Shooting Gallery

by Lind, Hailey

  A smile hovered on Frank’s lips. It made me nervous.

  “What?” I demanded.

  The smile broadened.

  “What?”

  “Sounds like you’ve had quite an evening,” he said enigmatically.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. The client I was meeting tonight was Mayor Green. He told me about your discovery at Brazil’s new gallery. You’re the talk of the town.”

  I collapsed against the truck. “Just for the record, I had nothing to do with anything. I was a model citizen and answered all the cops’ questions, and you know how I feel about that.”

  “I didn’t imply that you were involved, Annie.”

  Silence filled the space between us. Suddenly tired, I gazed up at the night sky. The glow of millions of electric lights in the Bay Area obscured what should have been a spectacular display, but a few hardy stars managed to shine through. I tried to remember their names. I had learned the constellations years ago at Girl Scout summer camp, shortly before I’d been drummed out of the corps for conduct unbecoming.

  Frank stirred and I wondered if he was thinking about the stars, or, more likely, about the bottom line. Might as well face the firing squad, I decided with a sigh.

  “I don’t have the rent money yet, Frank. I screwed up. I should be good for it soon, if you can just wait a few more days.”

  “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve been avoiding you exactly.”

  “So that wasn’t you in the battered green pickup truck peeling out of the parking lot yesterday when I drove up?”

  His voice, low and attractive, contained a note of suppressed humor. Was he making fun of me? Probably. Was I in any position to complain? Not really.

  “It’s not like I’m slacking off, Frank. It’s just that I’m working sixty hours a week as it is and I still can’t make ends meet. I should probably start looking for a new studio.” I stared into the distance, fighting a wave of self-pity. I didn’t ask for much out of life, just the chance to create my art without risking arrest and imprisonment. Why was that so hard?

  “A new studio?” Frank asked, startled. “Isn’t this a good location for your business?”

  “Of course. Most of my clients are in the City. But the rents are too high.”

  “So there’s no other reason you’re considering moving?”

  “No, I love it here. The studio space is perfect, my friends are here, and my landlord’s a decent sort,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. “Most of the time, anyway.”

  “And he’s about to prove that this is one of those times,” he replied. “Had you responded to any of my many phone messages, Annie, you would have known that I’ve been trying to propose a somewhat unorthodox business arrangement.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard you,” I replied, thinking quickly. “Just how ‘unorthodox’ is this arrangement? Because I’ve had about as many surprises as I can handle in one night.”

  “It’s not that kind of proposition, Annie,” he said, his dark eyes holding mine. “As you know, DeBenton Secure Transport moves artwork for a number of top museums and dealers. From time to time accidents happen and I need the services of a top-notch art restorer. But the work must be done discreetly. Very discreetly.”

  “As in, I keep my yap shut and no one ever finds out?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And in exchange for my services you are offering what?”

  “I extend your lease for three years, and reduce the rent five hundred dollars a month in lieu of a retainer. You’ll be my resident art expert.”

  “‘Resident art expert,’ eh?” I repeated, tempted but hesitant. “I like it. But let’s be clear about one thing: I don’t do restoration work that alters the value of a painting or its attribution.”

  The line between restoring art and forging art was a thin one that I preferred not to cross. To the best of my knowledge Frank was unaware of my past, and I hoped to keep it that way. I didn’t think he would appreciate the irony of a former art forger working for an art security business.

  “Not a problem. I’m referring to straightforward repair work, that’s all. I would also like your opinion on questions of authenticity from time to time.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, beaming. “It’s a deal.”

  We shook hands solemnly. His grip was strong, yet gentle, his long fingers enveloping mine.

  Not that I noticed.

  “Just let me know when you need me,” I said, thinking that a bubble bath and a hot rum toddy would really hit the spot. With the wolf no longer baying at my studio’s door, I could relax for the first time in months.

  “How about now?” he asked, pushing away from the truck.

