“In more ways than you can imagine,” Wallace replied, flashing that million-dollar smile of his.
“How’s that?” Sasha asked, looking taken aback.
“Well, first of all, there’s more than one forgery in your gallery.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The Eli Ghorst painting you have, Springtime in Rome. It’s a fake. A very good one, but it’s not the genuine article. The real painting was stolen from the Schauffenbeg Gallery in 1987 but never publicly declared as missing. In fact, a replacement painting, which is very likely what you own, was displayed at the museum for years. Also hidden from the public was the painting’s recovery and return in 2007. Of course, the general public knew nothing of the painting’s disappearance so why announce its recovery.”
“And how could you possibly know all of this?”
“Because I saw the original four years ago when it was being restored in Milan. It’s still under lock and key in storage and not available to the public. Yours is a very fine duplicate but judging by the look on your face, it was not the forgery you were expecting to discuss.”
“It was not, but please, continue,” Sasha replied, tersely.
“Now, I can’t be sure about this without closer inspection, but your Suzanne Kalen sculpture is highly suspect to me. I’ve overseen the sale of four of her pieces, and something is off about yours. The outside edges are too thick. Kalen’s work is far more delicate. I’d look into it if I were you.”
“Anything else?” Sasha asked, unable to hide the irritation in his voice.
Wallace nodded. “The reason you’ve asked ushere tonight is to talk about the Matisse. La Servante. Right?”
“That’s correct.”
Wallace chuckled. “You know, Sasha. You wouldn’t have any way of knowing this, but you’re about to take ten grand out of my wallet and put it into my fiancé’s purse.”
“Is that so?”
Wallace nodded. A big fat grin plastered on his face. I had no clue what he was doing, but I was fairly confident that it was going to get both of us shot and fed to hungry pigs.
“Isn’t that right, honey?” Wallace asked.
“That’s right,” I said, following his lead, grinning and nodding like an idiot too.
“You see, Sasha,” Wallace continued. “I said you’d never figure out the Matisse was a fugazi, but Eleanor said you’d sniff it out. She was so confident, in fact, she wagered me ten thousand dollars cash that she was right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sasha hissed.
“You’ve brought us here to accuse us of selling you a forgery, right? You figured out the painting is a replica and now we’re in a world of shit. That’s it, right?”
“You seem awfully jovial for a man whose about to have both his hands cut off,” Sasha hissed.
“You could do that, but it would make delivering those sacks full of money to you a little difficult,” I said.
“You’d better stop with the cute jokes and startmaking some fucking sense before I toss your girlfriend to Vova and Dima.”
As if on cue, Sasha’s bodyguards stepped forward.
Wallace raised his hands. “Alright, alright. It’s time to come clean. You’re right about the painting. It is a forgery, but we weren’t trying to rip you off. Quite the opposite, actually. We’re trying to make you money. A lot of it.”
“If this is some sort of attempt to save your lives, don’t bother—”
“The painting was a test,” Wallace said.
Sasha turned to the man on his left, “Vova, you and Dima take them down to the basement and tie them up, I—”
“Hold on,” Wallace interrupted. “Give me one chance to explain and then you can do whatever you want with us, but I’m telling you, you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
Sasha waved his men off. “You have three minutes.”
