A CALL FROM THE CUTTING EDGE
As promised, Rupert notified Bernard Phillips of one Charles Bloom and his problem with the painting STRUGGLE. Bernard was livid upon hearing the snag to his multimillion-dollar payday, his retirement check. “I know Mr. Bloom. He’s just looking for money. I will speak to him and see if we can’t come to some private arrangement. I think we both know no one is going to come out of the blue just one day before the auction with some cock-and-bull story which should have been addressed 15 years ago.”
The answer seemed to pacify Rupert, who responded, “If there are any problems, our lawyers need to know immediately and I have to have time to notify our clients who may be flying in tomorrow to bid on the piece. We don’t want a billionaire to take time from his schedule and get here and there is no painting to bid on because some irritated family member has filed an injunction. I think you understand our position, Mr. Phillips?”
“Absolutely. Crystal,” Bernard assured. “I’m sure this is just a minor speed bump by a greedy ex-dealer trying to stir things up. Please plan on continuing with the Yellowhorse in the sale. Give me Bloom’s cell and I’ll work this out, I promise.”
Bernard Phillips had a problem, which meant Charles Bloom had a problem. The fix had to be quick and complete. No screwing up Bernard’s huge payday. Bernard was reaching the end of his career, and he didn’t have any more Yellowhorse-like artists in his gallery and never would. The Cutting Edge was now more synonymous with a dull butter knife than a scalpel, no longer at the edge of contemporary art. No important artists to speak of and Fredrick Marsh’s morbid work took up half the gallery now which meant wasted wall space. It might as well have been empty walls. Nobody appreciated or purchased Marsh’s work, especially not Phillips. Marsh drove off more potential clients daily than he ever brought in. He did have his good points: he still paid the bills and was technically the owner of the gallery.
If Bernard blew town, let’s say with a multimillion-dollar paycheck from Sotheby’s, who would be the wiser? Bernard had been advanced $1.5 million dollars on the upcoming sale of the Yellowhorse, and that money was safely sitting in his Anguilla bank account, waiting for his May 8th arrival. Phillips was counting on an early retirement, unbeknownst to Marsh. No more retail. It would be Marsh’s turn to take care of the gallery. Sally Smith, Bernard’s longtime personal secretary, knew as much about any business issues as Bernard did, and she would never leave. No more dead body paintings for Bernard to stare at. Their presence had damaged Phillips’ subconscious from the years of close association.
The trick was to placate Bloom for a couple of days. If he wouldn’t go away peacefully, then a different tactic would be applied. Nothing was going to interfere with Bernard’s May 8th exit. Marsh would also need to be informed. The time had arrived for Bernard to orchestrate his coup de grace.
Nobody was more aware of the crucial timing than Charles Bloom, who was having his own now-or-never moment. When Rupert had said the consigner would need to be contacted, Bloom had cringed inside. It was common knowledge in the art world that Phillips was the consigner. Bernard would be upset to say the least when the Sotheby’s people called one day away from his payday. Bloom thought if he were in the same position as Phillips, he would try whatever it took to make the deal work. The difference was that Charles would rely on legal, ethical ways and he doubted seriously whether Phillips had the same playbook. If Bernard was involved with Yellowhorse’s demise, Charles could be in great danger. However, the real concern currently for Charles was not Bernard but Fredrick Marsh, the unknown element.
Normally Charles would have relished the idea of taking the day to look at the great masterpieces of contemporary art that were hanging at Sotheby’s main exhibit hall. This was not one of those times. He had fled back to the flint-stone knife in his car. It was part of his protection in some weird way and he could feel when its presence was absent. The only comforting thought was that his hand had stopped hurting after leaving the Yellowhorse painting. Maybe it would all work out somehow, balance restored in some way.
The call Charles was dreading came just as he checked into his boutique hotel not far from the Chelsea area. He figured he might as well be close to the art district; never know when you could do a little business. The chances were slim to none, but it made Charles feel better thinking he still had a normal life and was not performing hari-kari on his art career.
The call was from Bernard Phillips.
“Mr. Bloom, this is Bernard Phillips. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
Hearing Bernard’s voice after 17 years gave Bloom a deja vu of his disastrous experience back in Santa Fe. His heart sped up instantaneously. “No, this is as good a time as any, Mr. Phillips.”
“Please call me Bernard. We share too much in common to be on a last-name basis.”
“Bernard, I’m assuming you’re calling because of my concern with the Sotheby’s painting,” Charles got to the point.
Bernard could feel his own heart rate speed up, having to be cordial to this man who was trying to ruin his life. He thought of how his dad must have felt when he was told the Picasso was a fake. “Yes, indeed. I thought maybe you and I could meet over at my gallery for a private conversation regarding the unfortunate situation. I’m sure something can be worked out.”
Charles’ heart was truly racing now. Going to The Cutting Edge seemed a dangerous option. But did he have any other? “Um, OK, I’m fairly close by. How about in 30 minutes?”
“I can’t today, I’m afraid,” Bernard demurred. “But tomorrow, say 10 in the morning, would be outstanding. It’s going to be busy as you can imagine, and it would be best to talk before all my big clients show up.”
Charles wanted to scream back into the phone, “Yes I remember about having big clients coming in and some dealer screwing everything up,” but he politely confirmed, “Ten, it is.”
“Great Charles, I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”
The only way Bernard would want to see me, Charles thought after hanging up, was in a body bag. The knife had to be kept close. He would stop and pick up some flesh-colored duct tape and wrap it around his abdomen. Just in case something weird happened, Charles would be prepared. But was he really able to anticipate what coyote was planning?
Bernard clearly understood the implications of what needed to be accomplished. He called Marsh and explained the situation and how Charles could destroy the gallery if not stopped in some way, and if it couldn’t be done in a civil manner then it had to be done in a very Marsh-like fashion. Bernard’s lone remaining employee, Sally Smith, was given a variety of tasks to do outside the gallery for the rest of the day, and told not to show up tomorrow until one in the afternoon as Bernard had a special client in the morning and would keep the gallery closed. Bernard knew Sally was smart and might question being off on a busy day, so he explained that tomorrow, with the auction and all, she would be needed to work a very long day and be on her game. She was surprised but happy to get some unexpected “me time” tomorrow morning. Bernard used the rest of the day to get ready for the possibility of Charles not being a reasonable man. Steps had to be taken.