I entered the ritziest gallery in the 212. "I need something for behind my desk," I said. "Money is no object, as long as it's something that makes my fellow editors jealous."
Dollar signs lit up in the dealer's eyes. "Certainly, sir. I understand. We have two Picassos--"
"Overrated. And overexposed."
"That Farmakopoulos on the far wall just came in," he said. "And we have a Bogomazov and a Colquhoun in the back room."
"Hmm. That sounds promising. Let's take a loo-- Wait a minute, what's that in the corner?"
"That's an Allison, but--"
"I like it. It has that certain je ne sais quoi."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"Then why'd you say it?"
I couldn't tell if he was pulling my leg, and frankly, I didn't care. "How much is the Allison?"
"Well, it's valued at fifteen million, but I couldn't part with it. It's my most--"
"Whattaya mean? You won't sell it?"
"It would be like giving up my own child. I couldn't--"
"I'll give you twenty million."
I walked over to the corner to take a closer look. It was even more perfect than it had looked from across the room. I studied the line work. Exquisite. I couldn't take my eyes off it--until . . . "Whoa!" I said. "I just noticed something. Where are the numbers?"
"How'm I supposed to know what colors to use?"