This doesn’t shock me. Museums have done this for years. Their trustees tend to be rich people who collect art. The development staff’s main job is to make sure the trustees and their friends give money and art to their museum and not the competition. They’re not above staging vanity exhibitions for their most promising donors. Of course, these days you just build your own museum if your pockets are deep enough. Eli Broad and the Marcianos did that in L.A.
“So today’s about figuring out if I’m worthy of being one of your pet collectors?” Rude, maybe. Exactly what somebody like Hoskins would say if one of the little people suggests he hasn’t passed enough tests already.
Bandineau winces. “That’s not the way I’d put it at all. I apologize if I gave you that idea. We’d like to know if you’re interested in building your legacy as a patron of the arts by helping us bring Nam Ton wares to this country.”
Nice climbdown. “Lorena, how’s this work? Will I be buying pieces from you?”
She holds her napkin to her lips until she swallows. “Yes, that’s right. Jim and I work together. He’s graciously volunteered to come to the gallery, talk with you about the wares we have, perhaps guide you toward the ones that would be best for your tastes and for investment potential. I handle the commercial side of things.”
And he gets a piece of the action? It’s convenient there’s no public market for Nam Ton yet.
Lorena lofts her eyebrows at me. “Are you interested, Mr. Hoskins?”
Savannah hasn’t said much since the food arrived. I don’t doubt for a minute that she’s heard every word. I hover my mouth over her ear. “What do you think?”
Her breath’s warm on my cheek when she leans in. “I think we shouldn’t talk about it here.” She pulls away to give me a significant look.
“Got it.” Normal voice. “You’re a brave woman.”
She gives me crunched eyebrows. “Why?”
“You’re in a white dress, eating pizza with tomato sauce.”
That brings out a sly smile. “This business isn’t for wimps.”
I turn to Lorena. “Let me eat on it. We’ll talk in a few.”
“A few” turns into almost half an hour, after we’ve disappeared the food and nobody has any blood left in their brains. Once the waiter’s cleared the plates and we’ve waved off the dessert menu, I tell Lorena, “I’m interested in learning more. Hearing your goals, what you think my place in it is.”
“Excellent.” She leans forward far enough to see past me to Savannah. “Savannah, dear, could you please excuse us? We need to discuss some things with Mr. Hoskins.”
Huh? “Wait.” I put up both hands, palms out: stop. “She’s my advisor. Anything you have to say about art, she gets to hear.”
Savannah’s hand touches my shoulder. “Rick—” I wave her off.
Bandineau takes a first sip of his post-lunch coffee. “It’s nothing about art.”
“Whatever. Savannah works for me. I decide whether she stays or goes, not you.”
Lorena presses her palms together and holds her thumbs against her breastbone, almost like a Namaste. “Of course. The discussion may bring out some… personal information. But if you want her to be here—”
“Rick, it’s okay.” Savanna’s hand squeezes my shoulder, then it’s gone. I turn to find her standing. “I get it. I’ll just go down to the bar. I need another Negroni anyway. Come down after you’re done and we’ll talk.” She turns to the others. “Lorena, Jim. Thanks so much for the lovely lunch. Don’t hurt my client, okay?”
Bandineau says, “We wouldn’t dream of it.”
I watch Savannah shimmy her way through the still-crowded tables. I notice Bandineau watching, too.
Lorena says, “You should be careful, Mr. Hoskins. Savannah likes older men.”
I laugh. The joke is, she’s no more than two years younger than me—I did the math on her LinkedIn profile. I just look like I’m ten years older because of the premature gray (thanks, Dad).
“Let’s cut to the chase here.” I pull my wallet, slide out the American Express Centurion card, and hand it to Lorena. “You’re a vendor. Call the vendor number, get my limit.” There isn’t one. I could buy a car with the thing. Maybe a house.
Her lips get flat for a moment, then she hands the card back to me. “I’m certain you have money. The fact remains that we don’t know who you are.” If anything, she’s speaking slower.
This is when the real Hoskins would walk. I don’t have that option, but that doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it. “My money’s green. How much more do you need?”
Bandineau pushes his open hand toward the tabletop. “This isn’t personal, Rick. Please don’t take it that way. We need to know—now more than ever—who we’re doing business with.” He touches one hand to his chest, and the other to Lorena’s bicep. “I’m sure you’ve checked into our backgrounds, or you will. We wouldn’t expect anything less, and I hope you’ll be satisfied with what you find. We need to do the same.”
Lorena says, “This isn’t a simple purchase, Mr. Hoskins. We want to establish a long-term business relationship with you—” out comes a wan little smile, no teeth “—but we need to do that with our eyes open. Surely you understand that.”
I lean my elbows on the tabletop and figure whether I can push back any more. I don’t want to scare them off, but I also need to stay in character. And Hoskins would rip them both a new one for this.
The waiter comes with the bill in a black vinyl folder. Bandineau takes it before I can even reach for it. I hold my hand out to him—give it here—but he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t hear of it. The museum’s development budget’ll pick this up.”
