Sheila Sharpe
Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief
(continued)
...Steele usually listened to his advice, but he was fickle and rash and required canny handling. “The Monet is one of your most valuable paintings. Prices are still rising on the water lily series.” Nick paused. "Might be wise to hang onto it for a while.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Let’s dump the Braque. I’m done with brown cubist shit.”
Nick quelled the urge to smack the lout’s face, knowing the authenticity of this painting was in question. “This still life looks a bit muddy because it’s the only painting I haven’t restored in this gallery. Let me clean off the surface grime, then see how you feel.”
Steele grunted his assent, lifted the Braque off the wall, and handed it to Nick.
...“If all goes well, ah, Dix, I might be able to get the Braque, the Matisse, and The Cardplayers back here in the next few days. The cleaning won’t take very long.”
“Good. Then the whole family will be together again, all dolled up.” He showed off his stump-like teeth.
“I’ll be out the next few nights and a lot of the days.”
“No problem. I’ve got the entry codes.” Nick cleared his throat, then rolled out the lie. “I’ll need to be gone for a while after completing this job. I’ve got some out-of-town business.”
Steele scowled. “That’s very inconvenient. What if I need to decide fast on a deal? You’d have to be here to evaluate the works in question.”
“Consult my mate, Miles Hartwright. You know him. He’s the British art historian at UC San Diego. Miles knows the market and has a great eye, almost as good as mine.”
Steele chuckled. “I like your modesty.”
Nick gave Steele Miles' card, wrapped up the Braque, and headed for the gallery’s rear exit, leaving Dix to spend quality time with his ill-gotten family of masterpieces.
Nick was surprised and annoyed to find the inner steel door unlocked and the outer wooden door open. He never forgot to lock up or guard his back. Other than Steele, Raquel, and himself, only Steele’s rotten son, Simon, knew the code. The precious masterpieces were cleverly protected. Few would guess that Steele had hidden a collection worth billions inside a dilapidated barn on a large estate in Rancho Santa Fe.
Nick locked the doors and strode from the cool, sheltered gallery into the dicey world of bright light, dark shadows, and October’s hot Santa Ana winds. He picked up his pace. The wind sucked the moisture out of his skin and anything green or alive. Wildfires were due to strike. His sensitive radar picked up a more imminent threat. He scanned the surrounding pines and eucalyptus trees, his vigilant eyes alert to any movement in the dappled light. He turned the corner and spotted Simon’s red Maserati parked on the gravel beside his dusty SUV. The bloody twit was leaning against Nick’s car door, watching him through mirrored sunglasses. Nick preferred Steele’s ugly mug to his son’s sly-eyed prettiness.
“I heard you in the gallery with Pops,” Simon said as Nick approached him. “You really know how to work the old goat, don’t you? He swallows any bullshit you feed him.”
“You forgot to lock the doors after eavesdropping. Move aside.”
“Make me.” He rubbed his puny ass on the car door.
“What do you want, Simon?”
“I want you to leave.”
“You’re in luck; I am leaving.”
Simon kicked the gravel. “I mean for good, smartass.”
“Why? You don’t give tuppence about the art collection.”
“It’s my inheritance, and I don’t want a slick, snot-nosed Brit screwing with it. You’ve conned Dad. He thinks you walk on water, but you don’t fool me.”
“Likewise.” Shut up, he told himself, but he’d had it with this spoiled parasite. “Does Papa know his free-loading son uses his allowance to deal drugs and make sadistic porn flicks?”
Simon glared at him through slitted eyes. “Tattle on me and I tell on you. You’re screwing his latest slutty wife.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I have proof from a private eye. If you don’t disappear, I’ll show the PI’s report to Pops. There’s an obscene shot of you and Raquel shagging at Rosarito Beach.”
Nick clenched his teeth. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, shocking your old man into a heart attack?”
Simon shrugged, smirking.
Nick suspected the cold-hearted bastard’s greed included wanting his father dead. Simon no longer had to compete for the inheritance with his mother—Dix’s second trophy wife—or his older brother. Nick recalled they had died in a convenient-for-Simon car crash three years ago.
Simon strolled to his car, folded into the low-slung seat, and turned his mirrored glasses on Nick. “Take the slut and get out of San Diego and I’ll bury the report. You have ten days to find another place to squat. Otherwise, I squeal, and you’ll be the one who stops Pa’s ticker.” Simon showed his pointy, little-boy teeth, another part of him that hadn’t matured to his thirty-something age. “But if the old cuckold survives, he’ll make sure you both croak in the worst possible way. You’re screwed, asshole.” Giggling, Simon gunned the motor.
Turning his back on the punk’s squealing wheels, Nick loaded the Braque in the back of his SUV and then slammed the trunk’s door, a rush of adrenaline spurring him to run. Old man Steele incited Nick’s hatred and contempt, but his psycho son scared the piss out of him.
No way could he trust Simon’s deal. Most likely, he had less than ten days to pull off a dodgy revenge scheme and get out of here alive. He could almost hear the clock ticking.
End Chapter One