A Cello In Abstract

by Greg Arritt

  As planned, Sam and Ting took the first available elevator, leaving Redding alone in the foyer holding Joran’s garment bag.

  As Joran approached the array of trolleys, the concierge inquired as to his transportation needs, but he didn’t respond. His attention had been drawn to an individual standing in the elevator foyer.

  Redding waited just long enough to ensure that he had been recognized. Then he stepped into a waiting elevator, turning just enough to display the dark blue garment bag with the orange handle and trim that he held behind him.

  “Goddammit!” Joran erupted. He started to bolt toward the elevators but stopped and grabbed at the garment bag hanging on the trolley. He unzipped it, revealing some unfamiliar clothing. He knew what had happened. He knew the instant he saw Redding with the same garment bag. He screamed at the concierge to watch his luggage and ran to the elevators.

  * * *

  Redding had already extracted the painting from the net bag by the time the elevator doors opened on the second floor. In foyer of the second floor, Sam and Ting were waiting.

  “Is he coming?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, he’s definitely on his way.” Redding said.

  He slipped the painting into the portfolio and handed the portfolio back to Ting. The doors of a descending elevator opened and Sam and Ting joined several other guests for the short descent to the lobby.

  Redding bolted towards the stairway, stopping just long enough to discard Joran’s garment bag in a housekeeping laundry cart. From the stairway, he descended one flight to the mezzanine level. So far, everything had come together with near perfect execution, but it wasn’t over yet. He slowed his stride to a more casual pace as he crossed the mezzanine in the direction of the grand staircase.

  * * *

  When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, several people exited as Joran anxiously tried to ply his way into the elevator. He was so enraged by the loss of the painting he didn’t even notice the American businessman or the Chinese woman with a large business portfolio. He just shoved his way past the exiting guests. Alone inside the elevator, Joran watched as the doors closed, but he had no idea on which floor to find Redding. He could be anywhere in the hotel. Seething with rage, he couldn’t seem to pull a single thought out of his head. Before he had a chance to decide on a course of action, the elevator started to rise. With the release of a loud series of obscenities, he kicked at the door and repeatedly punched the lobby button, but the elevator didn’t stop until it had landed on the fifth floor.

  * * *

  Joran returned to the lobby no less enraged. He told the concierge that he wouldn’t be leaving just yet. Then he ducked into the lounge. He dropped into one of the high backed chairs that were clustered around a cocktail table and positioned himself to ensure he had a clear view of the lobby and the elevator foyer. If Redding were still in the hotel, he would intercept him, and if he had gotten away, he would find him.

  He shook a cigarette loose from its pack and lit up without ever taking his eyes off the elevator foyer. He didn’t so much as acknowledge the cocktail waitress when she made her rounds or even the individual seated across from him holding up a newspaper. Taking one puff after another, he watched and waited for Redding to come out of the elevator. He smashed the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray and immediately lit up another. He kept his focus honed to the foyer even as the man seated across from him folded his newspaper. Through his peripheral vision, he could feel the man staring at him, but still another half-minute lapsed before an overwhelming impulse caused him to be drawn into eye contact. He wasn’t someone easily caught off balance, but he never expected the person across from him to be Redding. Joran tightened his grip on the armrest as smoke blasted from his nostrils like a snorting bull preparing to charge.

  Unimpressed by the display of bravado, Redding tossed a card onto the table between them and then motioned for Joran to pick it up.

  “What is that?” Joran demanded with anger seeping from his every pore.

  “Those are bank-account numbers, and you’re going to wire two hundred thousand dollars into each account. That’s a total of four hundred thousand, and you have only seventy-two hours,” Redding said.

  Four hundred thousand was the magic number. It represented the approximate amount Redding would have received as a finder’s fee. His intention to ransom the painting back to Joran had always been part of the plan, but it was also the part he purposely withheld from Sam and Ting. If he had disclosed his intentions, they would have reneged. They would have deemed it unnecessary and overly risky, which would have been a fair assessment except that he had every reason to believe that Joran would pay.

  Redding put a lot of thought into the switching of the garment bags, but little went into the actual handling of the money. He knew he would need some of the money in China, but not necessarily all of it, and he wasn’t sure what difficulties would be involved in trying to move money out of China. After vacillating several times over his options, he decided to split the money between two banks. One half of the money was to be wired into the Yangtze Bank and the other half into his account in the United States.

  As much as he wanted the rest of the world to be able to view the painting, there were other issues that loomed on the horizon. He could have easily waltzed out the front door with the garment bag in hand, but there was no guarantee that he would be able to deliver the painting to Le Musee Angladon. If Joran was discovered with the painting, there was still a chance, however slight, that the painting would eventually make its way to the museum. Redding decided his best course of action was to ransom the painting and let Joran take his chances with the authorities.

  “What makes you think I’m going to pay you anything?” Joran said through his teeth.

  “Because if you don’t, you’re not getting the painting back! Come seventy two hours and still no money, I’ll turn the painting over to Le Musee Angladon.”

