3. Money Laundering
Chapter three
Money Laundering
Kira
I hunched over my office desk, staring at a catalog of art we were supposed to receive. Not a single one of them was even remotely inspired. My forgeries were better than these hacks. Even the descriptions bugged me – they read like a pretentious MFA student’s final project.
“These images are tinged with mystical escapism, memory shrouded by the overarching dominion of tormented dreams…” I read the description out loud as I rolled my eyes.
These whackos had more money than brain cells.
Which is why I had no problem robbing them blind.
There was a note on my desk, left by the Governor of Massachusetts, requesting that we sell artwork for him. They were forgeries, stamped and sealed as having hung in the governor’s mansion.
I had forged the papers myself, and he had signed them, and taken photos with them hanging on the walls.
I guess we’re about to finance a big operation…
I’d get them sold and funnel the money into an untraceable account.
Still, I’d have to sell some of these other mediocre monstrosities somehow. I should just put up the pages against the wall and blindly throw darts to see who I’d sell. It had so little to do with the art, and more to do with the tale I told. So, who would I be the fairy godmother to today?
I went down the hall to a storage closet. The room was kept cool, and devoid of light, to preserve the “precious art” within. Covered canvases and paintings that my colleague failed to sell were stacked five deep against a barren wall.
The covered canvases looked like ghosts. The ghosts of artists’ hopes and dreams.
My canvases never died in this catacomb. Mine always sold… eventually.
I ran my hand over a single painting of a girl, sitting on an older man’s lap. It was a sensual Lolita-like piece that I had sold to my mark, Cosima Durante. Mafia heiress.
I reached into the gold engraved frame and checked that the listening device was still implanted into the carved wood.
I pulled out my phone and started a text conversation.
Me: Your painting is packaged, ready to be delivered. It’ll be there tomorrow evening.
Me: I’m looking at it now, and it’s even more stunning than I remember.
Cosa: You are the best! I am so happy we’re friends. Brunch, tomorrow?
Me: Absolutely!
I was skirting too close to her. My handler, Blink, did not approve. But he didn’t protest either, which was basically his version of consent.
We needed an in with them. We needed information for our operations however we could get it. If I could do it without endangering myself, then all the better.
I stared longingly at the paintings, running my fingers over the pieces that would never find a home. Like stray dogs in a kill shelter, they’d disappear if they spent too long in this hell.
They, like me, had failed to live up to their potential. I had realized too late that the price of art is not just in the craftsmanship of the painting itself. The sculpture or canvas was worth nothing if it didn’t have a good story attached to it.
The story was worth as much as the paint itself. That’s what separates the $20 painting you see on the wall of your local coffee shop, and the $20,000 masterpiece you see on the wall of a museum. Van Gough’s paintings were worthless while he was alive.
Frankly, the impressionists were overrated. Except for Dali. Salvador Dali was the only real genius in the bunch…
The word “genius” was bandied around entirely too much. I could not believe that I was so taken by a painting that I even called someone a “master”!
Heat flushed my cheeks when I remembered that he had heard my praise.
I practically salivated over the money I could rake in with his art. Good technique, and good bone structure? That was every gallerist's dream!
I trudged back to my office, annoyed at how offensively handsome Eoghan Green was in person.
The dossier I had received about him didn’t do him justice. The photos with all the information on Green Fields Enterprises had depicted a blond man with black eyes and masculine features. But it didn’t capture his magnetism. He could suck the air out of a room!
If he were a real artist, I could craft him a persona that would make him millions just by sneezing paint onto a piece of paper.
I pondered that while I walked back into my office, going through the intellectual exercise of how I would sell his work – if that were a possibility.
The question was: why wasn’t he doing it already? He owned the fucking gallery!
I ran my hand over my wooden desk, to the catalog of art we could order to sell. He owned the lot. His name was emblazoned on the masthead.
He was richer than Croesus! So, what was he doing here?
“Money laundering, obviously.”
My head popped up at the sound of his distinct, Irish voice. Speak of the Devil…
Hell, I hadn't even said his name. I’d just thought it and he materialized!
“That’s why I’m here, painting,” he said, as if I had said something out loud. “I’m money laundering, obviously.”
I guess we’re both here for the same reason then, I thought ironically.
He smirked as he stepped into my office without invitation, waltzing in like he owned the place… which, he actually did. But I wouldn’t let that stop me from judging him.
“What?” I turned to him, annoyed at his intrusion.
“You were wondering what a handsome, talented, master painter was doing, throwing his art into this gallery when I could be dominating the Met.” He placed his hands in his pockets, smirking at me with eyes so absolutely dark, they looked like true black. “I’m laundering money, Miss Kekoa.”
“You’re… so full of it.” I tried to laugh it off as a joke. I couldn’t let on that I knew how much money Green Fields Enterprises washed through this gallery. I couldn’t let them know that I had looked at the books - both sets of them - and sent it back to my handlers.
“I only speak the truth, Miss Kekoa,” Eoghan said, his voice like a caress over my skin. “Whether or not you believe it is up to you.”
I stiffened. I knew this to be true. Why was he confessing it to me? Did he know who I was? Had I been made, somehow? No… if I had, surely, I’d be dead by now. Plus, I was careful. So, what was his aim?
A lump caught in my throat. Of course, I had heard the rumors. Vicious rumors about his lack of compassion. They said his black eyes were a perfect reflection of his blackened soul.
