Chapter 53
I GULP DOWN MY champagne and dart around a corner. I’m on my way to the ladies’ room in case the gallery guard stops me (he doesn’t). Then I see what I’m looking for—a door marked PRIVATE. I take one quick look around, then try the handle. It’s unlocked. I go in.
It’s not what I expected. Given the luxury of Ben’s home and lifestyle, this place has all the glamour of…
well, an FBI office. A cheap metal desk and an even cheaper metal cabinet.
Basic black IKEA swivel chair and a bulletin board on the rear wall filled with photos and flyers from previous gallery shows.
Stacked on his desk are a bunch of computer printouts showing paintings from various artists, all hoping and wishing and angling for a gallery show of their own. I look through them quickly. All have handwritten notes from Ben clipped to them. I scan a few:
Wanda—Interesting neo-Expressionist vision. Reminiscent of James Ensor’s work. Call this guy’s agent, see what else he has.
Lina—If Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns had a baby. NO.
Irene—Nice take on Fauvism. Maybe? What else does she have?
Josie—CV says he studied with Stella and Bannard. I don’t see it.
Lina—Computer art? A first for us. IDK. Not sure it will fly.
Lina—Five stars! ★★★★★ Reminds me of Finster’s Swartzentruber. Fun!
And the last piece:
Neil—You know I hate pointillism. Why did you even show me this??????
Poor Neil, whoever he is. Six ego-destroying question marks calling him out for his poor judgment. It’s like Ben has been taking Metcalf lessons.
I’ve got to move fast. No telling how long Ben’s speech will last. I grab my phone and take pictures of everything on his wall.
Here’s a photo of Ben shaking hands with—who?
And who’s this bearded guy with his arm draped around Ben’s shoulders as if they’re best friends?
Some of the faces look familiar, especially one big heavy guy who’s totally bald except for a gray ponytail.
Was his one of the faces Metcalf had shown me? A definite maybe.
I pause to listen. Ben has stopped talking, but now the artist himself is addressing the crowd.
Time is short and getting shorter. I open the file cabinet and peek in.
There are no names on the files here. Just initials.
Damn. If this were Mission: Impossible, Tom Cruise would quickly crack Ben’s code and know that IPC (International Painters Co-Op) really stands for Illegal Payments Cartel.
Or that DTF (Data Transfer Facilities) is a mnemonic abbreviation for Don’t Tell FBI.
But this isn’t a movie. It’s life. My life. Which is about to become very complicated, because someone suddenly comes barreling through the door.