The Collection Page 13

  “Buon giorno,” she pants. “Mr. Hoskins?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “You’re Miss Comici?”

  “Si. Yes. Please, I am Gianna.” She runs the back of her free hand across her forehead. “Mi dispiace, I am sorry, there is the problem with the water—” she points toward the back of the gallery “—I am finished soon.” Before I can say anything, she swivels and throws some rapid-fire Italian toward an upmarket couple that appears from behind one of the partitions at the far end of the gallery. The woman says something calming; the guy checks his watch.

  I grab Carson’s bicep—damn, it’s solid—before she can slip away. She frowns at my hand, then at me. “Go help her out,” I whisper. “Play nice. I’ll poke around out here.”

  Carson nods and hurries toward Gianna, who’s retreating into the back. They bicker about whether Carson should help.

  Tough break for Gianna. Now I can get a feel for the place without having to hide what I’m doing.

  The gallery’s shiny clean—not always the case—and I don’t see any scuffs or mars on the big stretches of white paint. That either means constant maintenance or not enough foot traffic. Classic jazz plays softly in the background. It sets a better mood than the classical music Gar insisted on piping into our gallery.

  I make a slow counterclockwise circuit, absorbing the space as well as the stock. The works on the sales floor are heavily weighted toward late Impressionists, post-Impressionists, Fauves, Cubists and Primitivists. Lots of strong color, fast lines and bold shapes. The labels are big, with clear, attractive typography. The alcove in the back of the gallery holds a white wooden desk (must be Gianna’s) and a small seating area featuring a black-upholstered, Bridgewater-style Art Deco loveseat facing two matching armchairs. Between the desk and sofa is the mouth of a corridor leading to Carson shoving water out the open back door with a push broom.

  All in all, it’s nicer than I want it to be. I’d work here. I was hoping for a dump.

  Gianna should know where everything is and how it got there. But how do I get her to see me as something more than just another customer? How do I get her to confide in me?

  The answer’s right in front of me. I can do her a favor.

  The late-fifties Italian couple is parked in front of a pleasant landscape—an orange orchard, a church, afternoon light, loose brushwork. They’ve been there for a minute, her whispering to him, clutching his arm, him being a dude and grunting. I’ve seen this scene before. I drift behind them and use my work phone’s camera to zoom in on the label: Joaquin Mir Trinxet. I suck the Wikipedia article into my brain. The Blouin Art Sales Index shows his recent sales are all over the map. Is Belknap’s €20,000 price reasonable? No clue. But that’s not the point—the lady wants it. She should have it.

  I used to be able to do this.

  They both startle when I slip up next to her. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  She’s handsome, well-kept, a dyed bronze up-do, wearing a sheer black tee over a black camisole top and a highly graphic red-and-black Marni skirt. Her free hand goes to her necklace, a statement piece in wire rings and patinated metal plates. She may be somebody’s granny, but she’s rocking a younger look. She gives me a careful smile. “Si. Si, it is.”

  I need her to commit before I start working on hubby. “I sense a connection between you and this canvas.” I don’t, but I can create one. “Is it special to you in some way?”

  Her smile warms up. “Oh, si. It makes me think of the villa of my father, in the country.”

  Aha. Came from money, probably married money. How nice for her. “This was the view?”

  She nods, and now her smile thaws and spreads over the rest of her face. She’s still a fine-looking woman, even if she’s got twenty years on me. “Si, from the terrazza. In estate, mmm, summer, we go to the villa. I am a girl—” she holds her hand at six-year-old level “—and I sit on the terrazza and see the men working and smell the trees…” Her cheekbones pink up. “Scuse, I talk so much. I am Evelina. Here is mio marito, Ludovico.”

  “Richard.” I take Evelina’s hand in both of mine and bow my head a little—I don’t want to fumble a hand-kiss right now—then give Ludovico a manly-man handshake. He’s wearing an English-cut navy suit, a safe gray tie and a cream dress shirt that’s starting to wilt from work and the humidity outside. He’s even less happy than he was before I started talking.

  “You are Americano?” Evelina asks.

