I turn to Lorena. “These are awfully pretty. Thanks for showing them to me.”
She nods. “Would you like to take any of them home?”
Just what I thought. Get me hooked on the process so I’ll go along with her test to get to the Nam Ton wares. Well, I can play. “I’d like that a lot.”
I scan the pottery again. The bowl’s kinda meh. The funerary vessel’s pretty and in good shape, but the idea that it’s a baby coffin squicks me out. That was never an issue with paintings. That leaves the lidded vessel, my favorite. “What’s the provenance on this piece?” Meaning, what’s its history?
“I can show you that now.” Lorena glides to her desk and returns to carefully hand me a typewritten sheet. “Of course, I’ll give you this and the documentation.”
“Sure.” There’s not much to it:
Phimai tradition, est. 500-600 C.E.
Excavation date & place unknown
Acquired at Non Sung market in March 1960 by Maj. & Mrs. David Johnson, U.S. Air Force
The Thais passed their foundational cultural heritage law in 1961. Exporting these pots became illegal then. Is the 1960 date just a coincidence? And the buyers might as well be Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. “How good is this?”
Lorena gives me an opaque look. “As good as gold, Mr. Hoskins.”
Meaning it’s bought and paid for? If the provenance really is sketchy, this is where I become an accomplice to trafficking in protected cultural heritage items. A minor felony, but that’s all it takes to put me back inside. But that’s why I’m here. “Starting price?”
“Four thousand. Very reasonable for a piece this special.”
Even though this stuff is super old, it’s not all that expensive. Last night after reading had made my eyes cross, I started looking for auction records to see where prices are. There aren’t any. I went through the 198 past lots that came up when I searched for “Thai” at Sotheby’s; three were ceramics. Bonhams had nada.
To find prices for Thai pottery, you have to go to a few off-brand online storefronts and… eBay. Seriously. The asking prices are all over the place, and of course you can’t tell what anything actually sold for. The most expensive piece I found was a Ban Chiang pot for $2600.
Bottom line: the prices for the ceramics here are exactly what Lorena says they are, with whatever room there is for bargaining, if any. And I thought the valuations of paintings are opaque…
I aim an eyebrow at Lorena. “Seriously? I thought it’d be expensive. I’ll take it.”
Lorena gently lifts the pot and plinth. “I hope you’ll enjoy it. Let’s go to my desk. If you don’t mind, I’ll need some information for the receipt.”
The door gong interrupts as I give her Hoskins’ phone number and email. Lorena glances up from her computer and finds Savannah scoping out a pair of small bronze dancing Shivas on an upright cabinet. “Savannah, dear, could you please see who just came in? And please lock the door—it’s past closing time.”
“I can do that.” Savannah hurries off to the other side of the gallery.
We finish the ritual of paying for the pot. For $4,750, including sales tax and Savannah’s commission, I become the owner of a 1500-year-old relic of a lost culture. Somehow it’s not nearly hard enough or expensive enough. This seems wrong.
Lorena hands me the receipt. “Would you like for me to wrap it for you so you can take it home?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
She hefts the pot off the desk and disappears through a semi-hidden door. I wonder—what’s back there besides butcher paper and packing peanuts?
I drift into the statue gallery. Savannah stands close to a tall, rangy guy wearing a beat-up brown-leather bomber jacket over boot-cut jeans. Judging from the miles on his face and the sprinkles of gray on his temples, he’s probably somewhere in his late forties or early fifties. They’re laughing at something.
Savannah notices me and pulls the guy’s elbow to point him in my direction. “Trey, this is my new client, Rick Hoskins. Rick, this is Trey McCarran, one of my old clients.”
“I ain’t that old.” Good god: the man has a Texas accent.
We close the distance. He has big hands and a handshake that could probably flip a bull or something. He nods to me. “Good to meet you, sir.”
“Please, call me Rick. You’re not from around here, are you?”
One side of his mouth smiles. “Nope, sure not. Fort Worth. You?”
“L.A. How long’ve you been with Savannah?”
