“What’s Ben really like?” I ask. I try to sound casual, as if I’m asking what time it is. But I’m not sure it comes out that way. Did I mention I’m on my second glass of champagne and have nothing in my stomach but a single chocolate-dipped strawberry?
“Ben’s the real deal,” she says. “Good eye, good ear, good instincts. He’s been able to bring in a lot of new artists.”
“And some interesting new clients,” I say.
She freezes for a moment. Uh-oh. Have I crossed a line? There’s something she’s not telling me. Is she being discreet or just plain secretive?
I’ll never know, because a young woman with blue hair joins us. Wanda looks—dare I say it?—relieved.
“Caroline, this is Lina in acquisitions,” she says. It feels good to have someone get my undercover name correct for a change.
Lina and I begin to talk, and Wanda waves to someone and then she’s gone. I ask Lina similar questions, and she says nice things about Ben. Then I talk to Maryann theregistrar, who has even nicer things to say. Same with Jason the social media director, Leo in shipping, and even Hazel in cost accounting. Hazel is so effusive, I wonder if Ben gave her one of his kidneys.
Most people I know hate their jobs, but this gaggle of people apparently all drank the gallery Kool-Aid. The art world is exciting, they say. They meet interesting people. They’re learning so much. It’s all one big happy family.
Well, except for one angry guy over in a corner, a thin man with a thin mustache. He’s standing with his arms crossed, one knee bent and his foot on the wall, watching the crowd.
“Who’s that?” I ask Hazel.
She turns to look. “Oh. That’s Lou somebody,” she says. “Gee, he shouldn’t even be here. Ben fired him months ago.” She’s fuzzy on why. Something he did or didn’t do that made Ben fly into a rage. Interesting. Nobody expected him to show up tonight. He wasn’t invited. And yet, there he is.
I’m about to go talk to that Lou guy when I hear clinking. Ben is tapping on his glass to get everyone’s attention. The chatter stops. Ben thanks everybody for coming.
“Now I’d like to tell you a little bit about our young artist,” he says. “Sabura Nemec was born in the town of Mikulov… came here as a child… lost his parents when…” Yada-yada-yada. All eyes are on Ben as he talks.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
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 markedPRIVATE.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 printoutsshowing 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 wereMission: Impossible,Tom Cruise would quickly crack Ben’s code and know thatIPC(International Painters Co-Op) really stands forIllegal Payments Cartel. Or thatDTF(Data Transfer Facilities) is a mnemonic abbreviation forDon’t Tell FBI.
But this isn’t a movie. It’s life.Mylife. Which is about to become very complicated, because someone suddenly comes barreling through the door.
