Faking It (d-2) (21 page)

Ronald breathed deeply, too. “Of course.”

“Oh, good,” Clea said and went back to the menu.

THAT AFTERNOON, Davy borrowed one of Simon’s shirts for the flea market, trying to look prosperous but not rich, somebody Colby would buy as honest.

“It has to be
my
shirt?” Simon said.

“Tilda doesn’t have anything that fits me,” Davy said. “Boy, one night without Louise, and you’re a mess.”

“Four nights,” Simon said. “Does that strike you as odd?”

“That a woman would avoid you for four nights? No.”

“I checked her out through the Bureau,” Simon said.

“You
what
?”

“I was curious. I did it informally.”

“Oh, good,” Davy said. “You know damn well Tilda’s up to something, and you alert the FBI.”

“They were already alerted,” Simon said. “Someone’s up here looking into them.”

“Fuck,” Davy said.

“It’s part of something larger,” Simon said. “Some rich old man who died after a warehouse burned down. His grandson is insisting it’s arson. But the Goodnights are definitely on the list.”

“Keep an eye on that list,” Davy said. “If they start to look like they’re going for anybody here, let me know.”

“Certainly,” Simon said. “I don’t have anything
else
to do.”

Downstairs in the gallery, Tilda was also annoyed.

“I don’t get to come?” she said when Davy got the car keys from Jeff. “I leave work early and you’re doing this without Betty and Veronica?” She stopped. “Oh, good, I sound like an Archie comic.”

“Stay close to the phone,” Davy said. “If I need you, I’ll call. Oh, and you,” he said to Nadine, who was trying to get a sock away from Steve. “You stay here, too. We may need you.”

“For what?” Nadine said, looking up. “I get to play?”

“This is not play, my child,” Davy said. “This is art.”

“Uh-huh,” Nadine said and went back to retrieving her sock.

Colby was on the edge of the market when Davy finally found him, directed there by an exasperated woman in a pink My Little Pony T-shirt who was trying to sell “real old handmade reproductions” of advertising signs. He looked like he was trying not to fit in, his polo shirt neatly pressed and tucked into Dockers that failed to disguise his paunch. He was at the age when his hairline was gathering strength to recede, and he smirked under its creeping edges, smug in the knowledge that he was better than everybody else there.

Take him for everything he’s got
, Davy’s inner con whispered.

Davy strolled over and began to leaf through the prints that Colby had displayed in a V-shaped easel.

“Those are all original artwork,” Colby said, which was such a blatant lie that even Davy was taken aback.

“I’m really more interested in paintings,” Davy said.

“Got those, too,” Colby said, sweeping his hand behind him to show a selection of framed artwork, very few of which were actual paintings.

“Something colorful,” Davy said, and Colby offered him a still life of throbbing purple grapes and a portrait of a clown that looked as though it had been painted in orange Kool-Aid.

“You know what my wife likes?” Davy said. “Dancers. And wouldn’t you know it, I can’t ever find a dancer painting.”

“Don’t have one,” Colby said with real regret.

Oh, hell
. “Got anything close? People dancing in the air. Flying?”

“Got just the thing,” Colby said. “It’s got no frame, though.” He began to dig under the table, and Davy thought,
There is no chance that this
-

And then Colby was holding up the Scarlet, this one a checkerboard sky with two people with smeared heads who were sure as hell not dancing, not with that body language. Scarlet got more interesting with every painting.

“It’s a little weird,” Colby said. “But it’s colorful.”

“It’s smudged,” Davy said. “Their heads are all messed up. I don’t know. How much do you want for it?”

“Well, this is an original artwork,” Colby said. “So it’s five hundred dollars.”

Davy shook his head. “It’s messed up.”

“It’s original,” Colby said.

“Let me think about it,” Davy said and walked away before Colby could come down on the price. He crossed over to the next lane where he could see Colby between the booths while he punched in Tilda’s number on his cell phone. Colby was not a happy art dealer.

“It’s me,” he said when Tilda answered. “He’s got it. Get Nadine and get ready.”

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Andrew said he’d watch the gallery. Anything we should know?”

“Colby’s an idiot,” Davy said. “Let him look down your blouse and you’ve got him. He’s also big on frames. Listen, when I pick you up, I don’t want to recognize either one of you.”

“Okay,” Tilda said, a little more slowly. “Any special requests? Fishnet stockings? Funny hats?”