  “Yes, I am. I’m looking for art that touches me, just like you.” I hold a hand out to the canvas. “Mir Trinxet was from Barcelona and he worked in Catalonia and Mallorca, so this landscape was very familiar to him. I’m sure you can feel the affection he shows for it here.” Again, bullshit, but it’s easy enough to get people to believe what they want to.

  “Oh, si,” Evelina murmurs. I see her as a pretty little city girl peeking over the marble balustrade around her dad’s terrace, blown away by how big the world is when there aren’t buildings in the way.

  I lean toward Evelina enough to smell her perfume—subtly floral, not roses—and give her my best honest smile. “You know what Mir said about his art? ‘All I want is for my works to lighten the heart and flood the eyes and the soul with light.’” God, I love Wikipedia. “You think he did that here?”

  She smiles and nods and says something Italian to Ludovico. I don’t know Italian, but I recognize the tone: Isn’t that wonderful? Can’t you see it? Hubby says something short and grumbly: Yeah, wonderful. Can we go now?

  She’s about 90% in the bag, but I want the rest of her in it before I go after hubby. I hope Gianna appreciates the effort. “Tell me, Evelina… where will you hang this? Do you have a place in mind?”

  Her eyes go distant for a while. “Si, si,” she finally says. “In il soggiorno, mmm, the salon? By the door to the balcone.” She shares this happy news with hubby, who frowns at me like it’s all my fault. They have a lengthy debate, her coaxing and then pleading, him stubborn and then irritated. Finally, she sighs dramatically and turns to me. “Mio marito says it is too expensive.” Her lower lip pushes out just a bit to let me know what she thinks of that.

  “Does your husband understand English?”

  She shakes her head. That’s both good and bad. Bad because I have to bargain with him through somebody else; good because that somebody else is his wife, who’s invested.

  “Tell him the last four Mir landscapes that sold at Sotheby’s London went for over €100,000. Now, this one doesn’t have the same exhibition or publication history, but two similar Mirs sold at Sotheby’s in 2012 for roughly this price. Remember, with the recent high sales, his stock is going up.” Of course it is… in geologic time, everyone’s is.

  I leave out the part about the most recent six-figure canvas being twice as large as this one, with a primo exhibition history. And the bit about all the times his stuff was bought in (not sold) at auction. And that only the big London and New York houses manage to sell him at all.

  We go back and forth a few times, Ludovico throwing up one objection after another, me swatting them back, Evelina clutching his arm and giving him the biggest, softest eyes this side of Cute Overload. I don’t exactly lie to the man. Gar taught me there are flavors of truth, and I’m giving Ludovico the Godiva triple-chocolate-truffle flavor.

  “I’m sure Geofredo has some room to move with the price,” I say when it looks like Ludovico’s castle walls are about to crumble. “Of course, I can’t make any guarantees, I don’t work here. But seeing how much Evelina loves this painting…” the other side of the bed’s gonna get real cold if you don’t lay down the ducats, dude.

  Gianna finally steps out of the corridor. I wave her over as Evelina and Ludovico negotiate the terms of their near-future sex lives. She’s brushed out her hair so it splashes off her shoulders—no more ponytail—and it’s so brown it’s almost black, like stained walnut. Mid-heeled, open-toe white pumps have replaced the wet gym shoes.
She tilts her head, curious.

  I bend close enough to have a stray curl tickle my nose. “She’s Evelina, he’s Ludovico.”

  “I know,” she whispers back.

  “Sorry.” I give her the twenty-second rundown of the dynamic. “Ease off a grand or two and I think you have a sale.”

  Intelligent eyes the warm brown of rosewood flick toward the happy couple, then back to me. She nods once, then sweeps in for the kill, launching into Italian that sounds a lot like a closing spiel. Now that her hands are free, she uses them as much as her mouth to talk. I drift far enough to be out of the way but close enough to keep track of the action. A couple minutes later, Gianna drags the couple back to her desk.

  Carson reappears. Her face is flushed from water management and she’s wiping sweat from her forehead with a folded-up paper towel. Bet she’s glad she dressed up. She frowns toward the desk. “What’s up?”

  “I made a sale.” I get the strange look I expect. “Is the flood over?”

  “Yeah. Pipe broke in the toilet. What’d you find out?”

