Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  “Let’s see. I polish them on a nightly basis. My brand new laptop—” He gave a sarcastic frown. “—complete with touchscreen technology, is in my backpack, right next to my iPhone 7 Plus. All wifi ready, with unlimited data.”

  Gabe cringed. “That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah. Never held a smart phone. I haven’t typed on a computer since the last day I attended school, a few years ago. I do know about the latest and greatest through advertisements and commercials I see on televisions in homeless shelters, but an iPad isn’t likely to be in my near future.”

  While Andi’s heart tumbled at the reality of Pic’s life, Gabe smiled. “Then you’re going to have the time of your life. Wait till you see how easy it is to download action flicks and video games. As you start to feel better, I’ll teach you how to use maps and satellite technology so you can show me the places I need to look for your friends. Marks. You’ve been paying attention?”

  He paused.

  “Great. Go upstairs, into my room.” He followed Andi to the stairs as he gave Marks instructions on getting his iPad ready for Pic to use.

  Andi headed downstairs with him, Pic on their heels. After making sure Pic had everything he needed close at hand, she and Gabe returned to the main house. In the mudroom, she drew in a deep breath.

  “You okay?” Gabe asked.

  “Nervous.”

  “We’ve been through this. They’re going to love your work.”

  They had been through it, because on and off, during the day, she’d been increasingly worried about the four p.m. meeting with Jacques and Sonja.

  “I don’t like the intrusion. In my home. They’re from my past life. I’m better now. Really. I know I’ll be seeing people more frequently. But even now, I think I’m going to have a hard time relating to people with whom I was once so…open.”

  “Oh,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “That.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That. But it isn’t that I slept with them both. And dear God, how terrible, that I can joke with you about sleeping with others, yet not…go there with you.”

  He shrugged. “We’ve known each other three days. Not that long—”

  “Trust me. The way I behaved before, three days, in some cases, was a lifetime.”

  “I’m not worried about it. Because I’m feeling like I’m in line for an exclusive. Loving the anticipation of being your best, and I’m going to have fun working on persuading you I’m worthy of being your last.”

  She laughed, then any lightness she felt over Gabe’s joke—because that had to be a joke, right?—faded as a few more seconds ticked away. Didn’t he understand that she wasn’t going to let them have a future? That all they had was these few days that he was on her job? She wouldn’t allow him to get lost in her darkness. Not in any lifetime she could imagine. Given the clear look of sincerity in his eyes, she shook herself.

  Focusing on the problem at hand, she said, “I don’t know if I’m ready to be an artist yet.”

  He shook his head. “Not following. Because you’re already one hell of an artist. It’s who and what you are. Your talent is unmistakable. It shows in every canvas in this house.”

  Looking into his crystalline greenish-blue eyes made some of her uncertainty fade. “Thank you, but the fact that they want to decide what’s gallery worthy—”

  “Oh. Got it. You’re worried they’re going to start making business decisions you have to live by.”

  “Yes. And dear God, what if they—or anyone else—assume I’m the same sort of person I was before? Because the idea of all that casual sex is revolting to me now.”

  “One thing at a time. About the sex,” he offered, smiling. “Set them, or anyone, straight. Fast. But we both know that’s not why Sonja and Stapleton are here today. You’re that good of an artist, Andi. Sonja’s here to make sure she gets her finder’s fee. Or whatever other accolade Stapleton’s giving her.”

  “Not making me feel any more comfortable.”

  He chuckled. “It all gets back to my advice last night about being natural. Remember our talk?”

  She nodded. “Being natural. Being me.”

  “Then quick. Are you comfortable with giving them ten more paintings?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fifteen?”

  She nodded. “But that’s it. For now.”

  “Can you think of fifteen you’re willing to give Stapleton?”

  She did a quick mental check of the two hundred or so that were hanging in her house and were stacked against the walls of her studio upstairs. “Yes. Sure.”

  “Then, that’s it. You set the terms. And do what comes natural to you. They need you more than you need them. They’ll know that the minute they walk in and have their lights knocked out when they see your work. You hold the power. You have something they want, something they can’t get anywhere else.”

