Danny was feeling uneasy again. “What if I do get some on me?” he said. “What should I do?”
“Pray,” Art said solemnly. Danny stared at him wide-eyed, and after a moment Art’s grave expression crumpled into a grin. “Rubbing alcohol,” he said. “Kills ’em dead. Or you could try a blowtorch—they can’t assimilate that much heat all at once—but that’s a rather drastic form of first aid.”
Uneasy but eager, Danny said good-bye to Art and took a cab home. By the time he got there he had his work that would win him the Stanislaw firmly fixed in his head.
It would consist of three gilded, old-fashioned frames, all hung on a wall within a larger frame—a simple black square delineating the edges of the work, with his signature in the lower right corner.
Within each of the smaller frames would be a
