Feint of Art: (29 page)

Naomi fell silent, but I could sense her tension reverberating through the phone wire. The day I called to give her career a boost would be the day we both rolled over in our graves.

“Are you aware that the new Egyptologist you’re so gaga about is wanted for questioning by the police?” I continued. “I’d hate to think what it could mean for you if Agnes Brock ever heard about it.”

I felt kind of dirty putting the screws to Naomi like this. But, I rationalized, had she been more reasonable, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this type of thing.

I could practically hear her teeth grinding. What was her worst nightmare? To have me spill the beans about her new art thief boyfriend? Or to be publicly associated with someone who might show up at the Diamond Circle gala in an Indian wrap skirt and Birkenstocks?

“I’ll see what I can do,” she snapped. “Don’t call me.”

I put down the phone, satisfied for the moment. It was two o’clock on Tuesday, and I was sitting at the desk in my studio. The usually cluttered desktop was devoid of papers, since everything that had been there was now either laid out under the heat lamps or had been tossed into one of the many black plastic garbage bags that dotted the room like so many bulbous alien life-forms.

Mary had returned from Mendocino the night before. First thing this morning we had visited Pete at the hospital and made arrangements to bring him home tomorrow. Then we returned to the studio to tackle the mess. I put a Carlos Santana CD on the player I’d brought from home, threw the windows open wide, ripped into a box of garbage bags, and got to work.

Around noon reinforcements arrived. Sherri, her husband, Tom, and five of Mary’s band mates showed up with soda, pizza, and still more garbage bags. Thus fortified, we made the cleanup move along nicely. Nine pairs of hands could accomplish amazing things in a short amount of time. Together we lugged the upholstered furniture and the rug onto the first-floor roof, where they would sit in the sun and, with luck, dry out enough to he salvageable. My standards weren’t especially high, but the fact that I had let everything sit in water for a day dramatically lessened its chances of recovery. For the hundredth time, I cursed myself for being so stupid as to traipse around with the X-man when I had important things to take care of here.

The irredeemable items were sketches, art papers, and assorted business records, many of which, fortunately, were duplicates or should have been shredded long ago anyway. The espresso machine and the mini-fridge had survived unscathed, but the microwave made scary popping and hissing sounds when we turned it on, so I decided to toss it. Most of the paint supplies and sundry brushes and applicators were either protected in cupboards, or would be no worse for the wear once they’d dried out. I lost a book of genuine gold leaf, which hurt, but in a moment of absentminded tidiness I had stowed several others in a plastic bin under the counter, and these were untouched.

The saddest losses, for me, were a number of reference books and several of my old paintings that had once graced the walls. We decided to set them out to dry as best they could and assess their integrity later. Fortunately, the special heat lamps and light tables so important to a faux finisher were still functioning, and we put them to work drying out whatever items we could.

After the microwave incident I was afraid to touch the computer, so I called Pedro and threw myself on his mercy. He agreed to come the next day to look at it, assuring me that even if the computer no longer worked he could probably retrieve my data from the hard drive, download it onto floppies, and upload it later. I wasn’t sure what all that involved, but what did I care so long as Pedro was on the case?

While I had him on the line, I asked if it was possible to track someone down through an e-mail address. He said it depended, took down the information Emily had given me on Harlan Coombs, and promised to let me know if he found anything.

While the others scrubbed and dried the floors, walls, and ceiling, washing away the soot from the fire and the assorted flotsam from the flood, I worked the phone. First I called Linda Fairbanks and Irene Foster to apologize profusely for the delay on their projects, at the same time giving them an abridged version of the recent disaster, and after a moment of initial frostiness each woman tsktsk’d sympathetically. Their samples, though slightly warped, were ready and I would deliver them tomorrow.

There followed a series of other necessary yet stressful calls to those I owed money to, including the phone company, during which I assured all and sundry that they would be paid as soon as my checks dried out. I didn’t know whether I sounded especially desperate, or whether they were just being humane, but all were remarkably understanding.

