by Jenna Payne
With his chalk white and blue trimmed business card held out to me between his index and middle finger, I retrieve it from him as if it is a piece of trash he’s asked me to throw away. I’m not your Coffee Bean drive-thru attendee, here, buddy, I think. “Thank you, Mr….” I say, searching for the last name on the card, “Toranny. I’ll keep that in mind. The piece will most likely remain off the market.” I smile, enjoying having the upper hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Toranny, I really must be closing up. Good bye.”
He leans his head back with his mouth hanging slightly open. “I must say, Carly, I took you for a completely different woman when I first laid eyes on you. Thank you for your time this evening. It was a pleasure.” He buttons his jacket and hands me his empty brandy glass before heading for the exit. The soles of his shoes clap against the concrete floor now that there are no other sounds to mask his movement.
Holding the empty glass in my hand, I look down and see marks from his lips left on the rim. For some reason part of me wants to place my own lips over the exact same spot. A split second later I feel as though I’m going to throw up in my mouth.
Once the doors are locked and I’m safe and secure inside the gallery, I close the curtains so that nobody from the street can peer in at me. I take a deep breath and have a seat in my favorite purple chair in the gallery. It’s so fat and cushiony I always feel like I’m being swallowed when I sit down. With a clean glass and half a bottle of brandy left, I pour myself enough to take the edge off of the stress from the opening.
I set the bottle on the ground, bring the glass to my nose, and sniff its intoxicating aroma. Once the liquid hits my lips I am already feel the buzz coming on. I’m such a lightweight. Maybe it’s just the fact that my nerves are through the roof. I might not show it, but putting this gallery together in Los Angeles has been my dream since I was 15. I was fortunate growing up in Cleveland because, for a city in Ohio, it actually had a small art scene. I studied at the Ohio State University, where I first majored in English until I realized that the only thing I could do with my life was follow art. I immediately switched my field of study and double-majored in art and art history. After the first semester, I didn’t think I could hack it as an actual artist and made art a minor. So, here I am, a degree in art history and virtually nothing to show for it except for a minimal storefront between a deli and an adult bookstore that I spent months refurbishing to pass as a gallery.
Was it worth it in the end? I still am not sure at this point. What I do know is that I put my life savings and more into this place, and most of the night I felt like people walked in off the street out of pity. It was impossible for me to do any press or marketing because my last dime went into clearing walls for the art space. I don’t even want to get into the fact that I’ve been sleeping on the floor here illegally for weeks because I can’t afford an apartment until the gallery pays off.
With a full gulp of brandy I catch glimpse Lora Zombie’s Deviled Legs and find myself standing up, as if in a trance, to its purple texture, the legs that seem to break the fourth wall of the canvas. I once offered a hundred thousand for this same painting. How about double that? I can’t get Amos Toranny’s astronomical offer out of my head. If I had said yes then all of my troubles would literally wash away. A clean slate. I played dumb in the moment, but I have already weighed approximately how much I would have to pay in taxes in order to consider the sale as freelance work. When it comes to money, I’m no dummy. I may not have any but that never stopped me planning what would be the responsible way to handle it once I did.
Still. Two hundred thousand.
*****
Amos
After visiting one of my curator friends who works at The Getty, I sit on the terrace at the museum smoking a Djarum clove cigarette even though smoking is prohibited here. With the ocean in front of me it is kind of hard not fight the desire to breathe fire.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Amos?” his voice beckons from behind me. I turn around and see Bertrand in his black and navy suit walking toward me with two ice coffees. “If I get another complaint from a French family that they should be allowed to smoke if you are, then I’m banning you for life.”
“You would never do such a thing, Bert,” I say, snuffing the clove cigarette out on the sole of my boot.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he laughs in his haughty English accent. I can barely look at his crooked, gangly smile for more than a few minutes at a time. “I’ve got fifteen minutes and a bowl of soup I need to drink yet, so I’m going to speak rather quickly.”
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 the 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.
