Chapter 1
Chapter One
C lay Harrington looked at the kid beside him. Pretty soon, Dylan might be taller than him, though Clay was well over six feet. “If you want to do more street art,” he said, “this is a great place for it.”
They’d come out early on a Wednesday morning, before Dylan had to get to school, to San Francisco’s Mission District, famous for its street art. Early April could be cool in the Bay Area, but neither of them minded.
A lanky kid three months shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan Beck pushed his longish hair back from his face. Clay would have called its color dirty blond , but since Dylan was a foster child, the term felt demeaning.
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know.” They stood in front of a mural resembling a robot made of small buildings melded together into its robot parts.
“But you’ve already done a lot of street art,” Clay reminded Dylan.
Again, he shrugged. “That’s just stuff.”
Clay knew what he meant. Dylan got out his frustrations by throwing paint at the wall. But Clay wanted to see the kid put his best work out there.
He’d mentored Dylan since Rosie and Gideon Jones’s wedding six months ago.
It started out as a favor to Gideon, who’d met the kid through his foundation, Lean on Us.
Dylan would soon be aging out of the foster care system, and he’d been getting into trouble tagging in places where he shouldn’t.
Since Clay worked with a lot of artists, Gideon had asked him to help out, claiming Clay understood the artistic temperament.
Clay had come to appreciate the brilliant young street artist. He’d given Dylan a studio in his warehouse, among the other artists Clay assisted. While the kid’s tagging was good, the stuff he created in his studio came straight from the heart.
Instead of telling Dylan he needed to put his real work out there, Clay had brought him to the Mission District, home to some of the most amazing murals in the city, maybe even the country.
Many of these wall paintings weren’t strictly street art, because the nature of street art was that it could be painted over, sometimes the same night it was created.
These commissioned murals would remain for all to enjoy, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies where street artists could make their mark.
This morning, they’d studied incredible murals on their walk-through, the Maestrapeace mural on The Women’s Building, the Carnaval mural, plus all the street art along Balmy Alley and Clarion Alley.
While not all of the murals they saw had been paid for, street art was still far from tagging.
It was big business, and despite its transient nature, it had spawned mega street artists like Banksy, who was rumored to be worth millions, maybe even a billion, as well as rising stars like San Holo.
Clay wanted the same glory for Dylan. The kid was that good. But he had to put out some of the art he worked on in the studio.
Clay’s downtown warehouse, only blocks from where they stood, housed the studios of many of the amazing artists Clay had come across since art had taken over his world.
He gave equal opportunity to painters, sculptors, mosaic layers, potters, jewelry makers, dancers, writers. His warehouse included all art forms.
Their meandering walk brought them to an alley beyond all the famous works. Dingy, dank, and slightly ripe as the morning sun rose in the sky, its walls were relatively tag-free.
Clay stood at the mouth of the alley. “How about trying something here?” He pointed to the left. “You could do something that takes up this entire wall.”
Dylan wrinkled his nose. “It stinks.”
“It can be cleaned up.” Clay could have a team on it within a couple of hours.
But again, Dylan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Clay recognized the boy’s fear. He was fine tagging when it was totally anonymous and good working in the confines of his studio where he controlled the invitations to view his work.
But out here, everyone would see it. Clay had witnessed that kind of fear firsthand back in university, when he’d roomed with one of his best friends, Gareth Tate.
Gareth used to be a painter, but now served as Clay’s lawyer.
Clay said almost forcefully, “You don’t have to worry about being trashed. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Dylan looked at him, his head wagging on his narrow neck, his body otherwise immovable. “You can’t really stop that.”
But Clay assured him, “Yes, I can.”
That’s what his new video platform, Art Space, was all about, providing a safe place for artists where they were never demoralized by cruel or vicious comments. He had the power to make sure Dylan never suffered what his friend Gareth had.
He went back to Dylan’s earlier comment. “Once it’s sanitized, this is a good place to start.”
But still the kid repeated his refrain. “I don’t know.”
Clay walked into the alley despite its eau de garbage.
Dylan followed more hesitantly. Until they both made out a mural at the end of the alley.
Though slightly obscured by shadow, there was definitely a painting there.
