Faking It d-2

by Jennifer Crusie

  Tilda snorted. “You can’t even trust the artist. They used to take paintings to Picasso for verification, and if he’d painted them and he didn’t like them, he’d deny them. But if somebody else had painted them and he liked them-”

  “He’d claim them,” Davy said. “That makes sense.”

  “Only if you’re dishonest,” Tilda said virtuously.

  “But there are other ways of telling? Science? Chemical analysis?”

  “For some things,” Tilda said, growing more cautious. “Good forgers scrape down old canvases and grind and mix their own paints. You can still get them on trace elements, so if people take their time and get the results back before they buy, they can walk away. But if they’ve already bought it, even if the evidence comes back-”

  “They don’t want to hear it,” Davy said.

  “Right.” Tilda frowned at him. “You know about this?”

  “People don’t like to be made fools of,” Davy said.

  “So they’d rather keep believing the con than go after the guy who swindled them.”

  Tilda shrugged. “I can’t feel sorry for them. If they really fell in love with the painting, what difference does it make if it’s real or a fake or a forgery? And if they didn’t like it, they shouldn’t have bought it.”

  “So they deserve to be swindled,” Davy said. “I’ve heard this before.”

  “No.” Tilda jerked her head up. “Nobody deserves to be swindled.”

  “You said a fake or a forgery,” Davy said. “I thought they were the same thing.”

  Tilda looked at him, trying to think how she could get rid of him. “A forgery is corrupt from the beginning,” she told him. “A fake is something that began honest and then somebody corrupted it to make it look like something else. And now, I really have to go.”

  “You know a lot about this.” Davy’s smile was open and honest. Clearly a forgery.

  “Family business. Nobody knows how the crooks work better than the legit people in the same business. Look, I have work to do.”

  “So what’s the best art con?” Davy said, keeping his seat against the door. “What’s the surefire fake?”

  Tilda frowned at him. “You planning on going into art fraud?”

  “The fake that can’t be caught,” Davy said. “Tell me and I’ll let you out.”

  “It’s not a fake,” Tilda said. “It’s a forgery. A contemporary forgery.” When Davy shook his head, she added, “A forgery painted at the same time the real painter was painting.”

  “What if you didn’t have an ancestor who forged and left you his work? What’s the next best thing?”

  Tilda sighed. “There was one guy, Brigido Lara. He forged an entire civilization.”

  Davy grinned. “My kind of guy.”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “He was exactly like you. He had no morals and no fear.”

  “What’d he do?”

  Tilda hesitated, and he folded his arms.

  She sighed again, trying to shame him into letting her go. “Okay, when pre-Columbian pottery got hot in the eighties, he made beautiful ceramics and then spread the word that they were from a newly discovered tribe, and he was the greatest living expert.”

  “I’m impressed,” Davy said. “How’d they ever catch him?”

  “They didn’t,” Tilda said. “He finally came clean.”

  “And even then, a lot of people didn’t believe him,” Davy said.

  “It was really beautiful pottery,” Tilda said. “Lara became an expert on pre-Columbian fakes, if you can believe it. The old ‘set a thief to catch a thief bit.”

  “Hard to believe,” Davy said, not meeting her eyes.

  “My dad had a Lara piece for a while until somebody talked him into selling it.”

  “But he told them it was a forgery,” Davy said.

  “Of course,” Tilda said, tensing again.

  “So, Matilda,” Davy said, watching her closely. “Are we stealing back a fake or a forgery?” Tilda froze, and Davy shook his head. “Look, babe, it has to be one or the other. There’s no other reason for you to be so desperate to get it back.”

  “The Scarlets are real,” Tilda said. “What are you stealing?”

  “We’re not talking about me,” Davy said.

  “We are now,” Tilda said. “Unless you’d like to agree that neither one of us really needs to know what the other one is up to.”

  “Maybe we’ll talk later.” He leaned forward to get up as Steve scrambled out of his lap to follow Tilda.

