I stood next to Mathias von Oehson, and we both listened and laughed for a few minutes as Chris Rock absolutely killed it. Playing to a small crowd, albeit in Carnegie Hall, surely brought him back to his club days.
Eventually, there was an exchange to be had. I figured the faster we got to it, the sooner I could get back to enjoying the show.
“So are you at least hanging it on a wall this time?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” said von Oehson. “I’ll wait for the satisfaction of having it back to level off, and then see how I feel. I doubt it, though.” He paused. “That still strikes you as odd, huh?”
“No, not really. To each their own.” Although that wasn’t really the truth. It did seem a bit strange that he would keep this beautiful Monet wrapped in a blanket, stuffed away in a closet. Sure, he couldn’t let others know he had it, but that didn’t prevent him from hanging it somewhere in private, if only for his own satisfaction. Could a man like him ever possess a greater trophy?
It was as if he could read my mind. “Have you ever been big-game hunting, Dylan?” he asked.
“I’ve been hunting, plenty of times. But never for what qualifies as big game,” I said. “Never felt the need.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Or maybe just not that wealthy.”
“You know that’s not it. Given your field of expertise, or at least one of them, you probably understand the psychology behind it,” he said. “Or better put, the abnormal psychology.”
“Heads and horns,” I said. “Try as some men might, you can’t hang true satisfaction on a wall.”
Von Oehson nodded his approval. “I told you from the beginning you were the right man for the job.” With that, he reached for the inside breast pocket of his suit, removing an envelope. “My thanks again. It was always about my son, but you went above and beyond with the painting. Merry Christmas.”
I took the envelope, and this time I kept it. It wasn’t sealed, but I didn’t bother looking at the check. Von Oehson watched as I tucked it away in my pocket. “What’s with the smirk?” I asked.
“The smirk is for the pleasant irony.”
“How do you mean?”
“You don’t want to at least look at it? Confirm the amount?”
“Why? Did you shortchange me?”
Again, he smirked. Okay, fine. I peeked inside the envelope. Lo and behold, von Oehson had tacked on an extra $500,000 to the back-end payment. The check was for $1.5 million.
“I added a 1 percent bonus off the sale of the Monet,” he said. “It seemed about right. Even more so now. That’s the pleasant irony. You returned the painting to me without first collecting what I still owed you. You trusted a guy to make good on a deal that was struck on anything but trust. That’s impressive.”
“Or maybe I just know where you live,” I said. “Some of your homes, at least.”
“Funny.” He motioned to the stage. “Maybe you should be out there.”
“No. That’s my greatest expertise of all,” I said. “Knowing my limitations.”
“Interesting,” said von Oehson. “Now ask me what’s mine.”
I played along. The guy did just give me the biggest check I’d ever been handed. What was that I said about being a pawn in a rich man’s game?
“Okay, what’s yours?” I asked. “What’s your greatest expertise of all?”
He smiled. A devilish grin. “Knowing the limitations of everyone else,” he said.