A pale green drape of silk flowing from the murky mocha Garbo hat fluttered past her hemline as an eccentric artistic affectation, and a Mark Cross rip-off briefcase slung over her shoulders stamped her as certainly not of the New York little black suit brigade.
Amanda looked slightly exotic, dripping with accustomed wealth. She had a mind, and taste, of her own. She looked like a million bucks.
Now all she had to do was convince the right person that was the amount she had to spend.
“Here.” Cissy slipped a yellow emerald ring on Amanda’s finger. Amanda gasped.
“Cissy, is this real?”
Her satisfied roommate shrugged. “It’s insured.”
A million and a half.
PINKS WAS an odd little place, located in an old building on a twisting street south of Houston Street. SoHo. She had expected the modern renovation of industrial space to be scoured clean of any character and blasted blindingly white in order the better to show off some obscure and difficult to comprehend artist from whom the gallery owner had probably extracted a dreadful fee to show his or her suspect wares.
Instead, this place was quaint, slightly musty, and looked as if the reproductions of famous paintings in its small showcase window had been gathering dust for years.
She swept in imperiously. A young girl who looked as if she would be more at home behind a computer screen filled with arcane programming notations appeared out of the gloom.
“This is not as I had expected.” Amanda grandly removed the dark glasses from her face and speared them onto the crown of her Garbo hat.
Her voice, she hoped, sounded somewhat foreign, gleaned from the remembered accents of parents and grandparents and newly-arrived cousins back in the Italian-Polish Pittsburgh neighborhood of her childhood.
The young woman looked startled to see her.
“Can I help you? Oh, excuse me…” The young woman hurried toward the back of the cluttered gallery to put her book and brush away. She turned the canvas on which she had been working to the wall.
“I have heard of you, of course.” Amanda strode around the gallery, peering at the paintings. “But I have not had the time when I have been in your country before. Today, I said, I will go see this…Pinks.” She gave a slight shrug at the odd name. Glancing around, she spoke quietly to the girl. “Do you have drawings.”
“Yes. Of course. What period?”
“May I see… anything…” Amanda’s hands flew apart in an expansive gesture. “If I do not find anything of interest, I will ask to see more. Agreed?”
“Sure. I mean, yes. Sure.” The young woman pulled several large portfolios from behind a counter. She cleared a space on a large table. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Amanda smiled enigmatically. “I will know when I see. I will know.” She nodded her head mysteriously up and down.
She flipped through the drawings with a look of disdain on her face. “I understood you had more…singular works of art than these feeble attempts. I see I have been misled.” She turned to go.
“No, wait. I’ll go get Mr. Pinks. Please. You should talk to him.” The wide-eyed, young woman hurried into a back room.
Amanda peered more closely at one of the contemporary drawings.
Count Dracula appeared at her side. She jumped. “You are very silent. I am not amused. You are the Mr. Pinks?” She looked dubiously at his dark, sharp features.
“There is no Mr. Pinks. I am the owner. It pleases my employees to refer to me by that name. What do you want?” His voice was cold.
Amanda’s was colder. “Decent reproductions. I have come a great distance. Your young person showed me this.” She tapped the drawings with the back of her hand, dismissing them.
His sharp features began to soften. He looked Amanda over carefully. “My employee is inexperienced. Ordinarily I am made aware of special clients who may be coming to view what I have to offer. Please, this way.”
He led her to the back of the shop, waving the young woman away and indicating a chair for Amanda. With a small bow he disappeared and in moments returned with a folder which he untied with great ceremony. He spread the drawings on a table before her.
Her eyes glittered. The freshly-polished nails moved quickly from one piece of ancient vellum to the next, the emerald on her finger making streaks of gold lightning. At one particular drawing, she stopped, her hand to her breast, breathing deeply. She bent to observe the drawing more closely, stroking the edge of the paper lovingly, her eyes devouring the delicate pencil rendering of a female nude.
She spoke quietly, intensely. “It is a foolish game I play. Hoping to find…” She caught herself and reassumed her imperious attitude. “Something that strikes my fancy. This is charming. How much?”
“Two-hundred thousand.”
Amanda smiled slyly and met his direct gaze. “American Express Gold?”
He laughed (she was sure she saw sharpened eye teeth) and held out his hand. “Who are you? Your taste is exquisite. Surely we have run across each other in our wanderings?”
She offered him a dead fish which he brought to his lips.
“Put this away now,” she commanded. “I will return, with…” She searched for the appropriate medium of exchange, “…dollars. And then perhaps we will… negotiate?”
He seemed to undergo a moment of conscience. It created frightening changes in his countenance. “You do know this cannot be… authentic.”
Her smile was deadly. “I know that is what you believe. Put it away… now. It will take a few hours.” She made a small chuckle of satisfaction. “Truly, I never expected… even when I was led to believe…”
The delighted Count Dracula slipped the drawing into an acid-free folder. “If Madam would allow me. There are others coming. At least one more. A- dare I say?- a Michelangelo. Would that be of interest? Are you in the city for a while?”
Amanda pressed her fingers tightly to her lips as if to seal in a cry. His eyes were glued to the emerald. “When?” The word barely escaped her lips.
His face clouded momentarily and then he spoke with determination. “Within the week. I will see to it.” He smiled his frightening smile. “It will be of the highest quality. Madam will not be displeased.”
Her breath came in short gasps. “I will see what I can arrange. In the meantime…” She pointed to the selected art work he held. “With your life…”
He smiled and bowed and she strode toward the front of the shop.
The large scowling man that she and Marc had come to know so well was entering the door.
Chapter 13
AMANDA’S mind shot into overdrive. She glanced quickly toward the back of the dark gallery. Dracula was disappearing into his secret lair. Her head snapped back. The nerdy young woman was already headed toward the incoming customer.
Entering from the bright outside into the dark interior of the shop, the dreaded large man was momentarily blinded.
Amanda dropped like a stone and hunched behind one of the display tables piled high with paintings. Cissy’s new pair of twelve dollar DKNY hose split over one of her elegantly uncovered knees. The Garbo slouch hat lurched lower and the Sophia Loren dark glasses dislodged and toppled toward the floor.