Savannah’s parked herself face-on to the two of us. “He’s not anymore. I taught him all he knows, then he decided he didn’t need me.” She says this while her mouth tries to keep a grin under wraps, so I guess she’s not too upset by it.
McCarran scratches the back of his neck while he shakes his head. Just like cowboys do in the movies. “Now darlin’, that ain’t the way it was.” On top of the accent, he talks almost as slow as Lorena does. “The way it was, Rick, is if I spent any more time with this here girl, I’d’ve had to marry her, and the missus wouldn’t cotton to that.”
“Savannah?” Lorena’s voice rings from the back of the room. “Who came in?”
“It’s Trey. He’s here to pick up something?”
“Yes, of course. Could you please help me for a moment? Mr. McCarran, I’ll be with you very soon.”
“Yes’m.” We both watch Savannah rush off. He turns to me and hooks his thumbs on the front of his belt. “How long you been with Savannah?”
“This is the first week. I just bought my first pot. Phimai blackware.”
He nods again. “Congratulations. I got me a couple of them. Reminds me some of San Ildefonso pottery. Pueblo in New Mexico? Maria Martinez?” I shrug. “Beautiful work. Prettiest thang I’ve seen that ain’t female.”
Is this guy for real? He’s like a younger Sam Elliot without the moustache. But I wonder what a Texas cowboy’s doing here, in this place. So I ask.
“Well—” it’s a two-syllable word “—I used to collect Pueblo pottery. But then I saw some Asian work and thought, ‘I gotta get me some of that.’ So I started coming here. Lorena’s got a new piece waitin’ for me.”
“What style?”
Before he can answer, Lorena glides around the corner carrying a foot-square white cake box that probably doesn’t have a cake in it. “Mr. McCarran, it’s so good to see you again.” She hands him the box carefully. “I hope you’ll enjoy this.”
He hefts the box a couple times. “If it’s even half as purty as the pictures—” pitchers “—I surely will. Thank you, ma’am.”
Savannah marches in, cradling a box about half again as big as the pot I bought. She hands it to me like an award. “Your very first pot. Are you excited?”
It’s heavier than I thought, but not enough to be annoying to carry. “I’ll be excited when I get it home in one piece.”
She holds out her hand. I trap the box against my chest with my left hand and shake with my right. She says, “I’ve had fun. I hope you have, too.”
“Sure.”
“Call me when you’re coming back. I’ll work out something for us to do.” She lets me go and points to the box. “Your pot needs a friend.”
That gets a chuckle out of me. “We can’t let it get lonely. I’ll be in touch.”
Savannah scurries to unlock the front door. After a final round of goodbyes, McCarran and I hit the sidewalk at about the same time. He’s almost half a head taller than I am. “It’s almost six. You got someplace you need to be?”
“Why do you ask?”
He shifts his box to under his left arm, like it really is full of pastry. “Well… how’s about I buy you a drink and we can chat some?”
Hm. If he’s been around Savannah and Lorena for a while, he might have some useful info. If he’s seen both of them, maybe he’s dealt with Bandineau, too. It’s worth a shot. I don’t have anything planned. “I never turn down a free
drink. You got a place?”
He nods. “As it happens, I do. A few blocks thataway.” He points toward Union Square over his left shoulder. “Rough area, but nothing the two of us cain’t handle, I reckon.”
The middle of upmarket shopping heaven’s just two blocks away. How rough can it be? “Lead on.”
Chapter 11
It’s only eight blocks from the gallery, but we take a cab. I see why. Once we get about three blocks west of Union Square on Geary, we leave the happy tourists packing Saks and Neiman’s shopping bags and enter Blade Runner. We pass homeless people dragging filthy blankets or roller bags covered with duct tape. Dark bundles of humanity or stuff (sometimes it’s hard to tell which) crowd the sidewalks along Jones. When we climb out of the cab, some collection of rags across the street is yelling about killer alien hipsters.
Bourbon and Branch is behind an unmarked wooden Craftsman-style door at the corner of Jones Street and O’Farrell. The sign at the corner says “Anti-Saloon League.” Cute.