  “I can still move a painting.”

  It takes a good twenty minutes for Gianna to get the paperwork done. I’m not thrilled with just hanging around like this—what if Belknap comes back?—but we don’t have much choice. I spend nearly as much time checking the front and back doors as I do looking at the art.

  Carson and I mill around, me trying to teach her about some of the art movements hanging on the walls, her trying to look interested. Finally I kick her loose; it’ll be easier to get Gianna to open up without Carson around. She’s not happy about it, but she’s not unhappy enough to fight it. “Time for research,” she says instead of “goodbye.”

  I hear the familiar plop of a Champagne bottle opening, then clinking glasses. Evelina and Ludovico finally leave after a flurry of air-kisses and Italian farewells. A couple minutes later, Gianna tracks me down by a pretty okay Dutch Realist cityscape—snow on tidy Dutch rooftops, a frozen canal, mist, people pushing sledges. She hands me one of the two Champagne flutes she’s packing, then clinks my glass when I hold it up. “Alle vendite facili.”

  Whatever. “To teamwork.”

  Her eyes don’t break lock on my face while she sips her bubbly and rolls it around her mouth a couple times. “Where does Miss Carson go? I want to say ‘thank you.’” She has a cute accent, almost like a movie Italian, all music and rolled Rs.

  “To lunch, and some business. I’ll pass it on. Have you recovered?”

  “Si. Yes.” Gianna taps her fingertips against her breastbone. “I catch the breath now. These things, they never happen when no one is in the gallery.” She gives me a spanked-puppy look. “I am very sorry you wait so long. Mille grazie for your patience.”

  “I kept myself busy.” If I was really Hoskins—the kind of guy he’d be in the real world—I’d already be done with my rant about how valuable my time is. That would cement my cover as a rich asshole, but Gianna wouldn’t care to go above and beyond to help me.

  “Yes, I know.” Another long sip. “Why do you do that, Mr. Hoskins? With the Piorinis?”

  “Please, call me Rick. Quite frankly, the sooner Ludo and Evelina got what they wanted, the sooner I have you all to myself.” I have to be a little selfish—I’m supposed to be rich, after all. “I do have you all to myself, now, don’t I?”

  “If you wish.” Gianna says it like it’s an invitation. Maybe it is. She finishes her last mouthful of Champagne, glances at the Dutch canvas, then back to me. “Do you like this?”

  “It’s okay.” It’s nicer than that, but I have to play hard-to-get.

  Saturday night, I went over all of Carson’s photos and every art image on the gallery’s website, and every one came up clean. Today’s all about seeing what’s not on display, and what happens when she’s the only one looking. Best case, I get Gianna to let me into the storage room, or she tells me about shady characters hauling in canvases in plastic trash bags.

  Worst case… well, I won’t think about that right now. Most of the options involve Belknap, his mafia buds, and chainsaws.

  I drain my flute and give Gianna my best apologetic smile. “Gianna, I want to come clean. I took a good look at your stock while you were busy. You have some very nice pieces here, but… nothing I can fall in love with.”

  She frowns at me. “Fall in love? The paintings, they are like women to you?”

  “No, but I’m sure you must know what it’s like. You see eight, ten, twelve works that are trying to do the same things, say the same things. They may have different palettes, different styles, different brushwork. They’re all just fine. But one of them… it’s the one. It reaches out to you and you know you can’t go home without it. So yeah, it’s like falling in love. You can’t explain it, it just happens. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”

  “With the man, yes. With the painting, no. I hear other clients say things like this, so I know it must be so.” She cocks her head and peers at me. She has this very direct way of looking at me, maybe looking through me, that’s both a turn-on and a challenge. I’d like to explore that some more. “You do not love our paintings, but you come back. Why?”

  I need to move this along before she has a chance to think any more. “I’d love to have you show me what’s in storage.”

  No reaction at first. Then her mouth puckers. Then a little smile slowly spreads over her face, just her top teeth showing, but with a twinkle in both eyes. She takes the flute out of my hand and slow-walks toward her desk, throwing in some extra sway. It’s a really nice view. She swaps the glasses for a clipboard, then sashays back while she leafs through the pages. I notice all the things there are to notice, including the scar on her left shin and that all twenty nails are painted a dried-blood red. When she gets close enough, I recognize an inventory list clamped to the clipboard.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Hoskins—”

  “Rick.”