The day’s biggest frustration was dealing with the one person I paid to be helpful: my insurance agent. After cheerfully collecting my premiums every month for the past three years, my agent became a fountain of ignorance the one time I needed him, claiming to have no idea whether or not I was covered for such damage. When I suggested that perhaps he should look it up, he became particularly obtuse. Seething with indignation, I made another call, letting his supervisor know just what I thought of the company and its so-called professional agents. However, considering the fact that I was trying to get them to send me a check for a rather large amount, I wasn’t sure how effective my threat to take my business elsewhere was. The turning point came when I started making vague references to “my lawyer.” That lawyer didn’t exist, but the supervisor didn’t know that. He said he’d call me back.

My last call was to Anthony Brazil, who was not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of being my escort to the gala and claimed he already had a date. Before signing off, however, he agreed to give me an extension on our original one-week deal, so long as the drawings were in his hands by Sunday morning.

One thing was indisputable: I needed an infusion of cash and I needed it soon. Since ol’ Frankie downstairs had acted so heroically when Pete and I were in danger, I was less committed to complicating his life by fighting the eviction notice I was sure to receive if I didn’t sign a new lease at double my current rent. I was scraping the bottom of my checking account, and that Napa stunt hadn’t helped matters.

I was flirting with a full-fledged bout of self-pity when Mary called my name. The gang beamed proudly as they showed me what they’d accomplished. The studio looked a million times better, and although a lot of repairs were still needed, everything was more or less ready for me to get back to work.

Reality check. All these people had just knocked themselves out for my benefit. I might not have much money, but I was abundantly blessed with friends.

We continued working into the early-evening hours before collapsing with a well-deserved sense of accomplishment. We uncorked two bottles of cheap Chilean Merlot that had survived the deluge and sprawled on the floor, chatting about Pete, the concert in Mendocino, whether to have Thai or Vietnamese food for dinner, and the situation in the Middle East. I avoided sharing the details of Sunday’s abduction.

There was a knock on the partially open door. Despite the wine, the company, and my prone position, I jumped. After all the drama lately, I was a nervous wreck.

It was Frank DeBenton, whom I hadn’t seen since the excitement Sunday night. He looked nonplussed at the sight of us lounging among the wine bottles. I noted with regret that Mr. Slick had returned: Frank was once again buttoned down.

“Hey there, Frankie baby,” Mary sang, making the situation even more awkward.

“Yo, Frankie!” Sherri echoed.

Poor Frank looked as if he wanted to flee. Given our very special bonding experience at the factory, I felt compelled to rush to his rescue. I hauled myself up from the floor, noting as I did several new sore muscles. “Hi, Frank. Good to see you. What’s up?”

“Could I speak with you for a moment, please?” he asked in a low voice. “In private.”

“Sure,” I said, and followed him out the door.

We stood in the hallway, which I noticed had been mopped until it shone. It looked better than it had in months. Maybe somebody should set the sprinklers off regularly. Maybe I should suggest it to Frank. I glanced at him.

Maybe not.

“Listen,” I began. “I’m really sorry—”

He stopped me with an economical shake of his perfectly groomed head. “Where were you yesterday?” he demanded. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Well, I . . .” Why was Frank asking? Was he worried about me? Seemed unlikely. Was he upset because I wasn’t here bright and early yesterday to clean up? Probably. Was that really any of his business? Nah. “I had some things to take care of.”

“Something more important than this?” he snapped.

Now that he was looking at me, I kind of wished he weren’t.

“Well . . .” I could hardly tell Frank what I had been up to yesterday. Not only did it now seem irresponsible, it also seemed exceptionally dangerous and downright stupid. After all, Frank had risked his own safety to save me from a close encounter with a bad guy’s knife.

He looked me in the eye for a long moment, and I thought he was going to say something. Instead he turned on his heel and stalked down the hall, his back ramrod straight, probably because of that stick up his—

“Annie!”