  She nodded her head. “Okay.”

  “Want me to stay with you?”

  “Please.”

  He flattened his hand in the small of her back. “Let’s do it.”

  Waiting in the vestibule, Sonja looked her usual sleek and sophisticated self in head to toe black. An ivory-colored overcoat was folded over her left arm. She was typing a text on her cell phone. Jacques wore brown slacks, a beige turtleneck, and a navy overcoat. He was saying something to an agent, whose back was to Andi. Over the agent’s shoulder, he gave Andi a nod, his voice trailing as she and Gabe approached.

  By the time she hung up their coats, they were standing in front of paintings that hung on the largest unbroken wall in the foyer. Sonja had a bejeweled hand pressed dramatically to her chest. Jacques, head cocked slightly to the side, studied one canvas, then the next. A smile played at his lips. Their reaction made her forget, for a moment, her nervousness.

  Gabe had assumed a position of unobtrusive security guard. From the base of the stairs, with his back to the wall, he shot her a full-beam smile, eyes alight with gloating.

  ‘Told you so,’ he mouthed.

  The paintings that had captured Sonja and Jacques’s attention were five of a series, in varying sizes, with slight changes in angle. She’d started the series by standing outside the Royal Orleans Hotel on Chartres Street, and looking down the street at the Saint Louis Cathedral.

  “These are stunning,” Sonja said. “The whole is even better than the parts. I wasn’t aware you painted some of your canvasses in a series. I’d have insisted on that presentation in the show.”

  “Amazing,” Jacques said, his attention fixed on the canvasses. “I have chills. You’re it, Andi. You’re the real deal.”

  The daytime blue of the sky painted in the first of the series had morphed into an evening sky with Prussian blue tones for the final painting. In the studio, she’d imagined that the street was alight with flames from gas lanterns. Flickering light played on puddles on the street and the flagstone of the sidewalk.

  “The passage of time. Exceptional. You painted the first and second outside, right?” Jacques asked.

  She nodded. “Two different days.”

  “And then you did the others in the studio?” Sonja asked.

  “Entirely.”

  “I’m not sure which I like better. And that we have options is amazing. For purists, we have en plein air. For others, your studio embellishments. Rarely do artists bridge the gap from outside to inside so exceptionally. The colors. The brushstrokes. The depth. Good God, on this final one, the lantern light playing on the rain water.” Jacques reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone, which he lifted and readied for a photograph.

  Andi drew a deep breath. “No.”

  Jacques, hand poised in midair, arched an eyebrow as he looked at Andi and not Gabe. “The photos aren’t for distribution.”

  “Please,” Andi added. “No.”

  His dark eyes slid over her. He threw an exasperated glance at Sonja, then glanced back at Andi. “You know you can trust me.”

  “Of course.” She fought to keep her to
ne conversational, and not fall into a whisper. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in my house.”

  Gabe, who’d been standing close to the stairs, stepped a few feet into the foyer, and came to a stop at her side. “Ms. Hutchenson said no photographs.”

  Jacques kept his eyes on Andi. “I’m simply trying to get a handle on inventory.”

  She cleared her throat. “These are paintings, in my home. Not your inventory. I’ll show you the paintings I’m offering for sale. Then you may leave.”

  “This might work best if it’s a collaborative effort.” Sonja’s voice was cool.

  “You both might want to forget anything you knew about me. I’m different than I was in the past. This is how I’ll collaborate. Let’s go upstairs, to my studio. I’ll show you the paintings that the Stapleton Gallery may offer, starting tomorrow. You may set the price. All of my proceeds are to benefit Hope House. If you want to continue this, in two weeks, I’ll have fifteen more. Not one day before.”

  “Fair enough,” Sonja said, her blue eyes sharp, a small smile playing at her lips. “I like the new Andi. Lead the way. We can’t wait to see what you’ll offer to your eager collectors.”