“Nadine should look like a normal teenager,” Davy said, trying not to think of Tilda in fishnets. “I know that’s a stretch but she should be completely unmemorable.”

“Okay,” Tilda said.

“And you should look like an art dealer. Look professional and successful and bored. Be Veronica with money.”

“Story of my life,” Tilda said. “Except for the money. Come and get me.”

“That’s my plan,” Davy said.

NADINE HAD outdone herself in jeans, a Britney Spears T-shirt, and a honey-brown wig with a ponytail. She’d done a clumsy enough job on her makeup that she looked completely authentic, a perfect replica of a teenager.

“She looks normal,” Davy said to Tilda when they were back at the flea market and he’d given Nadine her instructions and sent her off to Colby.

“I know,” Tilda said. “We were all so proud when we saw her. It’s a triumph of illusion.”

“You did pretty good yourself.” Davy surveyed Tilda’s red silk separates and razor-cut wig. “I hadn’t thought of you as a blonde. You look like Gwennie. With a lot more edge.”

“Blondes are hot,” Tilda said, watching as Nadine approached Colby. “I am cool. All she has to do is leave the print there?”

“Yep,” Davy said. “Hot, huh? I don’t suppose you’d consider wearing that wig-”

“In bed with you? No.” Tilda squinted across the market. “She’s there.”

Davy turned back and saw Nadine slow in front of Colby’s booth. He sprang to life, smiling at her until she began to talk, gesturing to the painting. Then Nadine held up her print to show him, and his smile disappeared as he shook his head.

“What is that print?” Davy asked Tilda.

“It’s a Finster,” Tilda said. “One of her damaged proofs.”

“You’re going to convince Colby a Finster is valuable?” Davy snorted. “Good luck. We’re doomed.”

“No,” Tilda said. “Dorcas is really good. She’s just depressing.”

Nadine talked on, and Davy imagined her with her eyes widened and her voice lightened, channeling Marcia Brady. “I hope she doesn’t overplay it.”

“Oh, relax,” Tilda said. “None of us overacts. We could underplay in the cradle.”

Across the way, Nadine held up her finger in the universal “Wait a minute” sign. She dropped the print on Colby’s table and started off down the fairway while he gestured to her to take it.

“Give him a couple of minutes,” Davy said. “Then go over there and discover the print. It’s worth a lot of money, but you’re cagey about it.”

“But Colby catches on,” Tilda said.

“Then you confess that it’s worth thousands.”

“Thousands,” Tilda said doubtfully.

“Well, a lot of hundreds then,” Davy said. “You’re the art expert here. You’ll give him a lot of money for it.”

“What if he sells it?”

“He won’t,” Davy said. “Nadine’s coming back and he knows it. He’ll tell you it’s on hold or something and ask you to come back.”

“I don’t see how we’re getting the Scarlet,” Tilda said.

“You don’t need to,” Davy said. “Go over there and convince him that you’ll pay a lot of money for that thing.”

“Right,” Tilda said, and he watched her thread her way through the crowd to Colby.

Colby definitely perked up when she arrived, and it wasn’t just because she looked like money.
You’re married, you jerk
, Davy thought as Colby leaned closer to Tilda. Tilda laughed up at him, compounding the problem. What the hell was she doing? She was supposed to be a cool art dealer, not a fairway floozy. She looked over the paintings Colby showed her, clearly as uninterested in them as she was fascinated by him, and he expanded under her come-on.
Come on
, Davy thought.
Enough of this already
. Then Tilda stopped, her body language changing from pliant to alert. She picked up Nadine’s print, and Davy watched Colby’s face shift from lust to greed. It was like watching a silent movie: Tilda pulling back as Colby questioned her, her shoulders slumping as he got her to admit the print was valuable, his shoulders hunching as Tilda looked up and down the fairway for the phantom owner of the print.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Nadine said, making Davy jump.

“Yeah,” he said. “So are you.”

“Thank you,” Nadine said. “So now what?”

“You wait until she leaves,” Davy said. “And then you go pick up your print. He’ll offer you some ridiculously small amount of money for it. You say no, it’s worth more than that, your grandma told you it was worth a lot, although maybe if he has something to trade, does he have anything that would be nice and bright for your room because that’s what you’re here for. You let him talk you into trading it for the Scarlet, and then you meet us back at the car and we’re out of here.”