Do they know that? Not my problem. I turn toward Lorena. “Look. I don’t have to prove a damn thing to you. My privacy’s more important than your comfort.” They both wince when I say that. “If you need—absolutely, no-shit need—something from me, tell me what it is, why you deserve it, and how you’ll protect it. Because if something I tell you in confidence gets out, you’re both out of business. Understand?”
Bandineau and Lorena exchange indigestion-related expressions. Their eyes and jaws have a short conversation. Then Lorena says slowly, “References. Galleries you’ve worked—”
“You don’t need that. Who I’ve worked with before doesn’t concern you. Next.”
Lorena gulps. “We’d like an idea of what your collection looks like now. Also, how will you keep the pieces you buy? We want them to be safe.”
I give her a sour look, but don’t object. It’s not too unreasonable an ask.
Bandineau clears his throat. “You mentioned LACMA.” He places the check holder upright on the table with a credit card sticking out of the top. “One of the few things we could find online was a press release about a long-term loan you made to the museum.” Wait, what? “I’d love to know who you worked with there. I’ve wanted to talk to someone about getting Nam Ton into their Asian collection, but I’m not having any success.”
It takes a few beats to remember—that press release was a setup for something Allyson was working on a few months ago. I never found out what. I guess she’s got hooks into somebody inside the museum’s administration. “You’re lucky you found that. I’ve been after them to take it down.” I lean back and pretend to think about his request. “Asking me to share a contact is like asking me to share a mistress. I’ll have to think about this and talk to my contact. Not all our arrangements are… official, let’s say.”
Bandineau’s got the look of a cat that got a big, fat pigeon for Christmas. “I understand. It would be a huge help, and a gesture of goodwill on your part.”
Sure.
Hoskins has to turn into a real person.
Chapter 9
I tell Savannah the abridged version of what happened as we wait on the sidewalk in front of Zero Zero for my town car to show. “What the hell do they think they’re doing? I’m looking to buy pots,
not nuclear codes.”
She smooths my sleeve. “It’s not personal. It’s almost exactly what they told three of my other clients.”
She’s got three clients in this thing? So much for figuring out who Our Client is. “Doesn’t matter. How many Twitter followers do I need before I can buy in?”
“It’s not that.” She’s using her calming-the-angry-dog voice. “It’s strange to find someone prominent, like you, who doesn’t have a social media presence. They’re just being careful. My clients are all in tech and they’re everywhere. It’s really easy to check up on them.” A skeptical look. “Unlike some people I know. Tell me the truth—did your ex really try to rob a museum in England?”
Ah. The Portsmouth project. It’s… a long story. “You know the great thing about exes? You don’t have to keep track of them. But if she did, I’m sure she had a reason, good or not.”
“I’m sure.” Her face turns serious. She folds her arms and glances at the sidewalk. “Rick… uh, thank you for defending me in there. You didn’t have to.”
“Yes I did, and you’re welcome.”
“No, really. It was very thoughtful of you, but—”
“If you don’t draw lines, people don’t know where to stop.” More wisdom I picked up at the gallery. “Jim and Lorena know where to stop now.”
“They’re friends. It’s really not a problem.”
“You work for me. Nobody kicks my employees out of a meeting without my say-so. You’re representing me, right? You’re on my side only, friends or not. Right?”
“Well…” She sputters a little, then lets out half a laugh. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” The town car’s finally trundling down the street toward us. “The chariot’s here. Can I give you a lift?”
Savannah holds her hands palms-up and moves them up and down like a balance scale. “Hmm. Limo, Uber. Limo, Uber. Let me think.” The black Lincoln purrs up to the curb right in front of us. “This’ll do.”
I open the door for her. She knows exactly how to gracefully get into the back seat of a limo while wearing a tight skirt. I think she’s done this before, and not just with me. I get in and tell the driver, “Fifty California.”
Savannah quizzes me on the L.A. art scene for a couple stop-and-go blocks. After a while, I ask, “This sounds like more than just curiosity. What’s your interest?”
She swivels toward me and plants a hand on the seat an inch or so from my hip. “You’re right. I’m thinking of branching out. I love it here, but… well, it’s still a small market. L.A. seems so, I don’t know, wide open. Is it?”
I’d been wondering if she’d make this pitch. Now that’s it’s out in the open, I know exactly what her next ask is going to be. “It depends. There’s a lot of art, and a lot of buyers, and a lot of galleries. But there’s a lot of advisors, too. You’d have competition.”
“I have my niche.”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of Asian money there, so that might work for you. Do you do Asian contemporary?”
“I can. I’ve met a few artists. I don’t like it as much, but I work that space here.” She settles into her seat. Here comes the pitch… “Maybe next time I go down there, you can show me around? Maybe introduce me to some people you know?”
“We’ll see. You’ll pay me then, right? Because I’ll be the advisor?”
Savannah giggles. “You’re funny.”
She checks her phone after it makes a popping-bubble sound. While her head’s turned, I notice what looks like shadowing on the back edge of her dress’ left arm hole. It’s not, though; it’s wear. I’d never guess that she’d keep dresses long enough for them to start falling apart.