“This here’s called the Tenderloin,” McCarran tells me as we wait in line. (Yes. A line to get into a bar.) “Reckon you can see why.”
“Jesus. This is worse than back home.” Which is saying something, given all the homeless in Santa Monica.
“This’ just the edge.” He points west. “Few blocks thataway, it gets real ugly.”
Hard to believe. For a complete contrast, everybody in line with us is a millennial and dresses like it. We creep forward like arthritic snails. I finally ask, “What’s this line all about?”
“Reservations.”
“Seriously? For a bar?”
“Yup.”
We get to the front of the line. The black guy in a fedora at the door pushes a buzzer on the wall. The door opens. A woman in a white dress shirt, red suspenders, and hair the color of drying blood says, “Name?”
“McCarran.”
She gives me the side-eye. “Your reservation is for one.”
“I don’t reckon that’ll be a problem tonight, Eleanor.” He must be a regular.
She scans me up and down. Maybe I’m too square to come in. “Yes sir, Mr. McCarran. Password?”
“Ballantyne.” He just about doubles the syllables.
“Right this way, sir.”
It’s seriously dark inside. Once my eyes adjust, I see a narrow but tall space with a pressed-tin ceiling and a white chandelier that looks like the mother ship for a race of alien dandelions. We pass between small booths on the left and the bar to our right and slide into a booth against the back wall. It’s nearly big enough to keep us from knocking knees. As busy as the place is, it’s strangely quiet.
We order from menus pressed between polished, laser-cut wood planks. There’s a whole page of absinthe varieties. I’m not liking the vodka choices, so I throw the dice on a Clase Azul Plata tequila while McCarran goes for a flight of bourbon.
Once the waitress leaves, I ask, “So Trey, what’s your business?”
He gives me the crooked smile. “Software.”
“Seriously?”
He puts up his hands. “I know. Don’t look much like a tech tycoon. Surely don’t sound like one. But there you go.”
He gives me a long down-home story about how his company makes management systems for farmers and ranchers, which sounds like it’s more complicated than counting the cows. He’s here because Google bought him out. I tell him my company does project design and management consulting with smaller A&E firms doing specialized urban development projects. It strikes me that both our stories are the kinds that shut down the “what do you do?” party conversation pretty fast.
The drinks arrive: mine in a large snifter, his in three small snifters set in hollows in a wooden block. Mine smells like honey and tropical fruit and it’s sweet on my first sip. Not what I expect from tequila.
McCarran asks, “How’d you come by Savannah?”
The Art Nouveau-style table lamp throws just enough light through its mica shade to make McCarran’s face a pale shape across the table. His accent still throws me, but I get this spidey-sense feeling the question isn’t as casual as it sounds. “One of her clients referred me.”
He takes a sip, then rolls it around in his mouth before swallowing. He waves the snifter at me. “This is some fine liquor. Who referred you? I might know the man.”
I know tech’s a small world, but I doubt it’s that small. “He asked me to keep it quiet. I guess he’s not very public about his collecting. Do you know a lot of her clients?”
“A few. That is one hard-workin’ girl, let me tell you. Ain’t hard to look at, neither. What’s she done for you so far?”
Here I thought I’d be asking the questions. “She took me to Achara and another gallery, then to the Norris Museum.” He nods knowingly. “You too?”
“Yup. First thing. You meet Bandineau?”
“Yes, I did. What’s your take on him?”
McCarran blisses out on another draw of bourbon, which takes a few moments to pass. “Well, I reckon you could dress that ol’ boy in a shiny suit and drop him in a used car lot in West Texas and he’d do just fine for hisself.”
“You think he’s a huckster.”
“I do. What do you think?”
“I’m surprised he’s not running the museum.”
“Ain’t gotta have the title to do the job, y’know.”
“You want to explain that?”
McCarran finally finishes off his first snifter and settles into his bench. “Not too long after I started with Savannah, I went to the museum to see the director. By my own self, not with Savannah. I told him I wanted to chat a bit about the donations I’d made and what else I could do to be of service to that fine institution. ‘Course, first thing that ol’ boy does is call Bandineau.”