  Or not.

  “Now’s good,” I said cooperatively.

  We crossed the parking lot to one of DeBenton Secure Transport’s blue-and-silver armored cars emblazoned with the logo of a roaring lion, where Frank used a complicated series of keys and codes to open the rear doors. He climbed in and extended a hand to assist me, a chivalrous gesture I found both charming and annoying. I inched into the car, trying not to flash Frank in the process, which was not an easy task in heels and a short skirt. Switching on the overhead dome light, he locked the heavy doors behind us, hunkered down in front of a shallow wooden crate, lifted the lid, and took out a thick layer of foam packing material. Finally he removed a white silk cloth to reveal an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch painting.

  It was a Picasso, a colorful oil painting of a woman. At least I thought it was a woman.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone reverential.

  “Yeah, sure. Amazing.”

  Frank looked surprised. “You don’t like Picasso?”

  “Of course I like Picasso!” I lied. “What’s not to like? It’s Picasso!”

  “I can’t believe you don’t like Picasso,” he said with a shake of his handsome head. “And to think you once called me a Philistine. Anyway, the question is: can you fix it?”

  Fix what? There were no slash marks, no ink blots, no greasy pizza stains. Just a bunch of lines, pattern, and color.

  I had to ask. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The bright red mark? In the middle of the woman’s breast?” He pointed to a red line in the center of an angular splotch that looked unlike any breast I had ever seen. “It wasn’t there when I took possession of the painting. I’m investigating how it happened, but I can’t surrender it to its owner in this condition.”

  “Oh,” I said, squinting at the red squiggle. “How do you know it’s not supposed to be there?”

  “And here I thought you were the human art detector.”

  “Modern art’s too cold and calculated,” I explained. “I need to feel the art. Now if it were from Picasso’s Blue Period . . .”

  “Feel, schmeel,” he scoffed. “The question is, can you fix it? I can’t turn over a defaced multimillion-dollar painting.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Got a flashlight?”

  Frank pulled one out from under a jump seat and turned its bright beam on the painting. I touched the surface of the red line gingerly, then tilted the canvas and examined it from the side.

  By golly, it looked like a crayon mark.

  Last summer, during a visit to my hometown of Asco, my two young nephews had reintroduced me to the wonders of Crayolas. I’d immediately bought a sixty-four pack, and Mary and I had experimented with them on all kinds of surfaces, including canvas. If I was right, it should be a relatively simple matter to lift the colored wax from the Picasso.

  I glanced at Frank. Not only did I wish to bolster my reputation as “Annie Kincaid, Girl Wonder of the Art World,” but in view of our new business arrangement, I needed my landlord to believe that he was getting his money’s worth. So as he waited patiently, I cocked my head, frowned,
and hmm’d. I squinted some more, sat back on my heels, and put my hands on my knees, bowing my head as if concentrating intently. Finally I shook my head and sucked air in through my teeth, making that reverse hissing sound that usually accompanies estimates for auto repairs.

  “Well, Frank, here’s the story,” I said crisply. “I can help you. Yes, I can. But it’s not going to be easy. I’ll have to examine the mark under the magnifier to determine exactly what we’re dealing with here, then do some tests to assess the pigment adherence index and the media distillates. I’ll also need to analyze the canvas support integer, as well as the existing paint refraction, with a spectrum magnetometer. The last thing we want to do is to disturb the Master’s original pigments and media.”

  Frank looked mystified, which wasn’t surprising considering I had just spouted a whole bunch of hooey. If my original assessment was correct, then all that was necessary to remove the red mark was a careful application of low heat and wax-absorbent paper, a technique familiar to many a parent whose child had scribbled on the good linen tablecloth.

  “I’ll have to work on it in my studio, though,” I said. “Will it be safe there?”

