Galleria Diciannove—Gallery Nineteen, I guess in honor of the century—is in Brera, on the ground floor of a 1960s concrete-fronted apartment building with protruding square frames covering its windows. Only the cornice is still lit by the early-evening sun. There’s another gallery next door, design stores up and down the street, and the ultra-luxe Visionnaire art and design studio is in the curved-facade, concrete-and-glass monstrosity across the street.
The driver slides the Mercedes into a space next to a Lago housewares shop full of candy-colored kitchen toys. I know the car’s windows are tinted too dark to let anybody see in, but it still takes an extra dose of will to force myself to lean forward and check the view through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows across the street.
The usual track-mounted spotlights are lit inside. A half-dozen eight-foot, L-shaped partitions break up the black-and-white chessboard tile floor. One to three canvases hang against each leg of each L. Everything vertical is white, of course, the universal gallery color. No visible people. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved.
Carson rams something hard into my elbow. “Here.”
It’s a pint-sized pair of binoculars in a vinyl case. “Thanks. Ready?”
She’s already screwed her Bluetooth into her ear. Carson doesn’t answer, just ejects herself from the car and slams the door behind her. A moment later, my business phone rings. “Comm check.” She’s such a chatterbox.
“I hear you. Be careful.” I dig my Bluetooth out of my shirt pocket and fidget it in place. The traffic noise comes through loud and clear. While Carson jogs across the street, I bring up the gallery’s website on my phone. Clever—they have a mobile version. I just love buying art off a five-inch screen.
A moment later I hear the “bong” of an electronic door chime. Carson whispers, “Camera at the door.” Wonderful—another problem. At the far right side of the storefront, I catch a glimpse of her white shirt before it disappears behind a partition.
A distant female voice says, “Buona sera.”
“Hello.” Carson, using her corporate-smooth voice. “I’m so glad you’re still open.”
“Welcome to Galleria Diciannove.” A man’s voice. A very familiar one.
Belknap had a great voice. I remember hearing something about him doing voiceovers before he turned to the dark side. I don’t register what else he says to Carson, just the sound. No attempt at an accent. It’s him.
“…Lorenzoni, but please, call me Fredo. What should I call you?”
“Carson’s fine, thank you. As I said, I’m Mr. Hoskins’ assistant. He was called away on a business emergency? But he’s very interested in your gallery and he asked me to come have a peek. I hope that’s all right.” She’s good. I almost believe her.
“Of course, of course.” His voice is louder and stronger than I expect. How close is he to Carson? “Perhaps you can tell me what Mr. Hoskins is interested in, and I can show you something he may like.”
I whisper, “Landscapes and cityscapes, Realists and the early Impressionists.” Why am I whispering?
“He’s partial to the Realists and early Impressionists.” Carson says it like she knows what it means. “Especially landscapes and cityscapes.”
I think of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News: “I say it here, it comes out there.”
“Of course,” Belknap says. “I have just the thing over here.”
He leads her to a couple pieces, a mid-career Hodler (I tell Carson “meh”) and a Bresnard (I didn’t know he did landscapes—I look him up and tell her “hell, no”). All this time, Belknap is laying it on thick and deep, not so much about the art as about Carson, what she does, where she’s from. It sounds like first-date Q&A. She dishes right back and gets a highly sanitized version of Belknap’s story. “Good work, you’re doing fine,” I say to her.
“You know,” Carson says, “I think Mr. Hoskins might like the ocean painting in the window.”
The what? I grab the binoculars and scan the canvases facing the windows until I come across a seascape with a lateen-sailed boat in the center. “The one that looks like a Dupré,” I say out loud.
“It reminded me of a Dupré when I saw it?” she says.
“Sure,” Belknap says. “Let’s have a look.”
Before I can wonder what Carson’s up to, they both stroll into view. I get it: this is so I can see him. I partly tune out Belknap’s spiel and focus the binoculars on him.
He looks older than he should—maybe life on the run ages you in dog years—but he’s still a decent-enough-looking guy. His hair’s gone, more than likely shaved. He still has the goatee and moustache from the ID photo. Since there’s no gray, they’re probably dyed. He’s a good six inches taller than Carson, broad-shouldered and wide-chested, though the flowing dove-gray sportshirt hides some of his mass. He’s standing way closer to Carson than I figured she’d ever let anybody get. It’s weird to see her seem small next to somebody else.
