"Sometimes even I don't understand," Bertram said dejectedly as he scribbled notes onto his pad, "It is Art I suppose, and it's not without visual appeal, but what the hell does it mean? What's it about? What on God's green earth is the artist trying to convey?"

He turned to Wilson and pointed at the piece hanging on the wall. It was a large mass of entangled fibers containing doll's heads and seashells. At its centers there was a rusted piece of metal with the words 'CHOCOLATE PUDDING' prominently written in orange paint. Bertram shook his head, "I wish there were an artist's statement, so I'd have some kind of context. How am I supposed to review this? Am I missing something or am I just getting too old Willy?"

Wilson smiled, "Well it does make me crave chocolate pudding. I suppose it could be a personal statement of some kind. I understand the artist is a non-binary, Asian-Latino practitioner of voodoo who once married a chaise lounge in Central Park."

Bertram couldn't keep from laughing, "Of course, it all makes sense now. I give up. I'll come back tomorrow and try to write something. I'll google him and hope it helps. How about some lunch, a couple of hot dogs? I saw a cart outside the gallery."

"Sure thing big spender, but no sauerkraut, cole slaw only."

"Heathen! The whole world has gone mad. Very well then, cole slaw."

They walked out of the gallery, purchased several hot dogs and began to stroll down the street to nowhere in particular. Bertram addressed his young friend.
"So Jager and his girlfriend..."

"Adrianna," Wilson corrected.

"...and Adrianna are arriving today. How come you're not picking them up at the heliport?"

"Well, old man, I wanted to spend today with you for one. Devon is picking them up and taking them to my loft... he has a set of keys."

"They're staying with you? I thought they'd get a hotel room."

"I quite enjoy their company and I think they enjoy mine. Anyway, with his show coming up this weekend, having them stay with me makes coordinating everything easier. Among other things, Adrianna and I are taking Siggy clothes shopping. We can't have him continue wearing my stuff."

"Sounds like fun," Bertram replied, "speaking of the show, have you seen the ridiculous prices Elaine is putting on his work? We need to sell out three quarters of the show by the end of the month to win our bet. I think she's being sneaky. Is anyone going to pay those prices... except maybe a few to Fisk and company?"

Wilson smiled broadly, "Want to hear a secret?"

"Go on." Bertram said, intrigued.

"I ran into Daisy Fisk at Elaine's gallery and asked if she thought the show would be a success. She was practically bursting. She told me that among the potential buyers would be representatives of not only, MOMA and the Guggenheim, but the Tate in London, and the Bilbao Guggenheim."

Bertram's eyes widened, "How it that even possible? There hasn't been enough time for Jager to build a reputation in Europe."

"Well," Wilson replied in a subversive whisper, "dear Daisy implied that both Fisk and Howe called in some favors and more or less promised substantial donations with the caveat that they add a Jager to their collections. Our Forbes 500 assholes are doing our job for us to insure their own investments in Siggy's Art."

A very toothy smile planted itself on Bertram's face, "When word gets out that four of the world's most prominent collections are adding Jager... the show will be sold out in a week!"

"And I," Wilson said thumping his chest, "will be making a great deal of money, over six figures."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Bertram cautioned, "let's see how this plays out. Don't mention this to Jager. Let him take the ride without knowing the destination." He turned around and headed back in the direction they had just come from, "I think I've regained the fortitude to face that apocalyptic doll-head hay bale again. Chocolate pudding indeed!"

Wilson found himself anticipating his shopping adventure with Siggy and Adrianna. It sounded like fun and an amusing diversion from the stressful anticipation of the upcoming exhibit.

Siggy and Adrianna had arrived the previous evening, accompanied by Devon who picked them up and let them into the loft. Both were exhausted after their travels and found their way quickly to bed for some well-earned rest. After a rejuvenating night's sleep, they awoke refreshed and ready for their sojourn into the city. They both greeted Wilson affectionately and found to their delight that he had prepared a substantial breakfast to steel them for their upcoming foray to the shops of the East Village and possible beyond.

Siggy looked up from his eggs and addressed Wilson, "Devon mentioned some shops that we might want to visit."

Wilson laughed, "Be sure to let me know what they are so we can avoid them at all costs. I love Devon to death, but his fashion sense is slightly worse than a court jester, you'd end up looking like some kind of a cross between a rodeo clown and a road flare."

Adrianna choked slightly, stifling a laugh, "Well we wouldn't want that. Don't forget I need something to wear as well. Something a bit unique. Only three rules for me, no dresses, no bright colors, and no heels."

"I'm sure we'll find something unforgettable that will get everyone's attention. Now finish your breakfasts and let's hit the road!" Wilson insisted, cheerfully downing his coffee.

The shopping for Siggy's attire was fairly simple. His basic look had already been established at his previous encounters with the pretentious piranhas of the art world. The bandanna, dark pants and shirt had proved effective. It was simply a matter of buying more upscale versions of the same costume. Adrianna raised a question about the color scheme or lack thereof.

"Does it all have to be some shade of black? I mean with the bandanna and the black silk shirt, he kind of reminds me of the Dread Pirate Roberts."

Siggy chuckled, "Does that make you Buttercup?"

Adrianna playfully punched Siggy in the shoulder, "In your dreams, no way I'm wearing her outfit. But seriously Willy, does it have to be black?"

"Color is like a uniform," Wilson began, "purple for emperors and kings, red for the Praetorian guard and prostitutes, green for tree huggers and Robin Hood, patterns and plaid for Highlanders and the aesthetically challenged... and black for artists and executioners."

"I guess it's black then," Siggy agreed.

Adrianna laughed, "What delightful nonsense. How about me, what colors do I need to wear... remember, nothing too bright."

Wilson looked her up and down, "Something subtle, as long as the outfit itself is anything but. You strike me as an adventurous type. I think I have a very cool idea. Follow me to this store I know. It's right down the street."

They walked a short distance to a boutique specializing in sporting and safari gear. Adrianna tried out an ensemble consisting of an off-white Egyptian cotton top, dark tan jodhpur britches, and thigh length brown soft leather boots.

"Simple yet distinctive," Wilson offered, "what do you think Siggy?"

Siggy chuckled, "I think if we add a pith helmet, she can start looking for Tut's tomb. I think it looks pretty cool. What about you, Adrianna, what do you think?"

She looked herself up and down in the mirror, "I think it's a lot of fun. We will make quite the pair!"

"Amen to that sister!" Wilson agreed, "Amen to that."

George was finding it increasingly difficult to sleep. He couldn't get the piece of art out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. There was still too much policeman in his blood.

While he was not entirely convinced that the resemblance to the serial killer was little more than a coincidence, he decided that for his own peace of mind, he needed resolution, one way or another.

George would be accompanying Fisk to the gallery opening this weekend highlighting the artist that created The Evolution of the Devil. It would be an opportunity to learn more about him, without arousing the suspicion or ire of his employer. He could ask the artist who the subject was and if it was indeed a portrait of the homicidal dentist, there was an off chance he might know where that fugitive was now.

Having made the decision, it was as though a great weight was lifted from his chest. The tightness in his body eased. He undressed and poured himself a drink. After his nightcap he turned off the room light and climbed into his freshly made bed. He turned on his bedside lamp and picked up a book from his nightstand.

A smile crossed his lips as he lay in bed reading. He always enjoyed Camus, and The Stranger was always one of his favorites. Most people found it a bit grim, but George always found himself sympathetic to the alienated protagonist. Some people are just hard to understand, thought George. After a short while he was sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.