  “Maybe we won’t,” Tilda said. “For us there is no later. You’re out of here once we get back. Have a nice time in Australia.”

  Then she opened the door, hitting him in the back with no guilt whatsoever.

  DAVY WATCHED Tilda unlock the basement door, Steve on her heels, and then pull it shut behind them, neatly cutting him off from following her. A locked basement. Clearly the Goodnights had secrets. He tried to think if there was any way that could help him and decided that whatever was down there was Tilda’s problem, not his, and that was the way it should stay. A better plan was to go eat. The way his luck was going he’d be in jail by midnight, so he might as well take advantage of German Village ’s good restaurants.

  At seven-thirty, he went back to the apartment, keeping the door ajar so he could hear Tilda when she came to get him. He turned on his cell phone and called Simon again, but there was still no answer, so Davy left a message that he needed fifteen hundred dollars FedExed to Gwen, sparing a moment to wonder where Simon was. Somewhere brunette, undoubtedly. Then since it was Friday, he dutifully punched in his sister’s number, and his niece answered on the second ring. “Hey, Dill, it’s me,” Davy said.

  “Excellent,” Dillie said. “I need some advice from a guy.”

  “Right,” Davy said. “I reserve the right to bail from this conversation at any time.”

  “Don’t be wimpy,” Dillie said. “Jamie Barclay quit the softball team. She says boys don’t like girls who compete with them. Mom says that’s garbage. But she would say that. I mean, you know Mom. But Jamie’s mom says it’s true. And she’s been married to a lot of guys. So I need to know. Is it true? And don’t give me any of that after-school-special stuff.”

  “Well, yes and no,” Davy said, following with some difficulty. “Some guys don’t. That’s not the point. You like softball, right?”

  “Yes,” Dillie said. “But-”

  “Well, what kind of loser guy would make you give up something you liked so he could feel better?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dillie said. “That sounds good, but-”

  “Got your eye on a seventh-grader, too?”

  “No,” Dillie said. “He’s in my grade. His name’s Jordan.”

  “And he doesn’t want you to play?”

  “I didn’t ask. He doesn’t know I like him. He doesn’t know I exist.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it.” Davy thought for a moment. “I think you have to look at the big picture here, Dill. This guy, whoever he is, is a practice swing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Very few people mate for life with the people they fall for at twelve. Doesn’t mean it isn’t real, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter, but basically, we’re talking a practice swing in the big game of love.”

  Dillie groaned.

  “So he’s temporary. But softball is permanent. You can play softball forever if you want to. Softball is not a practice swing. The things you love are never practice swings.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s good,” Dillie said, sounding overly patient, “but I like Jordan. You know?”

  “Right.” Davy looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I’m going to explain something to you, so listen carefully. And don’t ever tell your mom I told you. Or God knows, your dad. They’d never let me near you again.”

  “Okay,” Dillie said. “Cool.”

  “You can get anything you want from people if you approach them the right way. But you have
to think it through and watch the other person very carefully. You have to think more about the other person than you think about yourself. You have to know the other person.”

  “Is this some kind of Golden Rule thing?” Dillie asked, her voice skeptical.

  “No,” Davy said. “Not even close. This is the basic, uh, sales pitch that every Dempsey knows in kindergarten. Five steps. Memorize them. Don’t write them down, memorize them.”

  “Okay,” Dill said. “Shoot.”

  “One, make the mark smile. In your case, Jordan is your mark.”

  “Got it. Make him smile. How?”

  “Smile at him. People usually smile back. And once they smile, they relax.”

  “Okay. One. Smile.”

  “Two, get him to say yes. To anything. Ask him if he watches the WWF or if he has a game after school. Anything, but get him to say it.”

  “Okay,” Dillie said. “But I don’t get-”

  “If you can get somebody to say yes to something, he’s likely to keep on saying it. You’re setting up a pattern so that he associates talking with you with saying yes. Then, three, make him feel superior to you. It increases his confidence and he’ll get careless.”

