The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  “So why didn’t Gladding go to Koon’s agent to procure the piece?”

  “He won’t work with the man. He told me the agent burned him on another deal in the past. If Koon wanted to sell, it had to be through Mr. Gladding’s own representative—me. I still can’t believe my luck. I’m just glad he remembered my gallery when he needed someone to handle this for him.”

  They were approaching an intersection and the light facing them was yellow, but rather than brake, Rebecca stomped on the gas and they barreled through, narrowly missing a cyclist who’d had the temerity to venture a few inches beyond the bike lane. It earned them yet another middle finger. Rebecca adjusted her sunglasses and pretended not to notice.

  “I really don’t understand what Mr. Gladding sees in August Koon’s work,” she confessed. “It makes me sick, the prices his stuff draws when so many more deserving artists are selling their work for pennies to his dollar—if they sell at all.”

  “Like the artists whose work you carry?”

  Rebecca nodded. “Case in point. Those impressionist pieces you were admiring, for example. That man’s work has been shown in major shows and several local museums, but he lives like a pauper. It just isn’t fair.”

  “Life rarely is, in my experience. And to be honest, I’m still a little leery about dealing with Moises Gladding. He’s a pretty shady character, by all accounts.”

  “So you said last night. But in my experience, saints are rarely patrons of the arts. Most of the really big sales these days are to Wall Street millionaires or Hollywood sharks. If I limited myself to customers who could pass a decency test, I’d have gone bankrupt long ago. Although I may yet,” Rebecca added grimly.

  “I guess you’re right. Anyway, I’ve got nothing to say on the subject, since I’ve had some dubious clients myself. What about this painting? Gladding’s paying a quarter mil for it, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that a good price for a Koon?”

  Rebecca frowned—sort of. The Botox mystery expression again. “I think the price is a little high for such a small piece, to be honest. I’m not complaining, mind you, since my commission is based on the selling price. Still, I think he could have gotten a better deal if I’d been allowed to negotiate a little.”

  “Koon’s not in high demand?”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s very comfortable.”

  “Curious.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about art markets,” Hannah said, “but I do know something about characters like Moises Gladding. And the thing about arms dealers is, sometimes they trade in valuables other than cash. It’s an idiosyncrasy of the arms market that sometimes the people who want weapons don’t have much money, so they barter, trading something else for guns and rocket launchers.”

  “Paintings?”

  “More often drugs—cocaine or heroin, say—or conflict diamonds mined by slaves in Africa. But sometimes stolen art is used as collateral, too.”

  “But the Koon painting Mr. Gladding is buying isn’t stolen. It’s an original.”

  “I know. And actually, I’d expect one of Gladding’s customers to be trading a painting, not him. The IRA, for example, was once suspected of stealing a Rembrandt which they gave to a middleman who then financed the purchase of guns the IRA wanted. Terrorists have also been known to buy rocket launchers with stolen Picassos.”

  Rebecca nodded. “We get Interpol and FBI lookout notices about stolen art all the time. I always thought it was shady billionaires or Arab sheikhs or something who were buying them.”

  “Ah yes, the Doctor No scenario—the recluse with a private vault of old masters that he keeps for his personal enjoyment,” Hannah said. “Apparently that’s not how it works. Art, like drugs and diamonds, is just another form of currency—a Rembrandt traded for AK47s, cocaine for rocket launchers. Your basic commercial marketplace at work.”

  “And that’s the business Mr. Gladding is in?”

  “That’s exactly the business he’s in.”

  Rebecca’s sunglasses had slipped a little way down her nose and she peered over them now at Hannah. “My, my. Nora’s little sister. You look so young, and then you open your mouth and the things that come out of it. No wonder Nora wasn’t sure you’d be interested in my little delivery job. Pretty small potatoes next to your world of rocket launchers and Rembrandts.”

  “Oh, yeah, my life is nonstop glamour. Believe me, most of this is just theory to me, too. Just like the Koons of this world mostly deal with big-time New York art agents, the world of Moises Gladding is far removed from anything I usually get hired for. I’m just a girl with a gun who likes to travel and gets paid for it.”

  Sunset Boulevard was far behind them now. They were heading uphill into canyon country.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t sound like this August Koon’s a big enough name to factor into that world either. Although,” Hannah added, looking around, “these are pretty fancy digs up here. He must be fairly successful.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “He does all right. But the man’s in his fifties, I’d guess, and his prices only started to climb in the past five years or so. As far as I know, this has always been his home base. Property around here would have been affordable when he was starting out.”

  “So he lucked out in the real estate lottery, too.” Hannah consulted the Mapquest printout that Rebecca had given her. “It should be the next left, I think, and then the first place on the right.”

  Rebecca took the left at the intersection and then a quick right at a tree-shaded gateway with an elaborately painted wooden signboard announcing the studio of August Koon. The crunch of the BMW’s tires on the gravel driveway startled a klatch of doves. They followed a winding lane through a grove of scrub oak.

  “I should warn you, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality,” Rebecca said.