  “Let me install some heavy-duty locks on the windows first. They’re too easy to break into at the moment,” he said as I avoided his eyes. “I’m also hiring a security guard, starting tomorrow. The painting should be safe enough so long as no one knows it’s in your studio. I’ll bring it upstairs in the morning. Will you be around?”

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  Our eyes met and my pulse quickened at the fond expression on Frank’s face.

  “Thank you, Annie. I can’t tell you what a relief this is. I discovered the damage three days ago and have been trying to get ahold of you ever since,” he said, carefully wrapping the Picasso in the packing material and securing the crate.

  “Sorry about that. I thought you wanted the rent money.”

  “In the future, if you fall short with the rent, come talk to me. I don’t know why you make me out to be such an ogre.” Throwing open the rear doors of the armored car, Frank climbed out and offered me a hand. I stumbled into him during my descent but otherwise managed to remain upright.

  “I wouldn’t say you’re an ogre, exactly,” I continued as we crossed the parking lot. “But you have to admit that you have occasional flashes of unexplained grouchiness.”

  “My alleged grouchiness is most often attributable to certain unreasonable tenants,” he said as he held up my key ring and shook it so it jingled.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re the only one with skills?”

  “Why, Frank,” I purred, snatching the key ring and unlocking my truck. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

  “My dear Annie,” he replied, closing the door as I started the engine. “You still have no idea.”

  “The single most important thing about stealing art is knowing where to find the art,” Frank lectured the next morning as I followed him up the stairs to my studio, stifling a yawn. “Ergo, it follows that if a thief can’t find it, a thief can’t steal it. Simple as that.”

  I knew from experience that foiling art theft was not that simple, ergo or otherwise, but kept my mouth shut. What Frank didn’t know about my past couldn’t hurt me.

  “Where should we put it?” I asked, unlocking the door and ushering him inside. “Shouldn’t you invest in a safe or something?”

  “All a safe does is announce, ‘The good stuff’s in here!’” he replied jovially. “No, the safest place for this baby is right over there with the rest of the junk.”

  The man was positively glowing, I thought as I disarmed the security system with the code he had given me downstairs. Where was the grumpy-pants landlord I knew and loved to provoke?

  “You feeling okay, Frank?”

  “Just super,” he replied, rummaging around under one of the worktables. “Thanks for asking.”

  My spacious art studio took up one corner of the DeBenton Building. The light, bright space included a fifteen-foot beamed ceiling punctuated by three skylights and two ceiling fans, as well as the original wide plank floor and redbrick walls. A bank of tall, double-hung windows along the northern wall let in a soft natural light that was perfect for painting. Near the door was a sitting area where I entertained clients and friends. In a fit of whimsy one rainy afternoon I had painted a faux fireplace on the wall, complete with a cozy roaring fire. In front of the fireplace I had arranged an old Persian rug, a faded velvet couch, two flea market chairs reupholstered with discarded fabric samples and my trusty staple gun, and a wicker trunk that doubled as a coffee table and storage for blankets for the nights I was too tired to drive home safely.

  Most of the studio, though, was devoted to my work. Several large easels held paintings in varying stages of completion; a motley collection of garage-sale bookcases were jammed with art reference books, cans of paint, jars of applicators, cartons of brushes, and scary-looking bottles filled with scary-acting noxious chemicals; and along the rear wall were three large worktables, a light box, a steamer, and several heat lamps. Beneath the worktables were covered plastic bins packed with an assortment of faux-finishing tools masquerading as junk: goose feathers gathered from Oakland’s Lake Merritt that were perfect for painting the squiggly veins of faux marble; old plastic sheeting for creating a wonderful texture when pressed into wet glaze; and Styrofoam blocks for stamping “bricks” into murals. Wherever I went I kept an eye peeled for odd bits of rubbish that I could use to create new effects.

  Frank decided to stash his multimillion-dollar Picasso beneath a pile of Belgian linen canvas tucked behind a large carton full of plaster bunnies. I had acquired the bunnies at an auction two years ago for pennies on the dollar in what I could only describe as a triumph of creative optimism over practical sense. My assistant, Mary, had taken one look at the ugly rodents and informed me that I was no longer allowed to attend auctions.