“Not the development director?”
“Nope. Bandineau. Once he showed, he did all the talkin’. The director just set there noddin’ and smilin’. And I thought, well, now we know who’s got the bit in his mouth, and who’s holdin’ the reins.” He leans his elbows on the little wooden table. “Y’know, before this, Bandineau told me I should talk to him if’n I had any questions or wanted somethin’ from the museum. He was just a mite riled that I went to the director and not him.”
Interesting. I know only about five percent of what’s going on, but even I can tell this is news I can eventually use. “Makes you wonder if the director knows what Bandineau’s up to.” Whatever that is.
“Don’t it, though.”
He watches me like he expects me to say something else, so I do. “What’s in that box?”
He stares into my eyes for a few moments, glances at the box on the bench beside him, then back to me. I can see him make a decision. “Ever hear of the Nam Ton culture?”
Score. “Yeah. We saw it at the museum. That’s what’s in there?”
“Yup. A bowl, eight inches across maybe. Beautiful piece of work. That what you’re interested in?”
“Yeah. Today at lunch, I got the speech about how they’re looking for collectors to be pioneers, yadda yadda yadda.”
McCarran nods along with me. “Yup. Heard that one too. But they sold you Phimai ware. Why’s that?”
How much do I want to tell this guy? It sounds like he’s been down at least part of the road I’m on; maybe he’s got some bright ideas. But he asks a lot of questions and I can’t tell yet why. Okay, I’m asking questions too, but I know why.
“I’m not sure. I said some nice things about it at the museum—maybe they thought I’d like to buy some. But I said nice things about the Nam Ton stuff too. Maybe not enough.”
McCarran starts in on his second snifter. I can’t tell if he buys what I just said. “You got a Savannah in L.A.?”
“No. I was collecting in a medium and period I understand, so I didn’t need one. How’d you find her?”
“Weren’t hard.”
Right. We sit there watching ea
ch other drink. I get the feeling he’s told me all he’s going to tonight. I don’t think it’s anywhere near all he knows, though.
He swirls the last hit of bourbon in his glass. “How much d’you know about what Montford and Bandineau are doing?”
There’s a couple ways I can go with this. I could pretend to know more than I do and play all mysterious while I try to dig more out of him. I don’t get the feeling that’ll work this time around. So I go with Door #2. “Some, not much. How about you?”
He shrugs. “Some more, I reckon.”
“Anything you should warn me about?”
“Nope. I survived. Reckon you will, too.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls a business card, and spins it like a playing card into the hand I’ve got on the table. “Let’s me and you keep in touch. Compare notes, like. Maybe one of us’ll need to warn the other down the road. What’d’ya say?”
Do I need somebody else maybe poking into Hoskins’ life, especially when I can’t figure his angle? No. Blowing him off may make him more curious, which is worse. I take my business-card case out of my inside pocket—it’s a 1920s stainless-steel cigarette case with Art Deco enamel trim—and toss a card next to his drink caddy. “Send me a picture of your pot when you get it unwrapped.”
“Will do.” He holds my card so the lamp’s yellow light can brighten it enough to read. It doesn’t say much: Richard Hoskins, Topanga Development Partners, a phone and an email. It disappears into his inside pocket. “Send me one of yours, too. I always like me some blackware.”
“Sure.” I pocket his card without looking at it, then finish the rest of my tequila. “Trey, thanks for the drink.”
He shakes my hand. “Been a pleasure. I hope we can help—” hep “—each other out down the way sometime.”
We’ll see about that.
Chapter 12
I order a crabcake sandwich at the Clock Bar off the St. Francis’ lobby and check out Trey McCarran on my phone while I eat. His card is as minimal as Hoskins’: Trey McCarran, President and CEO, Demeter Systems, Ft. Worth, Texas, USA, an email and a phone. His is white text on leaf green; Hoskins’ is black text on heavy cream stock. Otherwise, they’re equally uninformative.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 7