Samantha emerged from her studio at the end of the hall. “Hey, Sam,” I said, glad to see a friendly face.

“What you doin’, girl? Why you don’t call me to come and help you?” she chided in her lilting English, before enveloping me in a patchouli-scented hug. “I was worried about you. Where you been all yesterday?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” I said. “And I would have called you, but I had plenty of help today. Come say hi to everybody.”

She did, and we chatted for a while until, one by one, the crew departed. As dusk fell, Samantha and I were alone in the darkening studio, sitting on the floor with our backs against the brick wall and our legs sticking out in front of us. Through the studio’s huge windows we watched as the sky changed from a brilliant blue to a soft pink to a blazing orange-red. I poured her the remains of one of the bottles of Merlot and we held our glasses up in a toast.

“To more relaxing days ahead,” Sam said.

“I’ll drink to that,” I replied. “So, what do you think of our new landlord?”

She shrugged gracefully. “Dunno. A bit stuffy, isn’t he? But what can you expect from a landlord?”

I laughed. Samantha and her husband, Reggie, had recently bought a duplex in the Castro, one of several in their small but growing stable of rental properties.

“What about the rent hike?” I asked. “Has he said anything about that?”

She shook her head. “No, but I have three more years on my lease.”

Apparently I was the lone idiot in the building with a year-to-year lease. I gulped some wine.

“Still, he’s not bad-looking,” Sam continued. “Plus, he’s pretty well connected to the whole art scene here. You could do worse.”

“I’m not interested in Frank that way,” I assured her. “I was just wondering about him as a landlord. Mostly because I can’t make the rent hike.”

“How much of a rent hike?”

I realized it had been a while since we’d talked. “Double.”

“You’re shitting me!”

“I shit you not.”

She shook her head. “Capitalists,” she said with disdain.

I smiled again. Sam and Reggie, a social worker for the city, were natural entrepreneurs who were always starting or selling one business or another. They had an almost magical ability to wring money from any enterprise they touched, which was why Sam could afford to pursue her jewelry design business and still send their eighteen-year-old daughter to Stanford and their twenty-year-old son to Brown. Sam pointed out that the family lived in a modest Chinatown apartment—albeit in a building they owned—but I knew she loved the neighborhood, one of the city’s oldest ethnic enclaves. I had a sneaking suspicion that Sam also enjoyed her clients’ reactions when they learned that their Jamaican jewelry designer lived above the best dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.

“Anyway,” I went on, “I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. Maybe I’ll move the studio to Oakland.”

“Nah, you can’t leave us. Say what you will about this area, it’s becoming known as an arts district. Why do you think I stay here instead of working out of one of my apartments? Besides, Frank’s no ogre. There must be some reasoning with the man.”

“I don’t think he liked me much to begin with, and the fire didn’t help. He doesn’t like drama. I have a feeling he would be happy to personally escort me to Oakland.”

By now the sun had set and the studio was dark, and I was enjoying not having to look at the confusion that remained. The day’s labors had accomplished wonders, but the studio was still not completely back together. I admitted to myself that Frank had a right to be upset. I had, after all, threatened his investment and pulled him into a dangerous situation. Frank’s stuffiness just seemed to bring out the worst in me. It reminded me of my relationship with my father.

Great. Michael made me think of my grandfather, and now Frank put me in mind of my father. Maybe I needed therapy.

“What did you mean about Frank being well connected in the art world?” I asked Sam.

“Don’t you know?” she said. “Frank has real estate investments, like this building, but his main business is art security. All those armored cars downstairs? He transports art all over the world.”

Oh, wasn’t
that
just peachy? I had noticed Frank’s trucks, but assumed he used them to pick up bags of cash from supermarkets or fill ATMs or something. It was just my luck that he specialized in
art
transportation. Could he have heard rumors about my grandfather, the art forger extraordinaire, or about Michael, the international art thief who was my new best friend? Could the huge rent increase and Frank’s undisguised desire to see me gone have anything to do with my past?