“Why, thank you,” said Lucy, reaching for a glass.
“But, no,” cut in Simon, taking her by a shoulder and guiding her in the opposite direction. “This is work.”
“It’s free.”
“I’ll buy you a case of the stuff,” said Simon. “After we’re done.”
“Promise?”
“Watch yourself. I’ll put you on paint duty tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
On the side, Simon was the owner of a small but well-regarded automotive shop in a quiet neighborhood not far from Wimbledon that specialized in European cars, namely Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He didn’t just fix their engines, he rebuilt them from top to bottom, a process that could last two years and run to hundreds of thousands of dollars. In such cases, one of the first tasks was to strip the paint off the chassis. It was a tedious and exhausting job done with a heating gun and a scraper.
Lucy Brown worked in his shop as an apprentice mechanic. It was a long story.
“Let’s find our man,” he said. “He’ll be bidding on the prized lot. That’s as good a place as any to start.”
Simon rolled up the catalogue and headed toward the center of the hall, where a crowd was gathered around a red sports car. The vehicle was a 1964 Ferrari 275, one of just twenty-three to roll out of the factory in Maranello, Italy. Of these, fewer than ten were in working order. LOT 31, as the Ferrari was labeled, was a prime example, and the first to come up for sale in a decade. Bidding began at fifteen million dollars.
Simon scanned the crowd surrounding the car. He didn’t need a description to find Boris Blatt. The man was in the tabloids every other day. Blatt was in the process of building the largest house in London, a ninety-thousand-square-foot mansion atop Highgate Hill. Not a day passed without a neighbor, contractor, or city official having something ill to report. Simon couldn’t buy a tin of Altoids at the corner kiosk without seeing Blatt’s elfin features leering back at him.
“Excuse me.” A security guard brushed past, nudging his shoulder. A second guard followed close behind.
“Go right ahead,” said Simon, making way.
“What’s that all about?” asked Lucy.
There was a commotion to his right. An emergency exit opened. The alarm sounded briefly, then died. Security guards formed a cordon to allow someone to enter. Simon spotted a large man with hulking shoulders and a crew cut leading the way. Another man identical to him followed behind. Simon’s pulse quickened. Blatt’s gorillas.
“He’s here.”
Cameras flashed. A murmur rippled through the crowd. He caught sight of a pale, fat man with close-cropped white hair. Boris Blatt was dressed in a black suit and open-collar shirt, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.
“Let’s go, then.” Simon took Lucy’s hand and pushed through the crowd. He needed proximity to his target. Once everyone was seated, his window of opportunity would be gone.
“You can’t be serious,” protested Lucy, getting her first look at Blatt’s bodyguards. “They’re big as mountains.”
“Don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“They’ll snap you like a twig.”
“Probably right,” he said. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Thank God,” said Lucy, relaxing. “Can we go, then?”
“What about that case of bubbly?”
“I’m happy with a pint at the Dog and Duck.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Lucy nodded emphatically.
By now, Blatt was standing next to Lot 31, conversing with a slim blond man dressed immaculately in a dove-gray suit. The man was Alastair Quince, the evening’s auctioneer and Sotheby’s chief automotive expert.