  “Like hell I’m giving you four hundred thousand dollars,” Joran said a little too loudly. Then he glanced around the bar to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

  “If you don’t, well, that’s no problem for me,” Redding said, as he stood up and headed for the exit. He had delivered his message and wasn’t about to wait around. He didn’t want Joran to get the idea that his terms were negotiable.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Joran had had little choice but to reregister as a guest of the Meridian Plaza Hotel. He should have been on a plane to Canada, but he was right back in the same miserable room. The painting had only been out of his hands for all of two whole minutes, but that’s all it took. It had been hijacked in the middle of the hotel lobby, right under the concierge’s nose. The concierge had been standing only steps away and yet neither he nor his bellboys had noticed anything. The whole lot of them weren’t worth a shit.

  Joran headed straight for the mini bar. He poured himself a shot and downed it in one swallow. He was so goddamned angry he felt like punching holes in the walls. He never figured Redding for someone capable of pulling off a move so brazen. He poured himself another shot. There was no question about it. He would reclaim the painting, but it would be on his terms.

  By the time his luggage was brought up to his room, he had nearly finished off the half-size bottle. He had never been one to follow the conventions of decent behavior. In fact, he had only contempt for those who did, and Redding clearly fit into that category. He lit up a cigarette and slumped into a chair.

  * * *

  The first cigarette he’d ever smoked was out of spite for his mother. He was all of twelve years old and had been caught at school cheating on some menial exam. It wasn’t the first time he had been caught – there were plenty of times before – but this time his mother found out and he got knocked around pretty hard. She didn’t care that the math test was insignificant, nor did she care that he was cheating. She only cared that her employer was upset and that her pay would be docked, all because she had to leave work early t
o meet with the school principal.

  The first slap across the back of his head may have been justified, but the subsequent blows were entirely unreasonable. She cornered him in the kitchen and, with arms flailing, delivered blows one after another. When it was over and he had had time to think, the only thing he wanted was revenge. She had blown the matter well out of proportion, and he had suffered the consequences. He figured that one injustice deserves another, so he pocketed her cigarettes. There was nothing complicated about his actions but it was sufficiently malicious.

  He had used this routine on a few other occasions. She would obsess over the missing cigarettes for hours, turning the house upside down, never realizing that he had been the cause. Only when he felt she had suffered enough would the missing pack of cigarettes suddenly materialize. That was his original intention, but this time, her sentence just didn’t measure up. It paled in comparison to the unwarranted blows he took to the head. The temporary loss of the cigarettes wouldn’t be enough. The situation required a more permanent solution. He shook one loose from the pack and with the flick of a match, he lit his first cigarette. Two more followed the next day, and it wasn’t long before nicotine became a constant companion.

  * * *

  Joran’s introduction into the world of fine art began with an internship at one of New York’s upscale galleries. His internship was based on a professor’s recommendation following an exceptional midterm paper for an art history class. Midway through his third year, he’d abandoned his studies at the university and accepted a clerical position with a lesser-known gallery that specialized in realist paintings.

  The gallery stringently applied their rules of professionalism and that generally wasn’t a problem for Joran except for one particular rule. Smoking on the floor of the gallery was absolutely forbidden. Aside from the inherent damage to the artwork it caused, smoking signaled a less than pristine environment for the consigners of artwork.

  If employees had an insatiable need to smoke, they were confined to a designated room on the far side of the basement. The dark, claustrophobic room was lit only by a bare light bulb. Used primarily for storage, it contained years of accumulated literature, documents, receipts, and press releases that had been boxed up and were stacked everywhere, along with a smattering of worthless art. The room was near freezing in the winter and absolutely stifling during the summer. The only other approved smoking areas were the owner’s office and one of the private viewing rooms, but both were off limits to employees for that purpose.

  Over time he had edged his way politically beyond menial duties and landed a coveted sales position. Selling didn’t come easy for him, nor was he a natural with clients. His condescending yet abrasive style seemed to fly in direct opposition to his astronomical sales numbers. With the accumulating sales, management held an attitude of indifference and simply ignored his shameless tactics. Whatever method of sales Joran employed, he firmly believed that ethics had nothing to do with making money.

  * * *

  He couldn’t have cared less about the watercolors that were on consignment. They were low value, poor-quality paintings from some minor artist. He had a patron right on the brink of purchasing one exceptionally disappointing piece from the collection until indecision took hold of the client. Joran had applied some pressure, knowing full well that he could break the patron’s impasse but that it would take some time. It had been two hours since his last cigarette and the urge to smoke was absolutely compelling. He wasn’t about to let the sale evaporate, nor was he willing to suffer the indignities of the smoking room one more time. Secure in his illustrious status, he lit up a cigarette in the middle of the gallery. He managed to close the deal but, lacking an ashtray, had flicked his ashes onto the floor. The gallery’s owner was so incensed by Joran’s callous disregard for the rules that Joran was summarily terminated.