  In the studio, they gawked more. But Jacques didn’t attempt to take pictures again, and Sonja had nothing but praise for what she saw, as Andi indicated the canvasses she planned to have ready to send to the gallery the next day. The tour of her studio ended near the sketches.

  Andi turned to go to the door where Gabe stood, but they didn’t follow. Stapleton had paused, gazing at the wall where several sketches hung. “Oh my. These are amazing.”

  Sonja picked up a sketchpad from the table. “May I look?”

  “There’s no point. They’re not for sale.”

  Sonja smiled, opening the sketchpad. “Everything’s for sale. It’s only the price that requires determination. Besides, I’m really good at persuading people to do things they never imagined doing.” She gave Andi a small, lingering smile.

  Drop dead, bitch. I know what you mean, and I’m no longer a pushover. That was the old Andi.

  Andi glanced at Gabe. His face remained a study in blankness, but, as his gaze caught Andi’s, a hard edge was visible in his eyes. Yes, he’d caught Sonja’s hidden meaning.

  Andi wanted to grab the sketchpads from their hands, uncomfortable with them touching the drawings that were so deeply personal to her.

  “These are homeless people,” Sonja said. “Invisibles. Right?”

  “In that case,” Jacques said, “lack of releases wouldn’t be an insurmountable obstacle. They’re not likely to know, and they were outdoors, in public, right, when you did these?”

  “Those factors don’t matter,” Andi said, annoyed that they had so little regard for those they deemed invisible. Their very invisibility was what drew her to the homeless kids. “I wouldn’t do anything without a release and it’s really academic, anyway. Because they’re not for sale.”

  “Your paintings are insanely good, Andi. But these sketches are incredible.” Sonja held the tablet so Jacques could see what she was looking at. “Look at how much expression she’s put in these eyes. Through shading.”

  Andi’s throat caught when she saw the beautiful blonde who Sonja had been studying, with a small scarf wrapped around her head, featured in the sketch that had caught Sonja’s attention. Monica. Sonja flipped past the sketch of Monica, and paused at another one. Honey.

  “Interesting, isn’t it, how these people cluster together. They seem to use the pretty blue-eyed blond girls to collect the big dollars,” Sonja said, flipping through the sketchbook as she spoke. “I read an article that said either a pregnant girl or a puppy can guarantee a panhandler upwards of two hundred fifty a day in high traffic areas.”

  Looking over her shoulder as she turned the pages, Jacques shrugged. “Capitalism works just as well for the lower levels of society as it does everyone else, I suppose. One would think all the social services provided for them would be enough. Many of them go home to a nice apartment at the end of their day. They’re no more homeless than you or I.”

  “No wonder we can’t get them off the streets.” Sonja paused, turning pages, her head cocked to the side as her eyes scanned the next sketch.

  It took everything Andi had not to snatch the book from Sonja’s bejeweled fingers, and tell them she had no interest in submitting any of her work to the gallery. She didn’t like either of them. How in the world had she ever spent time with either of them?

  “Oh look,” Sonja cooed. “You even drew the dog with this one. I love the way you treated the fur, I can practically feel how soft it is. This is exceptional.”

  “In reality, we need about a hundred more Hope Houses,” Stapleton said. “Problem is, these people need to want to be off the streets. And most of them are just too damn lazy to get real jobs. We all know their cars are parked around the corner when they’re sitting under the interstate, panhandling, with those desperate looks on their faces.”

  “Really?” Andi asked. “My sketches inspired this discussion?”

  Stapleton and Sonja glanced at her, puzzlement in their eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Jacques said, his gaze drifting downwards as he flipped a page. “I need to have these in the next show. They’re amazing.”

  They reflected her past back at her, showing her a warped mirror image of who and what she’d once been. Shallow. Superficial. Uncaring. A part of a world that existed in her remote years. A world where she never would have noticed someone like Pic.

  I’m better now, even though I’m broken.

