Faking It - Crusie Jennifer - Страница 48
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“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.”
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