  “I stand warned.”

  As they emerged from the tree-bowered driveway, the roadway widened into a circular gravel parking area before a two-story white clapboard house. A rickety-looking garage stood next to the house, its double doors swung wide on loose hinges to reveal an aged yellow VW bus inside. Shades of the sixties, Hannah thought. The bus was only missing a paint job of psychedelic flowers.

  Rebecca parked the car and they climbed out. Eucalyptus and pine trees intermingled with the scrub oak around the house, and the air smelled intoxicatingly fresh. The paint on the house was peeling and the perennials in the flower beds were fighting for survival against an onslaught of creeping kudzu vines and milkweed, but there was still something magical about the place, one of the many little woodland glades that existed practically in the heart of Los Angeles. Rebecca was probably right, that Koon had bought it back when properties like this were affordable. Nowadays, if you weren’t a Hollywood studio honcho or a trust fund brat, there was no hope.

  The weather-worn screen door at the front of the house opened and a man stepped out. His severely receded hair was lank and mostly gray, curling over his ears. He wore a brown and yellow plaid cotton shirt that strained over a considerable paunch. His chinos were paint stained, the frayed hems puddling over equally paint spattered Birkenstocks. His thick brows nearly met at the deep frown creases over his nose, and matching creases ran down either side of a fleshy, unhappy-looking mouth. A portrait of the artist as a crotchety old man, Hannah thought.

  “Good morning, Mr. Koon,” Rebecca chirped as he clumped down the front steps. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca Powell. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

  Koon ignored her outstretched hand, glanced dismissively at Hannah, then back at Rebecca. “Come for the painting, I suppose?” His voice was a deep, pack-a-day rasp.

  “That’s right. This is Hannah Nicks. She’s a security consultant and she’s going to be delivering the piece to the buyer.”

  “Humph.” Koon turned his narrow gaze back to Hannah. She couldn’t help feeling that he was finding her sub-par as security for his treasu
re.

  Rebecca went around to the trunk of her car, her platform soles a little precarious on the rock-lined driveway. She withdrew a rectangular, padded black case from the trunk. “I brought a portfolio to carry the painting.”

  “You’re not crating it?” Koon asked.

  “It’s not really necessary. We’ll wrap it, of course, although not too tightly, since it’s going to have to pass through Security at LAX. Hannah will be hand-carrying it and the painting will be carefully stowed with her in the first-class cabin. It’ll be just fine, I can assure you. Shall we see it now?”

  Koon hesitated, then nodded toward a walkway between the house and the garage. “Studio’s this way,” he grunted, heading off the porch.

  Rebecca followed his rapid stride, but her platform espadrilles were having so much difficulty negotiating the uneven tile pavers that Hannah jogged ahead and took the bulky portfolio case from her. Rebecca smiled gratefully and then put her full concentration into trying to keep up with Koon. Dropping back behind her once more, Hannah noticed a small unraveling of fabric at the collar of her gauzy peach dress where it had gone tissue thin from much wearing. Like the strain in her face, it was a sign of the stress she was under. Hannah could empathize.

  Koon’s studio was a freestanding structure at the back of the property, better maintained than either the house or the garage, with what looked like a brand-new air-conditioning unit humming away in one of the large windows. Koon opened the screen door and propped it with one of his paint-splattered Birkenstocks while he fished a set of keys from the pocket of his chinos. When the inner door was unlocked, he stepped in, then backtracked at the last moment in time to catch the swinging screen door before it slammed shut on Rebecca. He held it until only she reached it, then turned abruptly and headed inside, leaving her to scramble to catch the swinging door. What a gentleman.

  The studio was long and narrow, a large open space with windows all along the front and on the western side wall. Overhead were three skylights, although they were on a side of the roof that sloped away from direct sunlight. It was all designed, Hannah realized, to allow maximum natural light into the room without harsh shadow or exposure to harmful UV rays that might damage delicate painted surfaces.

  Along one window stood a banquet-sized table laden with rolls of canvas, T-squares, rulers and a yardstick, as well as bins of tiny nails, a staple gun, shears and a variety of sharp blades and knives. Stacked against the opposite wall were frames and mounted canvases of various sizes. It took a moment for Hannah to realize from the splotches of paint on their edges that the multiple canvases propped face to the wall were probably finished paintings. On the wall above them were displayed still more paintings, large expanses covered with wide swaths of color. Maybe they were drying, she thought, or maybe he liked these better than the ones hidden from view. Most of them still reminded her of Gabe’s finger-paint accident.

  At the far end of the studio stood three separate easels, two of which held large canvases that may or may not have been works in progress. It raised the question—how did an abstract artist know when a work was done? Koon walked over to a framed canvas that had been propped against the long worktable and placed it on the empty easel. It was about two-foot by three, smallish compared to some of the mega works lining the walls.

  “Here it is.”

  Rebecca moved forward, smiling. “Yes, I recognize it from the photographs Mr. Gladding sent me. I can see why he liked it. It’s very vibrant.”

