by Jenna Payne
I take a sip of the ice coffee, nodding for him to proceed. “The bottom line is that what you’re asking is not only illegal but could a lot of people in prison for a very long time. Good people. People who deserve to make an honest living stealing high-end art and technology. You can respect that, can’t you, Amos?”
“It’s not a matter of respect,” I add firmly, swallowing the rest of the weak, cheap coffee to show him that I don’t have time either. We met years ago overseas and he’s been one of my key sources of goods in Europe for years. When it comes to the art of stealing fine art, there are really only a select, elite group of people who can keep the work in demand while producing it and transporting it at the same time. Bertrand McRearden is one of these unlikely connections. He is one of the co-executives at The Getty, and chooses to hide in plain sight. It’s been working for him for years. I have spent about one-tenth of my fortune on the art he has access to.
Moments ago, inside his office, Bert unveiled a very important, stolen photograph of a dangerous man who will stop at nothing to take everything I have. The man’s name is Nick Caran, and he is the gentleman who unsuccessfully attempted to assassinate me last year. Upon visiting Germany for my yearly round trip in Europe, Mr. Caran, one of the greasiest, sleaziest businessmen I have ever come across thought he would be able to finally put one over on me by sabotaging my private jet. Yes, the plane went down and yes, we were prepared and had all the safety precautions and parachutes at the ready. Thank heavens nobody was hurt.
What did I do in retaliation? There was no way I could live the rest of my life, traveling the world, acquiring art, with such a dangerous man trying to take me down anywhere I turned. I fought fire with fire and made sure Nicholas Darlo Caran would never board a plane, train, or automobile for the rest of his life.
The photograph that my English friend showed me in his office, the one pertaining to the quite illegal deal that I’m attempting to orchestrate at the moment, is evidence of Mr. Caran in the middle of some very questionable actions.
“Haven’t you done enough to the poor bloke?” he asks. Now both of us sit with plastic cups and melted ice. “Let the bloody bastard rot in his shit hole in Chicago while we soak in the sun. Am I right?”
“No, you’re wrong,” I say. “The photograph you showed me is what I need to put this man away for life. You have given me a proof of this man in possession of a van full of some of the rarest art in the world and you’re telling me to let him off the hook?” The grin across my face stretches maniacally from ear to ear.
After leaving the gallery opening and having Deviled Legs refused to me yet again, I am now in a state of near paralysis at the fact that the one man on the planet who I would like more than anything to see dead has somehow fallen in possession of it.
“How the hell did he get that painting, Bertrand?” I ask, taking a cube of ice into my mouth, crushing it, and spitting it at his feet.
“Do you always have to do that when you’re feeling like a bastard?” he replies. I admit, sometimes I get theatrical, but when I get wound up in a piece of art that I can’t have and a person who has tried to kill me, I feel the need to show the world that I’m a bit pissed. Sometimes people forget or underestimate the amount of damage I can do with the large sum of money at my disposal.
***
Carly
The morning after the opening I’m feeling a minor headache from the brandy but mostly I’m feeling anger at myself for not accepting the ridiculous amount of money offered to me for Deviled Legs. It’s really a funny story how I got the piece in the first place. Years ago in Columbus I worked for the University museum and insisted on highlighting Lora’s work and inviting her to be a visiting artist in residence.
The University fell in love with her work and Lora actually accepted the invitation. When I first met her I felt a powerful awe that almost made me dizzy. I had such respect and admiration for the individual and her work that I wanted to devote myself to her entirely.
Opening the doors for the gallery’s first full day of service makes me think of all the time I spent with Lora that semester. We became close friends, especially after a long day of classes when she’d invite me to her loft on High Street. I remember taking the stairs up past the café where we’d sit on her balcony and smoke unfiltered cigarettes like fiends while she told me stories about growing up in Russia. Although I no longer majored in art at the time, she taught me how to be the artist I always dreamed of.
I’ve had the door open to my gallery for an hour now and still nobody has dared enter my doors. I know that I need to come up with a name for this place and get a sign, but it is honestly not even in the budget right now. I’ve been thinking of the perfect name for years. Originally, I wanted to call my gallery Urbania, but when I saw the actual size of the gallery and realized I’d have to practically rebuild the whole thing, I kind of fell out of love with that name. I’m still hoping for a divine burst of inspiration to fulfill the needs of a name. And about $800 for the sign. Maybe then people will actually come in and look at the art.
Last night the only people who showed up were friends and their acquaintances, which, I admit, isn’t as big of a number as I’d like in a city like Los Angeles. While the art scene here exists, it has been hard for me to go outside my comfort zone to meet new people. However, after going to a few meetups with wine and paints I managed to get a few people interested in the opening night.
Now that the insanity of thirty people I know and one rich stranger is over, I walk around the gallery space pretending I’m a passerby in Los Angeles who just happens to be in the mood for some fine art. I have to do this sometimes in order to convince myself that there are still people out there who believe in beauty. It’s not always easy.
Other than Deviled Legs, I am actually quite proud of the paintings I’ve collected for this run of the gallery. With approximately twenty paintings in total, the works I’ve selected are primarily feminist in nature and often in the realm of pop art. The decision to highlight this type of work is a personal taste, but there is no doubt that this type of art has always sold.