She asks, “How long does your meeting go?”
“Two to three hours. Why?”
“Lorena just texted. She wants me to bring you to the gallery after you’re done.”
So soon? “Why?”
“She doesn’t say.”
“Ask her.”
Are they going to let me in the tent without passing their test? That would be great, but I don’t think so. Maybe they’ll tell me to get lost. I doubt that, too. Lorena’s going to drill Hoskins some more about his background? More likely, and a conversation I’m not prepared to have yet.
After a few moments, there’s another popping bubble. “She says it’s a good thing and you’ll like it.”
There’s no graceful way to skip it. “Tell her I can make it by five.”
More skittering, another dead soap bubble. “She’ll be waiting.”
We eventually reach 50 California, a towering concrete-and-glass skyscraper in the Financial District. Good thing there’s no 1:30 meeting—it’s 1:31 now. I get out, then lean into the open door to tell the driver, “Take her wherever she wants to go.”
Savannah says, “Tahiti, please.”
I say, “Continental U.S. only.”
She pushes out her lower lip. “I knew there was a catch.”
I pull up a table at Peet’s Coffee at Battery and Bush after the town car disappears. Yes, Peet’s. I can’t sit in a Starbucks for more than ten minutes anymore without needing to wipe down tables and sweep.
The next three hours give me time to review what happened at lunch and catch up. I check in again with Len. Will I miss that if everything works out? That would be ironic.
The Smithsonian’s Freer and Sackler galleries have an amazing website about the ceramics of mainland Southeast Asia. While I go through every page on my phone, I think about how to prove that Hoskins exists.
Richard Danforth Hoskins has a paper trail. He’s got a California driver’s license, a well-used passport, a few high-value credit cards, and a smorgasbord of bank and investment accounts. He’s got very nice credit histories with all three big agencies. There’s the Wikipedia page I wrote, and the company website somebody else put together. The company has a real L.A. County business license. Hoskins had some semi-coherent things to say in a newspaper piece about urban mixed-use development (it was early, and they caught me off-guard) and a couple brief mentions in trade publications late last year. His ex-wife was famous in Europe for a few days last December.
This apparently doesn’t make him tall enough to go on the ride with Lorena and Bandineau.
So what does?
Chapter 10
Savannah’s waiting for me at Achara’s front door. “Did you walk?”
“It’s only ten blocks. I’ve been sitting on my butt all day. Walking felt good.”
She folds her arms and peers at me like she’s looking over glasses. “Are you sure you didn’t just lose your car?”
I like her spirit, but Hoskins needs her to know her place. “How I get here doesn’t matter to you.” I pull open the door. “After you.”
Lorena greets us in front of her desk—an old teak trestle table with a glass-covered top—in the back of the non-statue gallery. When we get done with the pleasantries, she says, “Savannah told me what caught your fancy at the museum the other day. I’d like to show you something.”
She steers me to an antique sideboard against the long wall. There are three pots on it, each on its own red-silk plinth. The overhead spots reflect on the smooth, polished black surfaces. I bend to take a closer look. “Phimai Black.”
Savannah says, “You’re learning.”
“I’m teachable.”
Lorena stands to my right with her hands folded in front of her hips. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell you about them?”
I can’t count how many times I was in that same place next to a client, waiting to do the same thing. “Not now. Just let me look at them.”
“Of course.”
If I didn’t have to be all about Nam Ton, I could get to like these. I studied the Phimai Black tradition after I saw it at the Norris. It came from the upper Mun River valley in northeastern Thailand during the Iron Age. Not all the pottery from there is black, but the blackware’s the most strik
ing work. The shapes are simple and streamlined, and the decoration’s tastefully minimalist.
The left-hand ware’s a voluptuous round-bottomed urn, maybe a foot wide, with an everted rim (it curves out rather than in) and a cylindrical neck. The shoulder and body meet at a soft angle, like the crease in a luxury car’s fender. There’s some repair on the neck and rim. The burnished surface glows in the soft light. I want to rub my palms all over it.
“That one is lovely, isn’t it?” Lorena’s slipped on latex gloves. She gently rolls the pot on its display ring so I can see inside. “Wares of this form are typically funerary vessels. They were used to bury infants.”
Gag. “You had to tell me that.”
“It’s important that you know how these were used.”
“Did this one…?”
“I have no idea.”
Moving on. A shallow bowl is the center piece, maybe nine inches in diameter. A smooth curve, a small shoulder, an indented rim. The inside’s polished in a way that left a swirl of shiny black lines against the matte-black field. Nice. “Please don’t tell me they ate the hearts of their enemies in this.”
Savannah giggles. Lorena says, “Oh, no, nothing like that. That would be Mesoamerican. This is a simple bowl.”
“Good.” On the right side is a tall jar with a lid. The jar’s charcoal-gray body is nearly spherical with matte horizontal bands burnished into the glossy surface. The neck and rim are shaped like a cone with the point cut off, flaring up from the body. The lid’s like the bowl next door, except slightly deeper and obviously reconstructed from sherds. Very nice.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 6
