My suite at the Park Hyatt Milan—let me repeat that, my suite—is bigger than the pool house I share with Chloe back home. I could have a party in the travertine-and-glass bathroom. There’s a bottle of Prosecco and a tray of petit fours waiting for me. I’ve stayed in two suites in my entire life: this one, and Allyson’s. I could totally get used to this.
But there’s a problem. I brought nearly everything I have that isn’t worn out or coffee-stained, but when I unpack, I realize how little clothing I have. My good suit, a pair of decent-but-old slacks, a couple dress shirts from Macy’s, my good-but-old Bruno Magli black oxfords, a couple not-too-frayed pairs of jeans and three polos. I can’t even pass for a rich guy in L.A., where millionaires wear ripped jeans, far less here. At least I got a sharp haircut in Brussels.
Time for another call to Mommy—sorry, Olivia. I haven’t been this dependent since college. It’s not working for me.
After I check into the hotel and change, I go out and work my way into the edge of the crowd under the Galleria’s south entrance. “Sea of humanity” isn’t just a figure of speech; the Piazza del Duomo is packed solid with tens of thousands of folks who hate the Mob.
I retreat to the ottogono and nose around. The Libera rally breaks up after a while, and a stream of people rolls by hauling banners and flags. I’d love to go back down there and get a good look at the Duomo now that the crowd’s thinning, but I’d told Carson I’d meet her here. Yes, the Hyatt’s lobby would be easier, but it’s a hotel lobby and this isn’t and I have no idea when (or if) I’ll ever get back here again.
Carson finally appears at the mouth of the west arcade after I’ve made a few circuits of the ottogono. She’s in black dress slacks, the same businesslike black pumps she wore in Luxembourg, and a crisp white button-front shirt with the cuffs carefully folded halfway up her tanned forearms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with a purse, in this case a big, black satchel on a shoulder strap. Props to her: she cleans up okay. Just as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.
I watch her from the Louis Vuitton store at the northeast corner. Carson checks out the dome and the four-story, golden-stone building facades under it, then starts laser-scanning all the people. Finally, her eyes lock on me. She holds her hands out at her sides, palms-up: so?
“Isn’t this place great?” I ask when I catch up with her.
“Whatever. Where’s your bruise?” She squints at my face. “That makeup?”
My right cheekbone’s colored up nicely from van Breek smashing me into the wall yesterday. “I covered it up. Want me to look like I’ve been in a fight?”
Carson blinks slowly, then shakes her head. “Right. Did we have to get dressed up?”
We’re not exactly “dressed up.” I’m wearing the guy version of what she is, no tie. “We need to look respectable. We’ve got some galleries to visit.” I point up the north arcade. “The car’s waiting by La Scala.”
“Galleries? More than one? Belknap’s only got one.”
“Patience.” Before we go, there’s something I gotta do. I circle around her to the mosaic of Turin’s coat of arms, a gray bull dancing on a blue shield. The bull’s supposed to be, well, anatomically correct, but there’s a divot in the tile where the beast’s balls should be. I plant my heel in the divot and spin three times.
Carson’s eyebrows arch like a Halloween cat. “The fuck are you doing?”
“It’s supposed to be good luck. We need all the help we can get. Come on.”
We charge up the north arcade past tourists, happy shoppers and the Libera brigade. “Didn’t answer me,” Carson says. “Why go to galleries that aren’t Belknap’s?”
“Trust me.” I give her my best smile. “First we have to fire up the jungle telegraph.”
“Firing up the jungle telegraph” looks like this:
Say I’m a rich collector and I want a city’s gallery network to know I’m looking to buy. I can hire a local advisor who already knows the players, but I’ll hire her grudges and crushes, too. I also don’t like paying commission just for introductions.
Rich-me’s a hands-on kinda guy, so I go to a gallery that specializes in my area of emphasis. I pick the biggest one I can find and have my girl call ahead. (Female PAs are always “my girl;” male assistants only have first names.) By the time the town car stops at the front door, the gallery assistant (let’s call her “Amalea,” Italian for “hard-working,” because gallery assistants work their butts off) has already mined Google for information about me—she’s seen my supposed home, thanks to Street View. She thinks I’m potentially a live one. Maybe she’s called the gallerist, her boss, back from his long lunch/drug buy/tryst with the other gallery assistant. Or maybe she’s more ambitious: she’s hiked her skirt a couple inches, fixed her makeup, and she’s going to try to sell to me herself. Clients like me can mean big bucks.
The assistant offers me mineral water or a glass of wine the moment I stroll through the door. My girl hands her my business card, then pulls out her phone to take notes. I might say something general like, “I’m feeling like a landscape.”