  Andi politely but firmly removed the sketchpads from their hands, then indicated the door as Gabe stepped back to allow passage. “Let me be perfectly blunt. Your conversation confirmed my decision. My sketches won’t be offered for exhibition or for sale. Our business is concluded.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Gabe

  Thursday, February 18, 7:30 p.m.

  “Andi, you take Vitamin C, right?” Gabe asked, as Pic doubled over in a cough. The three of them were downstairs in the guesthouse, waiting on Dr. Cavanaugh. Gabe was on the couch with Pic, using his laptop and iPad to teach Pic how to incorporate data points onto satellite maps.

  She sat across the room, closer to the fireplace and its crackling flames. She nodded as she glanced at him, then quickly returned her gaze to her laptop screen. She had her feet tucked up under her and her laptop balanced on pillows on her knees. He’d thrown together a pot of soup with a rotisserie chicken and vegetables he’d gotten from the grocery store. Simmering on the stove, it filled the air with homey, savory, mouthwatering goodness, waiting for Pic to get hungry.

  Both Andi and Pic had blankets covering their laps, though the small, cozy house seemed plenty warm enough to him.

  “Up the dose. This kid’s still a walking petri dish.” But he was a hell of a lot better. From Monday evening, on, Pic had resigned himself to resting. After setting up a user account for Pic on his iPad, and making sure all of Gabe’s Black Raven work was locked away, Gabe had taught Pic a few preliminaries of how to use the iPad. He’d pretty quickly mastered how to access video games and live streaming action movies.

  Pic now gripped the iPad like it was the best thing he’d ever held, but, because he was feeling better, he was insisting on hitting the streets on Friday to look for Monica, who hadn’t yet made an appearance with Tank and Honey. Gabe had an idea for an end around.

  As Pic coughed more, Andi’s gaze took both of them in before settling on Gabe. Fresh worry wrinkled her brow. “What about you?”

  “Yeah. Black Raven’s power blend, with mega C.” He glanced at a red-faced Pic, who was finally through coughing.

  “Oh. A power pack,” Pic said, his tone mocking. “Complete with steroids?”

  Gabe threw a pillow at his head, which Pic deflected and threw back. “No steroids. And don’t mock it, because I’m not the one who’s sick here, am I? As a matter of fact, I’m starti
ng you on it tonight. Now—back to work. The program auto-assigns pins for people, or whatever search components you’re integrating into maps. List search components, in this case, people. As the program assigns pins, you insert them in the map, then type notes for each pin. Start with Banjo Richie.”

  Because I’m going out there tonight and I want to find someone who is damn well findable.

  “Okay, I’ve got the concept, but where do I start the list to get the pins?” Pic turned the iPad so Gabe could see it.

  “Touch—” Gabe leaned over, pointing to the map’s search bar. “—there. The keyboard materializes, then you type the names. Once you do that, you’ll be able to drop the colored pins. The document is live. Meaning whatever you type is materializing on mine. Andi, I’m emailing a link so you can integrate with us. I’ll text a pass code.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t glance up from her computer.

  The prompt that said that Andi had accessed the document didn’t come. “Andi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Email plus text.”

  “Yes. Give me a minute to check out.” She shot him a wide smile as she picked up her cell phone. In a second, his phone dinged with a text from her. ‘Banana Republic. Urgent shopping trip. For Pic.’

  Andi-inspired warmth flooded through him. He wrote, ‘I’ve got the map thing with Pic. Ragno’s sent me an email. I’m forwarding it to you. A drawing of Pic’s tattoo. Enhanced. Study it. Do a stream of consciousness email to Ragno & me. Anything u think of. Especially anything Pic may have told u. Ever. Ragno’s been working on this for the last few days, but we need info to make sure she’s in the right place. No matter how small—anything you’ve got might help.’

  Ragno’s searches had turned up troubling information. He hoped deeper digging would lead them in a different direction. Gabe glanced at Pic, who was staring at the wonder of satellite map technology depicting areas where he’d walked for the last two years.

  Glancing at his laptop screen, Gabe saw the first few green pins appear as Pic placed pins on the map. “These pins are for Richie?”