The back offices of the auction house were a good deal messier than Rigby expected. Somehow he imagined these art experts to be fastidious types, but the desks were strewn with contracts and invoices and all manner of paperwork, no neater than his own office.
“I don’t know when my client will be wanting to sell, but I imagine it will be soon.”
The auction house man was a big-framed, gin-blossomed Brit in tweed, who had received Rigby’s phone call with almost childish enthusiasm. He examined the photos on Rigby’s iPad with bloodshot eyes, bulging and watery. “These are extraordinary. The little Indian girl, but especially the woman. If I’m not mistaken that’s Kushik’s last wife, and there’s no record of his ever having painted her. At least nothing that’s ever come onto the market. Provenance?”
“It came to my client’s late wife from Mrs. Kushik directly. They both did.”
“And your client wishes to remain anonymous.”
“He insists.”
“And this need for privacy is such that you couldn’t even send me these photos of the paintings electronically.”
“I’m going to erase them as soon as I leave.”
“That need for privacy certainly complicates things. And I will have to make photographs available for potential buyers. But since our buyer will almost certainly be from Russia, there are methods for keeping things under wraps. The auction can be held there, for example, if we can get them out of the country.”
“Understood. And I’ll set up an LLC for payment.”
“Of course you’ll still have to notify the IRS. We can’t encourage you to do anything illegal or even questionable.” He flashed Rigby a lopsided, crooked smile.
“No, of course not.”
“When are you returning to Southern California?”
“Tonight, I’m sorry to say. Business to take care of.”
The fact was he couldn’t afford a decent hotel, not unless he’d brought Beth along, and he was striving at the moment not to complicate that situation any further. The price of a single-day round-trip to SFO had come perilously close to maxing out his Chase Visa, and he didn’t want to ask Paula for one of hers because he didn’t want her to know how close he was to the line.
“Pity, would have liked to take you for a decent dinner. Well, you needn’t make the trip again, I’ll come down in a few days and take a look at the canvases in person, and from there we can start making plans for transport, et cetera.”
In the dismal, seemingly interminable cab ride on the way to the airport—his wounded amour propre would not have survived a trip via courtesy van—he toyed with various ideas for generating short-term cash that didn’t involve further pilfering from Haskill’s accounts in one way or another, but none of them held any water. When they got to the spot where Candlestick Park once stood, where construction was going on now for some sort of industrial or retail complex, he thought of a ball game he’d seen there ten years earlier, Giants versus Phillies. He thought it was a fucking shame, the lack of respect Americans had for their own past anymore.
“Hey,” he said to the cabbie.
“Yes, sir?” the cabbie answered.
Rigby noted the name on the chauffeur’s license. “Aziz? Is that it?”
“Yes, sir?” the cabbie said, a little more cautious this time, doubtless afraid that Rigby was going to ask him what he thought about ISIS or Muslim registries.
“You like the Beatles?”
“The Beatles? Sure.”
“Did you know the spot we just passed is where they played their very last concert ever?”
“I did indeed. 1966.”
“Shame they tore it down, isn’t it?”
“The new stadium’s much nicer. More convenient.”
“You go to a lot of ball games?”
“When I can. My son and daughters are big fans.”
“That’s good.”
He looked out the window again as the 101 curved and wondered about getting season tickets to the Dodgers when the money came through. Start taking the kids again.
The early evening traffic out of Burbank was monstrous, and he wished he’d stayed over, even though it would have meant bringing Beth along. All the way into Ventura, he wrestled with the notion of calling her, then decided it would be smarter to set his sights on Paula instead, which meant that he had time to stop at the club for a drink.
He had intended to stay for only one, but when he sat down there was a ball game on, Dodgers versus Cards, and still feeling nostalgic from his afternoon’s discussion with the cabbie he settled in to watch a few innings. He was halfway through with his second J&B rocks when a familiar waitress sidled up to him. Sweet face, strawberry blond, she was the sort who didn’t flirt and so he’d never bothered to learn her name, but there was something he liked about her.
“Mr. Rigby.”
“There she is,” he said, cursing his memory.
“Long day?”
“Just got back from San Fran.”
“Long drive.”
“I flew. There and back, same day.”
“Ask me about my day.”
“All right, how was yours?”
“Better than yesterday. I broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said, though he was mostly confused. He knew perfectly well when a woman was coming on to him and when she wasn’t, and this one wasn’t. Was she?
“I found out he was sleeping with a married woman.”
“Wow, that stinks. Gave him the old heave-ho, did you?”
“You probably know him.” She jerked her head in the direction of the golf pro shop, that lovely head of hair bouncing. “Keith. Golf pro.”
Keith, fucking a married lady? He wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. It made Rigby think a little more highly of him. “Sure, I know him.”
“Yeah, I’m not turning him in to the club, even though I probably should.”
“Why would the club care?” Then he slapped the side of his head. “Holy shit, he was banging a member?”
“One of his clients. Now, some girls, they’d tell management, get his ass fired and probably blackballed. Not me.”
“Huh. Well, you’re a good person, I guess.”
“Not really. My idea of revenge is to tell her husband his wife is getting fucked by a two-timing, arrested adolescent and people are starting to get wind of it around town. Could be bad for her real estate business.”
She patted him on the chest with a mournful smirk and moved away from him. He was trying to figure out precisely how he was getting this wrong. “Wait. Wait a minute.”
She turned back to face him. “Sorry, Mr. Rigby.”