After another hour of role-playing like my dream of opening a gallery wasn’t a fatal mistake, I hear the bell on the front door ring. Uh oh, I think. Game time. It’s important not to hawk on a guest right away, especially if my back is turned on them like it is at the moment. Instead, I continue to look at Joan Arbeiter’s This is For Keeps to give the guest a moment to feel the vibe.
“Hello? Do you work here?” a male voice asks. So much for patience; there’s that Los Angeles sense of urgency and entitlement again.
“Yes, I do,” I answer, turning my head slowly, trying to give off the impression that I’m in deep thought. “Welcome. How are you today?”
“Great, thanks,” the man says. Once I’m fully turned I see him standing there, a six-foot, pale skinned man with the right amount of stubble. He’s wearing pink floral button up and khakis. I see myself perfectly in the reflection of his aviator glasses, although I am a bit wobblier than I usually appear in a full sized mirror.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“That painting,” he says, pointing directly to Deviled Legs. “I need it and will stop at nothing until I have it.”
I squint at him, with a strange feeling that this is déjà vu. But no, it’s not Amos. It’s merely a second strange man apparently obsessed with Deviled Legs.
What is it with this painting and strange men?!
*****
Amos
My adrenaline is pumping. Two golden opportunities have fallen into my lap. First, I have proof that Nick Darlo Caras is in Los Angeles; and second, some art school intern has Lora Zombie’s Deviled Legs hanging in a wreck of a metropolitan art gallery! My senses are a little over stimulated, not to mention the fact that I can’t get that stupid girl’s name out of my head.
Carly. I’ve not been able to get the way her coke-can glasses magnified her emerald green eyes, either. From across t
he room I thought she looked like an insect. Up close I thought she looked like a goddess.
I’m a man who does not nor ever has believed in coincidence. I have reason to believe some of my genius and success lies in my ability to make connections and tie up loose ends, or connect the dots, so to speak. For example: the reason I asked to meet up with Bert at The Getty was to tell him about the Lora Zombie piece at Carly’s gallery. But what information did I learn at The Getty?
That Nick Fucking Caras is in Los Angeles.
It may not be common knowledge—but when someone tries to assassinate you, you tend to get a little jumpy.
Sitting in a Santa Monica hotel bar I wait for another one of my friends, Roger Spimona. Roger works as a bouncer, Uber driver, marijuana deliveryman, and knock-around guy. It’s good to have guys like Roger in your court in a city like Los Angeles. From the perspective of a man with a lot of money, it’s good to have guys who are willing to get a little oil and blood on their hands in any city.
I’m the only person sitting in the joint other than the barkeep, and at least he doesn’t mind if I smoke clove cigarettes. He tops me off with another tequila Blanco just as I see Roger enter through the door. He’s not exactly a big guy—in fact, he’s more of the scrappy type. This fact only makes him more dangerous. I’ve seen him rip thugs and gangsters apart like he was a badger and they were mice, when in reality they were twice his size.
He walks across the bar without acknowledging the barkeep, which is no surprise to me, and takes a seat across from me before reaching over the table, picking up my glass, and slugging down my tequila. He tips the glass upside and literally takes the clove cigarette from between my fingers, takes a long drag on it, then puts it back where he found it.
“Don’t take it so personal,” he laughs. “It’s just a fag.”
His eyes bulge as he waits for me to laugh, and as soon as I crack a smile he cackles this boisterous laugh that makes the barkeep knock over a bottle of rum. I don’t think the poor guy understood the double-entendre joke about cigarettes being called fags overseas.
“Oi,” Roger spits, “relax, Bubbles.” It’s not the tequila that has made Roger such an ass. He’s always this way.
“You’re in good spirits, Rog,” I say, lighting a new clove so that I don’t have to put his nasty one in my mouth.
“Always so particular,” Roger says, picking up where he left off from the first clove. “So who is it going to be this time, Amos?”
With my lungs full of smoke, I take pride in the name I’m about to drop. Hopefully for the last time.
***
Carly
“Nick Caras,” he says, dropping the Whole Foods bag full of money at my feet. “I know that most people who walk in here probably have time for pleasantries and idle chit chat, but I recently transplanted here from Chicago so I’m naturally in kind of a hurry. What I can tell you is that this money is illegitimate, so it would be best not to put it in any bank. However, I would advise keeping in some kind of safe or at least in a wall or something. Buy a dress. Looks like you could use some new clothes.”
He scans my body up and down as if I’m a young mannequin model representing American Apparel.
I can’t deny that Nick’s overall demeanor intimidates me, which is probably all the more reason I’m attracted to him. I refuse to make the same mistake twice, and I don’t believe in coincidence. He wants to buy it, and this time I want to sell it. This is my second day with the gallery up and running and here I am about to let this man take me however he wants, wherever he wants.
Now that the sale is final, the adrenaline coursing through my body is unlike any rush I’ve ever felt, including skydiving. I never expected someone so casual looking to have a bag full of money in the back of his jeep.