  “Safe and sound,” Frank said as he patted the plaster bunny box. “Just don’t spill anything on it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Coffee. Paint remover. Sticky buns.”

  “Sticky buns?”

  “Just by way of example.”

  “Tell you what, Frank,” I said. “If you’ll install those window locks and let me get to work, I’ll keep away from the Picasso when I eat my usual breakfast of coffee, sticky buns, and toxic solvents, okay?”

  Frank laughed, picked up his toolbox, and got to work. I watched, impressed, as he efficiently unscrewed the old brass fittings, sanded down and puttied over the screw holes, drilled new holes, and screwed in tamper-proof steel locks. My landlord had never struck me as the type of man to know his way around power tools. Then again, last night he had extracted the keys from my locked truck neatly enough.

  Finished with the window locks, Frank reminded me once more to set the alarm whenever I left the studio, and departed just as my friend Pete arrived. The two men nodded coolly, unconsciously puffing out their chests as they passed.

  “How do you do, Annie?” asked Pete as he headed for the small kitchen enclosure. “Cuppa Joe to clench your thirst?”

  Originally from Bosnia, Pete honed his English by watching soap operas and memorizing his word-a-day calendar, resulting in an impressive, albeit eclectic, grasp of American idioms, history, and culture. But whatever his linguistic quirks, Pete operated my fussy secondhand espresso maker with the skill of a master croupier at a roulette wheel. This was a very good thing because I had a serious caffeine addiction, and the rest of the gang put together could scarcely manage to boil water.

  “Espresso, Americano, latte, cappuccino?” he asked.

  “Double cappuccino, please.”

  Although he was six feet, six inches of rippling muscle, Pete was more teddy bear than grizzly bear, his animosity toward our landlord being a notable exception. Mary claimed it was due to a testosterone-driven territorial
fixation and urged Pete to go ahead and pee around the perimeter of the studio. He had found Mary’s suggestion bewildering but not altogether out of the question.

  While Pete ground aromatic beans and noisily steamed water and milk, I checked my phone messages and my calendar. I needed to update sample books for the interior designers I worked with, finish the holiday displays for a local charity, and follow up on a bid for a “castle in the clouds” mural for a little girl’s room in the St. Francis Wood neighborhood. I also needed to see how Bryan was doing. Oh, and find a stolen Chagall.

  First, though, I called Janice Hewett to make arrangements to be paid one hundred and fifty dollars an hour to speak with a recalcitrant sculptor. She chattered for several minutes about last night’s excitement before giving me the phone number and address of Robert Pascal’s studio on Tennessee Street, which was not far from the DeBenton Building. I called the number twice, but there was no answer, not even voice mail. Looked like it was time for a field trip.

  “Mornin’, Annie,” my twenty-something assistant said as she breezed in and threw herself onto the velvet couch. Mary Grae was a tall, striking blonde who believed that, when it came to clothes and eye makeup, any color other than black was unnecessarily complicated. Today was her day off, but I wasn’t surprised to see her. She often took refuge at the studio to escape the crowded apartment she shared with the members of her pseudopunk band.

  Close on Mary’s heels was Sherri, her best friend since kindergarten. A few years ago the pair had hitchhiked cross-country from a small town in Indiana, where they had outraged their elders by dying their hair, sporting tattoos, and forming truly wretched bands. Mary insisted the only things of value she and Sherri had learned in three years of high school were how to smoke, forge their mothers’ signatures, and pee in a cup.

  In San Francisco they seemed positively quaint.

  “Mornin’, Annie,” echoed Sherri, a dark-haired pixie whose high, tobacco-roughened voice sounded like Minnie Mouse on a pack a day.

  “Hello, young ladies,” Pete called from the kitchenette. “And how do you do today?”