  Vibrant? Well, maybe, Hannah thought, in a dog’s breakfast kind of way. It was nothing like anything Rebecca herself carried in the gallery and her enthusiasm seemed a little forced. On the other hand, a twenty percent commission on the painting’s quarter-million-dollar price tag might turn anyone into an ardent fan.

  Koon seemed to buy it, however, and proceeded to pull out several other canvases to show, his raspy voice rambling on about influences and innovations. Nothing more was required of them than noises of appreciation and these Rebecca offered with a frequency that Koon apparently found gratifying.

  As the two of them made the rounds of his studio, Hannah moved aside to examine the tools of his trade arrayed on the table. Anything was better than to risk being asked her opinion of the paintings. Among the brushes and blades were putty knives crusted with paint, suggesting he used these to apply color as often as he used the brushes. There was also a well-used whetstone, its surface worn to a concave groove. Next to the sharpening stone sat a curve-bladed knife, its ebony handle smooth from use.

  Hannah picked it up. Now, knives she knew something about, and this one was a beauty—well balanced, lightweight, yet sturdy at the same time. She ran a finger gingerly along the honed inner curve of the blade. It was wickedly sharp. What would he use a blade like this for? She studied the rolls of canvas and the wooden stretchers waiting for mounting and imagined the knife slashing through the tough cloth. It would do the trick. Like butter.

  “Put that down,” Koon snapped.

  Hannah turned, frowning at the man’s tone. Taking the blade by the point, she flipped it high in the air and watched it complete three perfect end-over-end circles before she caught it neatly by the ebony handle. Rebecca gasped.

  “Nice knife,” Hannah said blandly, setting it back down on the table.

  Koon glared, clearly unimpressed. Well, all right, she was showboating, but the man was such a pompous pill. Maybe she shouldn’t have been playing with his toys, but was the attitude really necessary?

  She went over and retrieved the leather portfolio from the corner where she’d left it and handed it to Rebecca. Time to get this show on the road. Rebecca seemed to agree, because she opened the portfolio, withdrew a length of soft cloth and carefully wrapped the small picture before sliding it into the case.

  After she handed over a check for payment and had Koon sign a receipt, they said their hasty goodbyes and the two women were on their way, leaving Koon to his studio, his paintings and precious knives and brushes.

  As much as Hannah might worry about taking on a job involving Moises Gladding, nothing about this painting said it was the kind of masterpiece usually associated with illegal arms deals. This was a simple transport for easy cash. If Gladding had more money than taste, who was she to quibble?

  Five

  It was nearly five by the time Hannah got back to her condo. She and Rebecca had gone for lunch after the trip to Koon’s studio, a meal that had dragged on uncomfortably as Rebecca offered chapter and verse of her husband’s betrayal, their broken marriage and ruinous divorce. Hannah could sympathize, having been there herself—although Cal, to his credit, had not added insult to injury by trying to ruin her financially after stomping on her heart. If taking this courier job could help Rebecca in a small way, Hannah was glad of it, although she could have lived without all the sordid details.

  One they’d gotten back to the gallery in Malibu, Hannah had turned around and fought her way through traffic to Silver Lake. By the time she arrived at home, the day was shot and she was beat. She loved Los Angeles. but getting anywhere in the city was a joke. It had turned into another spring scorcher, and she was hot, grimy and thirsty. Time to kick back and relax before her early-morning trip to the airport and the flight to Puerto Vallarta.

  She opened the fridge, grabbed the water filter pitcher and took a glass from the cupboard. Her kitchen was tiny, just wide enough to open the doors on the double wall ovens, but it had been well equipped by the yuppie developers who’d converted the old building, making it both functional and attractive—especially given that her only regular visitor was Gabe and that her culinary activities generally revolved around the microwave, the rice cooker and her fridge’s vegetable bin. She was no gourmet cook, but she ate healthy. It was the only way to survive—literally—in a profession where the ability to move fast was the number-one requirement for long-term success.

  After downing an entire glass of cold water, Hannah refilled it, then set the pitcher on the gran
ite-topped breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the large, open living area beyond. The living space was on the second floor, over the garage, with bright, airy windows front and back and a small balcony at the front overlooking the street. It was a nice place to live—at least, when she made an effort to control the clutter and dust. Touches of Nora were everywhere.

  As much as she sometimes chafed under her sister’s overprotective watch, Nora could always be counted on to come through in a crisis. When Hannah’s marriage and then her home had collapsed in rapid succession, it was Nora who’d found the condo, then served as informal decorator after Hannah bought it. As a result, Hannah lived in a colorful refuge of teals, tans and corals, the wall colors warm and welcoming next to the unit’s exposed brick. Her mother had also passed on a number of textiles and curios from the art and antique shop in Beirut where Hannah had spent many a summer with her Greek-born grandparents. Her sister had artfully hung some of the woven pieces on the walls and made others into pillows and runners, which added yet another shot of bright color. It was thanks to Nora that she had a place that felt good to come home to, even if the daily absence of Gabe remained an open wound.