Amalea, being a good assistant, asks who I work with back home. Google’s one thing, but a recommendation from another gallery carries more weight. She doesn’t recognize the name, but it’s Los Angeles. There must be a ton of galleries there, right? All those rich movie stars? She’ll check when she gets a chance.
For now, she leads me through the works hanging on the gallery’s sales floor. I turn to my girl at certain pieces—usually more expensive ones—and murmur something Amalea can’t quite hear. My girl pounds notes into her phone. Amalea adds a couple zeroes to her dream sale.
Then the gallerist (“Giuseppe,” or “he shall add,” which is what he’ll do to the sales prices) returns, introduces himself, and signore, may I borrow Amalea for a tiny moment, per favore? They disappear into the back; Amalea gives Giuseppe the sixty-second download of what’s made me murmur to my girl. He tells her to keep researching me while he deals with me. It burns Amalea to know she won’t get a commission now. But she needs the job, so she swallows hard and goes back to her desk while Giuseppe races out to me. Time kills deals.
When Giuseppe returns, I’m talking to my bank about cash transfers and reporting requirements. When I’m done, I ask Giuseppe what currencies the gallery accepts, whether it can sell to corporations, and if the gallery can arrange shipping and customs clearances. Does he have any more pieces by Artist Y over there? I’m fascinated by his work.
Now Giuseppe knows I’ve got money, I’m maybe trying to dodge taxes or duties, and I’m paying cash, so Giuseppe can underreport the sales prices to the sellers and the tax man and skim the rest. He’s already choosing the color for his new BMW. Maybe he hauls out a couple pieces he was holding back for other clients; what they don’t know won’t hurt him.
While the gallerist is squiring me around, Amalea’s looked up my home gallery (nice website!) and gives them a call. “Lovely man,” the English voice purrs on the other end of the phone. “An excellent eye. One of our best clients. I suggested he visit you—please treat him well.” Amalea whispers the news into Giuseppe’s ear as soon as she can.
I tell Giuseppe that I intend to make several purchases while I’m in town, but (my girl reminds me just a bit too loudly) I have another appointment with Gallery X and I want to review my notes and form a strategy.
Of course, signore, I understand. Prego, take my card, that is my personal number, ring when you are ready, will you place a hold on anything before you go?
The minute I walk out, Amalea texts all her gallery-assistant friends that a big fish is incoming and here’s the deets. Giuseppe calls the owners of other galleries in his niche (except those bastardos at Gallery X) asking if they have any landscapes by Artist Y they’d be willing to consign to him.
And the jungle telegraph lives.
We make the rounds to three galleries and an auction house in artsy Brera and rich Monte Napoleone. It’s weird being in a gallery again after all this time. It’s doubly weird being a client, even a fake one. The deja vu dredges up a lot of memories, some good, some not. I have to concentrate hard to stay in my role, to not slip up and use their lines—what used to be my lines. To remember who I’m supposed to be now, not who I really am.
I come out of each place trembling from the adrenaline overload. Carson’s massaging her thumbs in the car. After the last one, I have the driver stop at a hole-in-the-wall grocer where I buy three one-liter bottles of acqua naturale. We park on a side street and drink while the driver steps out for a smoke.
Carson says, “Got it figured out yet?”
All during the gallery crawl, I’ve been trying to work out what to do about Belknap’s place. I sure as hell can’t go inside while he’s there—not yet, at least. The same solution keeps coming up. I don’t like it, but I don’t have a lot to choose from.
I check my phone: almost six. The galleries close at seven and stay closed through Sunday and Monday. We need to get a look at Belknap tonight. I wave the driver back into the car, and we set off.
I finally say, “You’re going in without me.”
“What?” Her screech rattles the windows. “You fucking crazy?”
I put up my non-water hand. “Just listen. We just need an idea of the place and a read on the character Belknap’s playing. Make sure it’s really him. We can do like we did at the lawyer’s office—keep an open phone connection so I can hear what he’s saying and feed you lines if I need to. You won’t have to do anything complicated.”
Carson’s leaning her head back on her headrest, glaring at the roof. “Yeah, right. What do I tell him about you?”
I have to think a few moments. Yes, I’m making this up as I go along. “I was called away on a business emergency. I had to go to… Geneva.” At least I’ve been there. “I’ll be back early next week. You’re scouting to see if I should come here myself. You saw what I’ve been looking at, right? Just go for more of that. Take pictures of whatever he shows you. Can you handle it?”
Carson aims the glare at me. “I can handle it.” She settles in her seat, arms folded, and scalds me for a while. She finally turns to watch the boring postwar midrises scroll by.
My gut gets smaller and tighter with every block we pass. I’m not even going to get near Belknap, but it’s still freaking me out. I feel meerkat-me racing toward the hyena. And he’s laughing.