The last time I saw him was in a bar five days before the raid on Heibrück. Belknap was crowing about a deal he’d put together in Bahrain for some Iranians, selling looted Parthian Empire antiquities to rich Saudis and rolling the profits into an offshore account the Revolutionary Guard could use to buy parts for their centrifuges. By that time I’d started recording all these visits. I just knew he was going down sooner rather than later (didn’t know yet I’d do it to him) and I thought having Belknap bury himself would be a riot.
Anyway, he threw an arm around Gar’s shoulders—Gar hated that—and said, “You men have your escape hatches ready? ‘Cause this is a fuckload of fun, but when it goes south, it’s gonna go fast. You covered?”
“Are you?” Gar asked, probably hoping to hear “no.”
A big smile from Belknap made me wonder if he sharpened his teeth. “Oh yes, my friend. I am so ready. When I go, no one’s ever gonna find me. That’s the name of that tune.”
I found you, asshole.
“It’s him,” I tell the phone.
“Well, even if he doesn’t like it, I certainly do,” Carson says. She brushes his closest forearm with her fingertips as she raises her phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this? I’d like to send it to Mr. Hoskins.”
My phone dings a minute later: email from Carson, a picture of the canvas and an on-the-fly shot of Belknap. By that time, she and Belknap have disappeared and he’s trying to sell her what he claims is a Francisco Oller landscape. Those are thin on the ground, and I wouldn’t believe it if he says Sherwin-Williams is on his gallery walls, but I can’t see the piece, so I can’t warn Carson if he’s messing with her.
We can’t keep doing this. He’ll see through it.
The next twenty minutes are complete torture. I try looking up the works he mentions on the gallery’s “online showcase,” but it’s uselessly heavy on post-Impressionists and early Cubists. Emails roll in from Carson. I throw her a couple lines, but I’m blind. The longer we go through this charade, the more wound up I get. I might as well be on the moon for all the good I’m doing her. Not to mention that Carson’s freelancing, Belknap’s kinda flirting with her… and she’s flirting back? I remember the picture before they left the window: Carson’s ankles crossed, her head cocked, that I’m-probably-gonna-sleep-with-this-guy-if-he-doesn’t-say-something-stupid look you see in bars after a few drinks. Is she really that great an actress?
Belknap used to like tall, leggy blondes. Is he trying to get past Carson’s guard, blow her cover? If he does, what’ll he do to her?
While they make wrapping-up chat, the front doors slide open and a chick in a black dress steps out with a broom. I turn the binoculars her way. Very Audrey Hepburn-Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Maybe late twenties, dark-but-not-black hair piled in a beehive bun, oval face, big eyes, and the kind of mouth you pick for a kissing marathon. Her LBD is a sleeveless, knee-length sheath with a scoop neckline and short, black fringe at the hem. Good legs. Tasty.
She’s sweeping but not sweeping, making a show of it without accomplishing much. Her outfit makes me think she’s the gallery assistant. Why the janitor act?
“Thanks so much for all your time, Fredo,” Carson purrs. Yes, purrs. Hearing that in my ear jolts me away from ogling the assistant. Damn, girl, you got that in you? “I’m sure Mr. Hoskins will be anxious to visit with you next week.”
“Of course. Thank you for thinking of us.” Belknap’s tone is the kind that goes with ear nibbling. It was always so damn easy for him. Once at an opening party, I watched him seduce some dude’s wife right in front of him. No joke; after hubby went off for drinks, Belknap and the wife disappeared for almost half an hour. Chloe once told me, “If a girl talked to me like that? I’d do her right there.”
Is he seriously making a play for Carson? Is she buying it?
“Come by next Wednesday,” Belknap says. “I’m here all day. I’ll look forward to seeing you again… and Mr. Hoskins, of course.” Bastard!
The last thing I hear on the phone is the door chime, then the connection dies.
Carson steps through the double sliding doors and takes a deep breath. Italian Audrey turns toward her. They say a few words back and forth, then the girl hands Carson what looks like a business card. Carson nods and picks her way across the street; the assistant goes back to pretending to sweep. Anybody not paying a lot of attention would’ve only seen two women say “good evening” to each other. Well played, both of you.
Belknap steps into the gallery window and watches Carson go. I give him the finger.