarming. “Just like a couple thousand. I’ll pay you back.”
What Finch didn’t understand— what he refused to believe, even after I explained— was that I didn’t have any money. He’d taken one look at the well-heeled crowd and the free wine in the fancy upstairs Reading Room, and he’d determined, incorrectly, that it meant I was wealthy. In reality, I’d signed a $40,000 contract for two books, much of which would be paid out over years to come.
“I don’t have that kind of money, Finch.”
“Well, I’m a starving artist, man, like literally.” He held up a fistful of launch party crackers he’d stolen for emphasis. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. There’s got to be something you can do, or . . .” Finch’s expression turned cold as he squared his shoulders and stood a bit taller. “If you can’t help me, I’ll be sure these people know who you really are.”
“Wait, you’re blackmailing me?” I laughed, hoping Finch would come to his senses.
Instead, he just shrugged. “You could argue they have the right to know. Take a few days to think about it. I’ll be back in touch.”
Sending Finch to Keith— an already legitimate, if still green, art dealer— was the only thing I could think to offer. And, surprisingly, Keith had been totally game. He was doing well enough, but he was still building his client list. What he seemed to care about most at the time was that Finch was very good-looking and extremely charismatic. Keith knew that his way to the top in the brave new digital world would be through artists who also made good celebrities— pretty faces, unique history, good on Instagram— and he loved Finch’s Arkansas-trailer-park backstory. Did he care whether Finch’s art was any good? Sure. But Keith had more than enough skills of his own to close any gap.
A week later, Keith was thanking me for sending Finch his way. And Finch was delighted about the stipend Keith had given him to tide him over. It hadn’t taken long for Keith to sell something of Finch’s, though no one ever could have predicted then just how fast or how high Finch’s star would rise.
I thought back to the biggest “art incident” Finch had ever staged— all the traffic and pedestrian lights along the busiest four-block stretch of Times Square going simultaneously red for one minute and thirty seconds. For a moment, a whole neighborhood had held its breath. It had been memorable. Cell phone video taken by pedestrians was readily uploaded to a site in exchange for a small honorarium, then spliced together into a loop that— along with the companion paintings and sculptures Finch created of the scene— had been sold to a collector for over $1 million. The combined installation was still on view at MoMA.
Now Finch narrowed his eyes at me, chin lifted. “Okay, I won’t fire Keith— on one condition.”
“What condition?”
A sly smile spread across Finch’s face. “Get me an in with Stephanie. A chance. That’s all I’m asking.”
“With Stephanie?” I asked. “You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly,” he said.
“Stephanie hates you, Finch.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” He looked up at me with an unfortunate twinkle in his eye.
“Also, have you met Stephanie? She’s not exactly easy to manipulate.”
“I think she’s more malleable than you realize,” he said. “Just tell her how fucked up my childhood was, my dad with the drugs and all that— how much I had to overcome to get out. Make me seem, you know, sympathetic. Multidimensional. Oh, and tell her how hard I work. It’s art, but I do work my balls off.”
“I’m sure she’d love to hear that. And if I say no?” But I already knew. It was always the same threat, implied or explicit.