“Excellent,” Nadine said. “Now?” Davy looked back at the booth. Tilda was gone. “Give him a minute,” he said. “Let somebody else talk to him. Then go.”

Two browsers later, Nadine took off for the booth, and Tilda came back, eating a hot dog. “How’s it going?” she said, handing him one, too.

“Thanks. It’s going the way it always does.” Davy unwrapped the hot dog and bit into it. “Just the way I planned it.”

“It’s so odd seeing these paintings again,” Tilda said.

“You and Scarlet close, were you?” Davy said, not really caring. Across the way, Nadine came back for her print.

“Don’t know her at all,” Tilda said, following his eyes to Nadine. “Is this it?”

“Umhm,” Davy said, his mouth full.

They finished eating while Nadine toyed with Colby. She smiled and he leaned forward. She dug her toe in the dirt, he reasoned with her. She shrugged and he tried harder. Finally, Nadine lifted her shoulders and pointed to a blue bowl.

“What?” Davy said, feeling his heart clutch. “Not the bowl, you dummy.”

Colby evidently felt the same way because he shook his head. Nadine shifted her hip, clearly agitated, and pointed to the Scarlet. Colby leaned in and they began to negotiate.

“You give a woman a simple instruction,” Davy began.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tilda said. “She knows what she’s doing. Give her some space.”

Colby was shaking his head, but he was also handing Nadine the blue bowl.

“Oh, that’s great,” Davy said. “Now we have a bowl and no-”

Then Nadine handed him the print, and he passed over the Scarlet.

“See?” Tilda said again. “I told you so.”

Nadine bounced happily down the fairway, and Colby looked with satisfaction at his ticket to riches.

“Now what?” Tilda said.

“Now we meet Nadine at the car and go home,” Davy said. “Although I would really like to do something else to Colby.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Tilda said.

He looked at her to see if she was laughing at him, but she gazed back at him, completely serious. “You think?”

“I think Colby’s dead meat,” Tilda said. “And I think I don’t ever want you coming after me.”

“Wouldn’t that depend on what I was after?” Davy said, grinning at her.

“You’re hopeless,” Tilda said and headed for the car.

“Got it,” Nadine said, when she climbed into the back seat a minute later. “And look at this cool bowl.”

“The next time I send you out to get something,” Davy said sternly, as he pulled out of the parking lot, “do not improvise.”

“Let me see,” Tilda said, reaching over the seat to hand Nadine her hot dog. Nadine traded her for the bowl.

“I think it’s pretty,” Nadine said, unwrapping lunch. “It sat there in the middle of all that junk and glowed at me.”

“You have to keep focused,” Davy said. “Not that we’re going to do this again, but-”

Tilda turned it over and looked at the bottom. “It’s Rookwood. Way to go, Nadine.”

“Oooh,” Nadine said around her sandwich. “What’s Rookwood?”

“Something good, I gather,” Davy said, still disgruntled.

“ Cincinnati art pottery,” Tilda said, handing it back across the seat to Nadine. “Very collectible. The dumbass never even looked at the bottom to see the potter’s mark. He knows zip about art.”

“That I could have told you,” Davy said. “He put a lot of emphasis on frames.”

“Some frames can be worth a lot of money,” Tilda said. “Especially if it’s the original frame to a good piece of art.”

“Which he doesn’t have,” Davy said.

“So how much is this Rookwood worth?” Nadine said, sticking to basics.

“It depends on the piece and the age,” Tilda said. “There’s a code on the bottom that tells what year it was made. The size and the shape affect value, too. And condition, but that one looks good.”

“The older it is, the better?” Nadine said, squinting at the bottom.

“First condition,” Tilda said. “Then age. Then the rest. When you’re collecting something, condition is everything. It’s like location in real estate.”

“So how much?” Nadine said.

Tilda shrugged. “The mark’s from 1914. Probably somewhere between five hundred and a couple thousand.”

Davy almost drove off the road. “For a
bowl
?”

“Cool,” Nadine said.

“For art,” Tilda said. “For a thing of beauty that is a joy forever.”

“The possibilities for graft in this business must be huge,” Davy said, trying not to think about it. It was like discovering a great new sport and not being able to play. When he realized Tilda hadn’t said anything, he added, “Because that would be terrible.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tilda said, turning to look out the window.