Nothing could be corroborated. It was all single-source and deemed unreliable. That’s what most intelligence was, after all. Just rumors and conjectures, written down, and taken to be fact. But nothing could be proven against the Greens.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Miss Kekoa, is absolutely true. I am, in fact, the Irish Thomas Shelby of the Upper West Side.” He leaned a hip against my desk, entering my personal space.
His suit was something from a movie. Green pinstripes added texture to his black wool suit. The pattern was so subtle, most people wouldn’t even see it. Not unless they had a keen eye like I did.
“Who?” I asked, as he stepped towards me.
The scent of coffee and something sharper enveloped my senses. Bergamot. He smelled like my morning tea.
His head tilted like a dog that heard a whistle. “You’ve never seen Peaky Blinders?”
“No, I can't say that I watch television.” The idea of committing hours upon hours staring at other people on a screen didn’t really interest me. It was all cheap, addictive thrills, designed to give us an endorphin rush so we stayed hooked.
Not like staring at a still life for hours. I could do that in quiet contemplation, my mind slowing down to observe every change in color.
He placed his hand over his heart as if he was stopping it from breaking.
“You don’t watch television… at all?”
I shook my head, as he stepped towards me. The heat in my small office shot up, despite the cold that seeped in through the old window behind me. Old Manhattan buildings did a poor job of keeping winter out. I’m pretty sure they charged extra for the draft.
His eyes sparkled with humor as he tilted his head towards me, a dimple gracing one cheek. “You must stop saying such charming things, or I’m liable to fall in love!”
My shoulders deflated as I rolled my eyes. Disappointment swept through me.
It was too much to ask that with great talent came great intellect and depth. He was just a joker.
“You’re obviously a comedian.” I rolled my eyes.
He was standing so close I could almost feel the warmth of his skin.
He shoved some pens to the side as he lay a hand on the surface of my desk. I hoped one of them broke open and stained his expensive suit.
He read the descriptions of the art and frowned, as annoyed by them as I had been.
“I aim to unseat the viewer with the tactile blending of haunted dreams, from the chasm of my traumatized mind,” Eoghan read aloud, before wrinkling his nose as if the words themselves smelled bad. “Christ, did he step in dog shite when he ventured out of his mum’s basement? Is that the trauma he’s talking of?”
I peered down. It was an image of a thin young man with a moustache, his arms over his naked body as he sat in the fetal position. Even in this glorified self-portrait, he looked like a dweeb.
I tried not to smile, as we shared a little moment. A piece of schadenfreude at a young “artist’s” expense.
Could this be the evil Eoghan Green I had heard so much about? The man as sadistic as his father, Alastair Green? Surely not. From where I stood, he looked and acted like a trust fund kid with an intelligent passion for art. Harmless in every possible way.
“It’s a wonder how these people get out of bed in the morning,” he continued. I felt him turn his head, his eyes landing on my cheek, searing a hole into my face. “How much do you have left in your workday?”
“A lot.” I crossed my arms in front of my breasts, suddenly self-conscious as his eyes caressed down my body and back up again.
Jesus. What was he seeing? Whatever it was, he liked it, as his fingers gripped the edge of my desk, his knuckles turning white.
“That’s not true,” he said with a snort. “You’ve already clocked out for the day.”
“Are you spying on me?” I was shocked and looked at him with widened eyes.
“Yes, I am.” He pushed off my desk and extended a hand towards me. “Now, come with me. There’s a new gallery that has a traveling exhibit of the old classics. It’s just down the street.”
It wasn’t a request, but a command, his open palm between us was a royal decree.
“No.” I wanted my voice to sound firm, but it came out as a whisper instead.
“You know you want to,” he said with a little wink.
“I know no such thing.”
He tilted his head back in exasperation, then said with a completely straight face, “Miss Kekoa, it would be my distinct pleasure if you would allow me to escort you to one of the best art exhibits to come to New York City in the last decade.”
He pushed his hand out closer to me, and I looked down at it with suspicion.
A scar bisected his palm horizontally. It ran deep, as if he had sliced his hand there not just once, but many, many times. Was he a cutter?
“My treat.” My eyes shot back up to his face. A lock of his blond hair fell over his forehead, giving him a roguish appearance. “I’ll even take you to dinner after, like a gentleman.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Mr. Green.” I stepped away from him, my eyes narrowing into angry slits. “I’m not that kind of woman.”
“We’ll see about that.” His smirk was doing strange things to me. My heart fluttered, as I was tugged into its spell. “If you don’t care to see where the evening takes us, then I give you my word that I will drive you to your door, and not attempt to enter your dwelling. Scout’s honor.”
He put his hand up, his pinky and thumb touching, three fingers up like a Boy Scout.
“You don’t look like a Boy Scout.”
“And you don’t look like a prude,” he chuckled. “So, we’re both full of surprises.”
I narrowed my eyes at his presumption. Privileged little rich boys were all the same. They thought they owned the world and all its wine and women.
“You’re an asshole, Mr. Green,” I said, taking another step back. “Just because I don’t want to sleep with you, doesn’t make me prude.”
He didn’t seem offended. He just waited; his hand extended to me.
“You’re charming, Miss Kekoa.” His voice was softer. “I like hearing you speak. It would delight me to spend some time in your company this evening.”