“Tomorrow my assistant will swing by with the company van,” he says, tracing his fingertips down my bare arm. I’m his. At this point he could tell me to strip naked and do it with him on the floor and I would. “I would really appreciate it if you could help him handle the piece as delicately as possible.” Now his other hand has somehow made its way to my kneecap. Normally this is not a zone I would let a man approach, especially considering I met him less than an hour ago. However, for some reason I feel like my typical logic doesn’t apply to this situation, or any situation where half a million dollars in large bills rest in a Whole Foods bag on the floor.
“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem,” I say, trying to play like his fingertips on my leg don’t even phase me.
“Good,” he smiles. I can’t rip away from his dark brown eyes. His messy bangs in his eyes, all I want to do is reach up and slide them to the side so I can get lost forever. “Now that that’s settled…”
The way he trails off is a clear signal that he’s waiting for me to make a move, or at least give him approval to do it first. “Now that that’s settled,” I parrot. At the moment there are really no other words that spring to mind.
Nick’s mouth lingers open an inch away from mine. The hand on my leg drifts upward, grazing the ruffles of my dress, my neck, and cheek until they reach the frames of my glasses.
“You have beautiful eyes,” he says. “They’re the most dynamic shade of green I’ve ever seen. Are they real?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” I say. He plucks the glasses from my face and sets them on the desk that my ass currently rests on. Although I can barely see the spectacle of his rugged, gorgeous face, I almost feel like I’m being blindfolded, which only proves to be a bigger turn on. I’m so out of my element that I truly believe I can no longer make logical decisions. All I can do is offer my body to this man and pray that he takes me gently.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve felt you trembling since when I shook your hand. There’s no reason to be nervous, here. This is as casual as you want it to be. We’re both Midwesterners on the west coast. There’s no reason to make a big deal out of something so small.”
“Right,” I say. “No reason.” I look over Nick’s shoulder and I make out the blurry image of Deviled Legs hanging on the brick gallery wall. Its purple is really all I can see, and I wonder if tonight will be my last night with my most beloved possession. Let it go, Carly, I think. There’s plenty of art in the world.
“Maybe we should go to the storage room,” I say in spite of myself. I’m surprised I got the whole sentence out of my mouth without a single stutter.
“The storage room?” he asks playfully, bringing is face closer to mine so that he comes into focus. It’s like he’s reading my mind. “Yes, maybe we should go to the storage room. I hope there’s enough room to spread out and get comfortable.”
“There should be enough,” I say, lifting my ass off the desk, pushing him off of me forcefully, and taking him by the hand. I guide him out of the gallery, through the back hall past the restroom and into the storage room where a dim red light glows up in the farthest left corner. The light is something I jerry rigged to guide to the emergency exit in case something ever went wrong, heaven forbid. Right now the light seems to lend itself to a sexual ambience. It feels wrongfully appropriate, as if telling me to exit the entire life I knew and enter a completely new chapter.
“So is this where you keep your goodies?” he asks, closing the door behind him. Without the light from the hallway our entire bodies are encompassed in the crimson glow.
“I don’t know if there are any goodies in here at the moment,” I say. “At the moment all I have is a sleeping bag and a mini-fridge.”
“Those sound like goodies to me,” he whispers, tip-toeing closer to me. “I’m especially interested in the sleeping bag. How much is that going for?”
“Not for sale,” I say, not really sure what I mean by that but hoping it makes me sound sexy.
“Everything has a price,” he says. The palm of his hand presses against the small of my back, and the friction of his skin raises the thin cloth on the bottom of my dress from my thigh line to my crotch line. The exposure of my ski
n to the cold air makes goose pimples raise up from my ankles to my hips. I’m almost embarrassed about my gangly chicken legs until he lowers his hand from my back to the top of my butt. I can tell that he is controlling the urge to move his hand lower. Personally, I feel like I can’t keep my hands off of him and I know the second my fingers get underneath his clothes I won’t be able to pry them off.
“Actually, I disagree,” I say, trying to lift myself onto the balls of my feet so that his hand will be forced to cup my entire ass cheek. “Me, for example. You’d better know that the money you threw at me has nothing to do with my body or what happens in this storage room is in no way related to your money.”
“I thought that went without saying,” he says, leaving his hand pinned to the area just below my waist.
“I feel like you’re purposely not trying to touch my bottom,” I say, hovering my lips over his. I don’t know how much longer I can go without kissing him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You have a very prominent coccyx. I just like to take time with things that I appreciate. Your body, for example, is in my opinion, finer than fine art.”
“My tailbone is not prominent, and I want you to take back what you just said,” I say, trying to sound disgusted, but finding it impossible not to smile. Right now I’m about to make the move and there is no way that I can stop it. “If you’re going to treat me like fine art then chances are you won’t fuck me like I need.”
His eyes go as wide as my legs are about to be. Honestly, I’m just as surprised as he is about what I just said. It was not rehearsed. I’m partially convinced that some sexual demon temporarily possessed me. “You’re right,” he says, lowering his hand to my left ass cheek and bringing his left hand to my right cheek. “I’m going to tear this up. I guess I don’t know what to call that.”