I drove Harold to Davis’s house; Daisy drove with Mychal in his parents’ minivan, and Davis led in his Escalade.
Our little caravan headed west on Eighty-Sixth Street to Michigan Road,
and then followed it down past Walmart, past the pawnshops and payday loan outfits
to the gates of Davis’s estate across the road from the art museum.
The Pickett estate wasn’t in a nice neighborhood, exactly, but it was so gigantic that it functioned as a neighborhood unto itself.
The gate opened, and we followed Davis to a parking lot beside the glass mansion.
The house looked even more amazing in the dark. Through the walls, I could see the whole kitchen suffused with gold light.
Mychal ran up to me as I exited Harold. “Do you know—oh my God, I’ve always wanted to see this house. This is Tu-Quyen Pham, you know.”
“Who?” “The architect,” he said. “Tu-Quyen Pham. She’s crazy famous.
She’s only designed three residences in the U.S. Oh my God, I can’t believe I am seeing this.”
We followed him into the house, and Mychal exclaimed a series of artist names.
“Pettibon! Picasso! Oh my God, that’s KERRY JAMES MARSHALL.” I only knew who Picasso was.
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