  “Rick. I do not think these paintings—” she rattles the papers she’s holding up “—are the ones you will marry and have bambini and live with forever.” She flicks a glance at me. Her mouth is twisted into a knot that seems to be holding in World’s Best Joke. “But with some, you will want the hot affair, maybe.”

  I like this girl.

  Here she is, face-to-face with a millionaire potential client, and she’s confident enough to give me shit. Just for that, I’d buy something from her if I had any money of my own. “Well, I’m always open for a hot affair.”

  “Are you?” Gianna gives me another of her cute half-smiles and wraps her free hand around my elbow. Even after my collision with Allyson, this is like first base. “Come, then. I introduce your lovers to you.”

  She steers me through a door next to the sitting area into what I recognize right away as a viewing room. It’s narrow but deep, with cream walls, three-toned gray commercial carpet and intimate lighting. Small drawings and pastels hang on the back and right-side walls. The only furniture is a pair of reproduction ladder-back Mackintosh side chairs, a twin to the loveseat outside, and a tall, blond-wood easel standing about six feet in front of it. Nice setup—clean, comfy and quiet. Like most viewing rooms, this is where the real selling happens.

  “Please wait,” Gianna says in a low-and-soft voice. “I bring the first painting to you.” She glides to a cypher-lock door set in the middle of the wall to my left, makes the keypad peep four times, then disappears into what must be the storage room.

  I try the door—locked, of course—then fire up my work phone. No bars. Same deal with my personal phone. Seriously? I could get reception out on the sales floor. I rap my knuckles against the drywall and hear a dull thud, not the thock of a typical interior stud cavity. The answer hits me: this room is soundproof. It’s also transmission-proof, either because of a cell-phone jammer or because the room’s built like a Faraday cage. This one room may have cost more than all the other spaces in the gallery combined.

  Nobody
honest needs a secure viewing room. Is this so Belknap can work his shady deals without eavesdroppers?

  The cypher-lock door clacks open. Gianna sidesteps in, holding the sides of an antique wood frame with both hands. The stretchers and backing are old enough (or well-forged enough) to be weak-coffee brown. Once she gentles it onto the easel and steps back, I see a blocky small town at the base of a green hill, white walls and terra cotta roofs, the silhouette of distant mountains, vivid colors, more shapes than details. Pretty enough. “Fauvist?” I ask.

  “Yes. Charles Camoin.” Gianna launches into her pitch. I’m itching to look up Camoin’s sales history, but can’t. Is that why there’s no cell signal in here? To keep people from looking up prices themselves? That’s way overkill.

  “Rick?” She rests a hand on the frame. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s nice.” I’d planned to look up the pieces she shows me to see if they’re hot. So much for that idea. I hold up my work phone. “I can’t get a signal in here. Is that normal?”

  Gianna nods. “Lorenzoni says the walls, they have too much metal.” She holds her open hand toward the Camoin. “You say this is nice. Is it nice, you want to make love with it, or is it the nice girl you do not want to touch?” She’s really running with that metaphor.

  “Nice girls can be a lot of fun.”

  Gianna smiles and bats her eyelashes at me.

  “Leave it here. Maybe it’ll grow on me. What else do—”

  We both flinch at the bell.

  Was that the wrong answer? I look around to see what just went binggg. “What’s that?” I ask.

  Gianna’s turned toward the little red light glowing above the door to the alcove. “Someone is here,” she sighs. She detours on her way to the door to touch my forearm with her fingertips. “I am very sorry. I come back soon.” Then she’s gone.

  If I was really Hoskins, I’d be plenty peeved by this. There aren’t supposed to be any customers except me. Acting pissed isn’t going to get me what I want, though. I make a circuit of the works on the wall, mostly sketches and studies with a couple gauzy watercolors. I also look for cameras. I don’t see one, which doesn’t mean it’s not there. My eyes keep going back to the smoke detector in the middle of the ceiling, though. Watching too many spy movies tells me to check it out.