  * * *

  As a sales associate, he had always made an impressive income despite the gallery’s percentage. He knew the expenses the house incurred well enough, but it didn’t change the way he felt about the cut. He could have easily landed another sales position, but he hated the idea of being bound to split commissions. The only alternative was to open his own gallery. Some four months later, the Aztec Art Gallery in New York City was opened to overflowing crowds. Review after review lauded the gallery, which in turn produced additional consignment offerings. Filling the gallery’s space was easy enough, but finding pieces that were sellable or paintings with an acceptable margin was far more difficult.

  Joran had a particular affinity for art collectors, especially those who had become caught in a cash crisis. Interaction with these often-eccentric collectors was his real forte. They needed to sell some portion of their art collection and he was always there to help. He understood the value in exploiting their fears.

  His favorite clients were the nouveau riche, especially those who were plainly ignorant in all aspects of art. They were fast money, easily sold on the promise of future values, even though those promises were often encased in outright lies.

  Over time, the gallery acquired a reputation as a serious art house – until a client turned on Joran. The legal problems that ensued were costly enough, but the damage to the gallery’s reputation was severe. He struggled to keep the doors open and had had to broaden his search just to find consignment art.

  * * *

  Joran had vacillated for nearly a week before chasing a consignment lead to California. The moment he laid his eyes on the artwork, he knew the pieces would be easy to sell. In order to secure the consignment, he convinced the sellers that paintings sold in New York City always sold at a premium. Thus the sellers would easily increase their yield by fifteen percent. That was the line that cinched the deal. The consignment agreement was signed and shipping arrangements were made.

  Before he could slip away into the Hollywood nightlife, he still had one more piece of unfinished business. A colleague had extended an invitation to a private exhibit at the Pasadena Library of Fine Arts. The Romanelli, the Poussin, and the Degas were all exceptional works, but they weren’t the reason that he accepted the invitation. He saw the exhibit as an extended opportunity to sniff out the nouveau riche. He moved through the exhibit with one eye on the paintings and the other searching for potential clients. Specifically, he was looking for those who lacked an art-world sophistication but had plenty of disposable wealth. They were easily identified by their inane questions and unqualified comments. He’d pressed his way through the crowd always mindful of nearby conversations, stopping sporadically to view a painting. The exhibit was crowded and there wasn’t any shortage of wealthy individuals, but none fit his criteria.

  After rubbing elbows with the museum’s patrons, Joran was all but resigned to the fact that his foray would likely be fruitless. He abandoned any thoughts of landing a client and retreated to the lobby. He had been slowly winding his way through the crowd in the reception hall when a conversation behind him caught his attention. An elderly woman was conversing with another guest and he overheard every word. She was inquiring about a painting, but her memory seemed somewhat vague. She didn’t know the artist’s name, but the painting in question had been seen in the old city of Suzhou, China. Of that much she was sure. Then she had delivered an imprecise description of the artwork and before she had even finished, Joran already knew the painting.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Redding opened the drapes with a solid yank and instantly the darkened room was transformed by the morning light. He stood staring out the window, wondering how he should spend his day. It wasn’t as if he had to search the old city anymore or even meet with Lin Ming. His whole day was essentially time spent waiting, and without a set agenda the restless side of his nature began to take hold. His only other consideration for the week was his commitment to teach English, but that really wasn’t a concern. He had already survived a kindergarten class and reasoned that all else would likely pale by comparison. Other than his commitment t
o teach, he had nothing to do but wait for the money.

  The painting had been squirreled away somewhere, far from prying eyes. Only Sam and Ting knew its actual location. Their possession of the painting had been the only practical solution. He couldn’t very well secure the painting in his hotel room, so Sam and Ting held onto it. Prior to his departure, twenty-five thousand dollars would be delivered to them in exchange for the artwork.

  He was well aware of the risks in leaving the painting with Sam and Ting. There was always a chance that they might double-cross him, but he figured that those odds were remote at best. He had always been quite adept at assessing someone’s character, and Sam and Ting were anything but a threat. Still, he held a little insurance. He had never divulged the actual amount of the finder’s fee or identified the museum that made the offer.

  One issue that had already been stipulated was Sam’s insistence that they limit their contact. It was meant as a protective measure to insure the safety of the painting. Redding’s only interaction would be with Sam, and that would be limited to the time they spent at the school. Even though he had willingly agreed, he couldn’t help but wonder if the limitation had anything to do with Lin Ming.

  * * *

  The coffee served at the hotel buffet had always been acceptable, except for that morning. It had a bitter and metallic taste. So Redding set his sights on finding a decent cup of coffee and an English-language newspaper. On Tong Jing Nan Road there was a European-style café. It wasn’t exactly convenient, but it wasn’t so far that he considered taking a taxi.

  Although it was Sunday, the morning traffic was exactly the same as on any other day. Everyone seemed to be in some predetermined hurry, but that wasn’t his frame of mind. He was quite content with an unhurried pace.