  “So I do what?”

  “Ask him a question he can answer. He’ll feel smarter than you.”

  “Okay,” Dillie said. “That’s sort of girly, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Davy said. “This is not a girls-are-dumb, boys-are-smart thing. This is lulling him into a false sense of security. This is you running a… sales pitch on the poor schmuck. Which is really unfair because you’re holding all the cards because you’re the girl, but you’re also a Dempsey, so it’s his tough luck.”

  “Okay,” Dillie said. “One, smile, two, yes, three, superior.”

  “Now he’s feeling pretty good around you,” Davy said. “So you want to reinforce that. So on four, you give him something. Like a compliment. Or half of the candy bar from your lunch. Something that makes him think he’s the one who’s ahead in the conversation.”

  “Okay,” Dillie said, sounding confused.

  “Then you move in for the kill,” Davy said. “On five, ask for what you want but do it so that he thinks you’re doing him a favor by taking it.”

  “I want to know if he likes me.”

  “Translate that into something concrete. Do you want him to take you to the movies? Walk you home? Give you his ball cap? What?”

  “I want him to like me,” Dillie said.

  “He probably does, you’re a likable kid. That’s too fuzzy a goal. Figure out specifically what you want. And in the meantime, practice it on people until it works. Just not on any people named Dempsey.”

  “Jamie Barclay,” Dillie said.

  “Good,” Davy said. “But don’t ever push it. If it’s not working, drop it and find another way in on another day. And do not tell Jamie Barclay. This is for Dempseys only.”

  “Right,” Dillie said. “I love you, Davy.”

  “I love you, too, Dill,” Davy said. “If the practice swing turns out to be a loser, I’ll come beat him up for you. Now let me talk to your mom.”

  “She’s not here,” Dillie said. “She’s at a meeting.”

  “Okay, tell her I said hi. Tell her I’m all right and I’ll call next week.”

  “She’ll be mad she wasn’t here,” Dillie said. “You better give me your number. And not your cell phone. You always turn it off and that makes her mad. What’s the number where you’re staying?”

  “I don’t think so,” Davy said, imagining Sophie talking to Tilda. “Tell her I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  Dillie was quiet for a minute, and then she said, “Yeah, that’ll get me off the hook. I can see Mom saying, ‘No problem, I’ll just trust him because he’s never bed to me.’”

  Davy grinned into the phone. “Very funny. Tell her I’ll be down to visit soon.”

  “You’re coming to visit?”

  “Yep,” Davy said.

  “Good,” Dillie said. “Then you can teach me more of this neat stuff. I never learn stuff like this in school.”

  “I can well believe it.”

  “It’s too bad I can’t tell anybody, but I won’t because I know you’re right. You’re always right.”

  Davy looked at the phone and laughed.

  “What?” Dillie said innocently.

  “I told you, never push it,” Davy said. “But that wasn’t bad. You hit four before I caught on.”

  “It was easy,” Dillie said smugly. “I almost had your phone number.”

  “Not even close, Dill. It’s not horseshoes. If you don’t get all five, you get nothing. You pushed it too hard and you didn’t think about your mark. I’m always right? Come on.”

  “Oh,” Dillie said. “I should have stuck with how cool you are.”

  “Ouch,” Davy said.

  “This really is neat,” Dillie said. “But I think I’m going to make mistakes. I mean, I’ll know if I screwed up, but I’ll need you to tell me what I did wrong like you did just now.”

  “Dill?”

  “Yes, Uncle Davy.”

  “I told you, stop trying when the mark gets suspicious. I’m not giving you my phone number so you can call me for advice. And I changed my mind. Do not tell your mother I called. We did not talk. Wipe this from your mind.”

  “Wipe what?” Dillie said and hung up.

  “Well, that was illuminating,” Tilda said, and Davy clutched the phone and turned to see her lounging in his doorway. “Who were you talking to?”

  “My niece,” Davy said, turning off the phone. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

  “How old is this kid?” Tilda said.

