Homeport

top of the line around here, and most anywhere else if you ask me. Did a job for this kid—I remember this kid. Harrison Mathers. He was pretty good too. Not as good as you,” she added, sending Ryan a maternal smile.
    “Did he get a lot of work done here? Harrison, I mean.”
    “Yeah, several pieces. Always hung around over Pete’s shoulder. Nervous kid. Here it shows a small bronze nude of David with sling. That’s the one.”
    “That’s great. Amazing. Whitesmith. He still works here?”
    “Sure, he’s a cornerstone. You go on over to the foundry. Tell Pete Babs said to treat you right.”
    “I don’t know how to thank you.”
    “How much would you charge to do a drawing of my kids?”
    “For you, absolutely free.” He shined a smile at her.
     
    “Sure I remember it.” Whitesmith mopped at his face under the bill of a stained blue cap. He had a face that should have been carved in granite, all blocky square and deep grooves. He was built like a bullet, broad at the base, narrow at the shoulders. His voice rose over the roar of furnaces, the hard clangs of metal.
    “This was the piece?”
    Whitesmith stared at the sketch Ryan showed him. “Yep. Harry was mighty particular about this one. Had the formula for the bronze written out—wanted me to add some lead so it’d cure faster, but otherwise it was an old formula. I’m coming up on break, let’s take this outside.”
    Grateful, Ryan followed him out of the heat and noise.
    “I’ve been casting for twenty-five years,” Whitesmith said, lighting his break Camel and blowing the smoke into the lightly chilled air. “I gotta say, that piece was a little gem. Ayah. One of my favorites.”
    “You did others for him too?”
    “Harry, sure. Four, maybe five in a couple-year period. This was the best of the lot, though. Knew we had something special when he brought in the mold and wax copy. Now that I think on it . . .” And he did, taking a long deep drag, blowing it out. “That was the last piece I did for him.”
    “Was it?”
    “Ayah. I don’t recollect seeing young Harry after that. Students at the Institute . . .” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “They come and they go.”
    “Did he work with anybody else?”
    “No, far as I know, I did all Harry’s casting. He was interested in the process. Not all the students give a hot damn about this end of it. Just what they think of as art.” He sneered a little. “Lemme tell you, pal, what I do is goddamn art. A good foundryman is an artist.”
    “I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I was so desperate to find you—the artist who worked on this wonderful little David. ”
    “Yeah, well.” Obviously pleased, Whitesmith sucked in smoke. “Some of those artist types are snots, pure and simple sons of bitches. Figure a guy like me’s just a tool. I gotta be an artist and a scientist. You get a prize winning sculpture outta here, you got me to thank for it. Most don’t bother, though.”

    “I knew a foundryman in Toledo.” Ryan sighed lustily. “I considered him a god. I hope Harrison was properly appreciative of your work.”
    “He was okay.”
    “I guess he used a flexible mold for the David. ”
    “Yeah, silicon. You gotta be careful there.” Whitesmith jabbed with his cigarette for emphasis, then nipped it between his thumb and forefingers and flicked it away in a long, high arch. “You can get distortions, shrinkage. But the kid knew his stuff. He went with the lost-wax method for the model. Me, I can work with all of them, wax, sand, plaster investment. Do the finishing and tool work if the client wants. And I stick with my work, all the way. Don’t like being rushed, either.”
    “Oh, did Harry rush you?”
    “On that last piece he was a pain in the ass sideways.” Whitesmith snorted through his nose. “You’da thought he was Leonardo da fucking Vinci on deadline.” Then he shrugged. “Kid was okay. Had talent.”
    Though it was a long shot, Ryan took out the sketch of The Dark Lady. “What do you think of her?”
    Whitesmith pursed his lips. “Well now, that’s a sexy broad. Wouldn’t mind casting her. What are you using for her?”
    A little knowledge, Ryan thought, could be a dangerous thing. Or it could be just enough. “Wax with a plaster investment.”
    “Good. We can work fine with that. Fire the plaster right here too. You don’t want air bubbles in that wax, ace.”
    “No indeed.” Ryan slipped the sketch away again. The man was too