Street art. As he closed in on it, Clay saw materials on the ground beside it, spray paint cans, regular paint cans, even a stepladder to reach the uppermost parts of the mural.
Suddenly, Dylan overtook him, almost running. He stopped at the base of the mural, staring up as if he were looking at a religious icon.
“This is him.” Dylan’s voice dripped with awe, his gaze reverent.
“Who?”
“San Holo.” Dylan looked back at Clay. “It’s him. I know everything he’s done, and this is totally new.” The boy’s voice had taken on the worshipfulness of a postulant.
Clay stared with him. He knew about San Holo, the famous street artist Dylan always talked about. When the kid first mentioned the artist, his voice had been full of adulation. “San Holo is the best . This is what I want to do. I want to be just like him.”
Clay had immediately researched San Holo and studied his art.
He’d talked to Cal Danniger, too, since he’d heard the story about Cal coming across San Holo’s early work in London.
In fact, that was the trip where Cal had first met Clay’s brother Dane.
Cal had spoken highly of the artist and owned several first edition prints.
San Holo, like Banksy, sold canvases of his murals and limited-edition prints. That was where the money came from. He also did commissions. But what made San Holo almost as famous as Banksy was right here in front of them. His street art.
Despite having studied the man’s art, Clay still had to ask, “Are you sure this is his work?”
The kid narrowed his eyes mutinously. “I know it.” He put a hand to his chest. “Don’t you feel its power?”
Dylan obviously wanted them to experience that power together, as he stepped away, hand on Clay’s arm, pulling him back to gaze up at the mural. Breathlessly, he said, “Isn’t it totally amazing? Everything he does is mind-blowing.” His voice dropped low to that reverent note.
Clay stared up at the painting. A ladder reaching all the way to the clouds was peopled with an array of climbers: a Native American woman, an Asian man, a Black man with a child’s hand in his as he helped her climb.
A Black woman held out her hand to a white woman on the rungs below.
People of all diverse cultures climbed into the clouds together.
Dylan pointed. “Look. There’s even a little green man.”
Sure enough, a green alien with bulging eyes held out a three-fingered hand, helping the people of Earth reach for the sky.
Dylan murmured, “Do you feel the power?”
Clay did. Much of the work had been spray-painted—the clouds, the sky, the grass and flowers surrounding the ladder. But the expressions on the individual faces were rendered with perfect brushstrokes.
“Could he have done this overnight?” Clay asked, not so much of Dylan, but of the universe.
“That’s what he’s famous for,” Dylan expounded. “His paintings appear overnight.” He squeezed Clay’s arm in his excitement. “Let’s find the fleur-de-lis.”
The fleur-de-lis was part of San Holo’s signature. Once they found it, they would also uncover the small initials SH that went with it. San Holo was known for making his acolytes search for the symbol. If Dylan found it now, that would be the real tell that it was one of the artist’s new pieces.
They searched every inch—the flowers, the people’s clothing and faces, the trees, the ladder, until the sun crept up the wall to banish the last of the shadows. Dylan set up the stepladder, climbing for a better look.
“I found it.” His cry echoed with joy as he pointed at the alien. “I told you this was San Holo.” Then he took his phone out of his back pocket and snapped a picture.
Once on the ground again, he pushed Clay to the ladder. “You have to see.”
Clay climbed beside the people ascending their ladder, until he was level with the alien’s bulging eyes. There it was, right in the eye, a fleur-de-lis and the initials SH .
Dylan was right on the money.
After Clay had descended, Dylan grabbed the stepladder and put it back against the side wall where the artist had left it, almost as if he didn’t want anyone else to consider climbing up.
His hazel eyes glowed with flecks of amber. “This is how a gold miner must have felt when he found a vein of gold.” He slapped his hand to his chest. “We’re the first!”
Clay had to correct him. “ You’re the first. I never would’ve known.” He was so impressed, he’d forgotten the stink in the alley. Or maybe the beauty of the street art banished it.
Dylan stepped back to take another photo. “I’m putting this on my social media.” His fingers moved like lightning over his phone screen.
Since he followed Dylan’s social media, Clay heard a ping on his phone.
“You really get it, don’t you,” Dylan finally said.