  “Twelve,” Davy said.

  “And what exactly is it you do for a living?”

  “Sales,” Davy said. “So how was the basement?”

  Her smile vanished and she straightened, tense again. “Mason and Clea just pulled up. Could you get a move on?” She looked impatiently down the stairs. “I want to get this over with. And you out of here.”

  He put his phone in his jacket pocket and folded his arms, watching her. She still looked like a bug. He had an old-fashioned urge to rip her glasses off and say, “Why, Miss Goodnight, you’re lovely,” but she’d probably dislocate something of his and take the glasses back before he could finish the sentence.

  “Wow what are you doing?” she said.

  Also, she wouldn’t be lovely. That was sister Eve. This one was… He tilted his head at her, trying to think of the right word.

  “Could you please-”

  “Betty,” he said, cutting her off. “I have stolen one painting for you and I am about to help you steal another, even though I don’t need to, even though I have fish of my own to fry. So I’m waiting for you to ease back on the hostility. It’s annoying and, frankly, boring.” He watched her take a deep breath, the furrow in her forehead disappearing. He still couldn’t think of a word to describe her, but she was definitely fun to watch.

  She nodded. “You’re right.” She came in to sit on the bed beside him, making him bounce a little as the mattress sank down. “This is making me crazy. I hate relying on other people to save me, I hate being clingy, I hate it, and every time you show up, I lean on you.”

  “ ‘Clingy’ is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you,” Davy said.

  “So I’m taking it out on you. You don’t deserve that. I apologize.” She looked at him. “Really. I’m sorry.”

  Davy nodded, taken aback by her honesty, not to mention her proximity. “Accepted.”

  “And I hate stealing stuff,” she said miserably.

  “Well,” Davy said. “ ‘I’ve always believed that if done properly, armed robbery doesn’t have to be an unpleasant experience.’” She looked at him as if he were insane, and he added, “It’s a movie quote. Thelma and Louise”

  “A movie quote.”

  “It’s a family hobby.”

  She looked almost sw
eet sitting there beside him, her eyes wide behind her bug glasses, her dark curls all tumbled and soft, and then she said, “It’s so odd to think of you having family.”

  “What did you think?” Davy said, annoyed. “That I was raised in a petri dish?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Tilda said hastily. “I meant that you seem like such a loner. Kind of a Liberty Valance thing.”

  “Thank you,” Davy said. “I’ve always wanted to be a vicious killer.”

  Tilda looked genuinely puzzled. “What vicious killer?”

  “ Liberty Valance. Lee Marvin.”

  “No, I meant Gene Pitney.”

  Davy frowned at her. “Who’s Gene Pitney?”

  “The guy who sings ‘The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.’” They stared at each other in incomprehension until she said, “Never mind, I take it all back. Can we go?”

  “So you’re thinking of me more as John Wayne than Lee Marvin.” Davy shrugged. “Okay.” He stood up and gestured to the door. “Want to go steal stuff, Thelma? Or would you rather be Louise?”

  She looked up, startled. “I don’t know who I want to be,” she said, and went past him out the door.

  “That makes two of us,” he said, catching the faint scent of cinnamon as she passed. “I don’t know who I want you to be, either.”

  Chapter 6

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE we broke a window,” Tilda said half an hour later, trying not to panic as Davy closed Clea’s bedroom door behind them. “Even if it was a basement window. That’s vandalism.”

  “I broke the window,” Davy said. “I climbed inside. I let you in. And yet, so far, no thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Tilda said. “Oh, God.”

  “You’re not good at this, Betty,” Davy said. “Go look in the closet. If the painting’s not there, you’ll have to go upstairs.”

  He went to Clea’s bureau and began to go through her drawers, and Tilda opened the closet doors again. “Bleah, this perfume.”

  “Obsession,” Davy said, opening the next drawer.

  “You can tell from over there?”

  “No, that’s what she wears.” Davy lifted up a pile of something silky and expensive.