Nadine Jensen looked up from her desk as three men walked into her office. They were all well dressed in handmade suits, but the men in the center stood out. He was older, wore the most expensive suit, was adorned with jewelry and carried a walking stick with a jewel-encrusted head. In contrast, the other two looked like brightly adorned thugs.
“Nadine, my love,” the middle man said.
“Emory,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
He put his hand to his chest and said, “Your tone wounds me. It sounds like you’re not glad to see me.”
“I’m not,” the beautiful redhead said. “You or your bully boys.”
“My nephews?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, dryly, “your nephews. What do you want, Emory?”
“I’m just wondering if you’ve made up your mind about my offer, my dear?”
“I made up my mind the moment you told me your offer, Emory,” she said. “I thought you understood that last time.”
He smiled, but it was completely devoid of humor.
“I didn’t imagine you were being serious then, my dear,” he said. “I’ve come to give you a second chance.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “There will not be a third.”
Nadine grew angry and stood up. At five-ten she was taller than two of the men in the room. Only the man to Emory’s right was taller, and considerably so.
“I don’t need a second, third or fourth chance, Emory,” she said. “Now take your thugs, or nephews, or whatever they are, and get out of my gallery.”
The man stared at her for a few moments, no expression whatsoever on his face. When he spoke he kept his eyes on her, but his words were for his two “nephews.”
“All right boys, I tried,” he said. “Please see if you can get the lady to change her mind.”
He turned and walked to the door of the office, while the other two men remained where they were, their eyes fixed on Nadine Jensen’s body.
At the door Emory stopped and said, “Just remember, nothing . . . unsavory.”
“Gotcha, Uncle E.,” the shorter of the two men said.
He left.
The men looked at each other, then back at Nadine. The taller of the two licked his lips lasciviously.
“What’s unsavory mean?” he asked.
The other man said, “Rape.”
“Rape?” the tall man said. “Who’s thinkin’ about rape? I’m thinkin’ about sex.”
Nadine shuddered.
“Ain’t nothin’ unsavory about sex, is there?” the taller man asked.
The shorter man shrugged, as they started toward her.
~*~
As Clint reached the Whitlow Gallery he stopped to admire the building’s frontage. Most of the building in American western towns featured false facades that were raised and affixed to the front to make them look a bit fancier. But Clint knew that builders and architects in Manhattan didn’t employ that device. The front of the Whitlow Gallery had artistic whirls and circles etched directly into the cement.
As he approached the front door, it opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing the most expensive suit Clint had seen in some time. Gold and diamonds on his fingers and wrists reflecting light, as did the head of his fancy walking stick.
“Oh,” the man said, politely, “excuse me.”
“No problem,” Clint said, standing aside.
The man stepped past Clint, then stopped and turned to look him over.
“Are you interested in art, sir?”
“Actually, I am. I was told this gallery is very good.”
“Good,” the man said, “but expensive. You might want to try some of the galleries further downtown.”
“Oh? Why would I want to do that?”
“Well . . .” the man said, blatantly looking Clint’s clothes over.
Clint thought again he was definitely going to have to get himself some new attire.
The man with the walking stick shrugged, turned and walked away.
Clint opened the door and stepped into the gallery.
~*~
In the office, Nadine backed up against the wall and said, “Don’t touch me!”
“Lady.” They stopped moving toward her. “We’re just gonna do what Uncle E. told us to do.”
“Change your mind,” the taller one said.
“You try it,” she said, “and I’ll have to scratch your eyes out!”
“This one’s feisty,” the tall man said.
“I like feisty,” the other man said.