David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

He took all this in while appearing not to do so, using the need of tilting his head toward his palette to disguise his periodic glances in the man’s direction. As he intensified the scarlet on his canvas, he heard the intruder come so close that the crunch of his shoes was distinct.

Then the crunch stopped an arm’s length from Malone’s right. “Mr. Malone?”

Malone ignored him.

“I’m Alexander Potter.”

Malone continued to ignore him.

“I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. I told you I was flying in this afternoon.”

“You wasted your time. I thought I made it clear: I’m not interested.”

“ Very clear. It’s just that my employer doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“He’d better get used to it.” Malone applied more color to the canvas. Seagulls screeched. A minute passed.

Potter broke the stalemate. “Perhaps it’s a matter of your fee not being sufficient. On the phone, I mentioned two hundred thousand dollars. My employer authorized me to double it.”

“This isn’t about money.” Malone finally turned to him.

“What is it about?”

“I was once in a position where I had to follow a lot of orders.”

Potter nodded. “Your experience in the Marines.”

“After I got out, I promised myself that from then on I was going to do only what I wanted.”

“A half million.”

“I’d been obeying commands for too long. Many of them didn’t make sense, but it was my job to follow them anyhow. Finally I was determined to be my own boss. The trouble is, I needed money and I broke my promise to myself. The man who hired me saw things differently than I did. He kept finding fault with my work and refused to pay me.”

“That wouldn’t happen this time.” Potter’s tie had red, blue, and green stripes, the banner for an Ivy League club that would never have asked Malone to join and to which he would never have wanted to belong.

“It didn’t happen then, either,” Malone said. “Believe me, I convinced the man to pay.”

“I meant that this time no one would find fault with your work. You’re too famous now. Six hundred thousand.”

“That’s more than any of my paintings has ever sold for.”

“My employer knows that.”

“Why? Why is it worth so much to him?”

“He values the unique.”

“Just for me to do a private portrait?”

“No. This commission involves two portraits. One of the subject’s face. The other full length. Nude.”

“Nude? Can I assume your employer is not the subject of the portraits?”

Malone was making a joke, but Potter evidently didn’t have a sense of humor. “His wife. Mr. Bellasar doesn’t allow even his photograph to be taken.”

“Bellasar?”

“Derek Bellasar. Is the name familiar to you?”

“Not at all. Should it be?”

“Mr. Bellasar is very powerful.”

“Yes, I’m sure he reminds himself of that every morning.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How did you know I was here?”

The abrupt change of subject caused a shadow of confusion to glide behind Potter’s glasses. He raised his brow in what passed for a frown. “It’s hardly a secret. The Manhattan gallery that represents you confirmed what was in the recent Newsweek article. You live here on Cozumel.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“How did I know where to phone you?” Potter’s expression displayed total confidence again. “There’s no mystery. The article mentioned your passion for privacy, that you don’t have a telephone and you live in a sparsely inhabited part of the island. The article also mentioned that the only building near you is a restaurant called the Coral Reef, where you receive your mail and take your business calls. It was simply a matter of my being persistent, of phoning that restaurant until I happened to catch you.”

“That’s still not what I meant.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“How did you know I was here .” Malone pointed toward the sand at his feet.

“Ah. I see. Someone at the restaurant told me where you’d gone.”

“No. This afternoon, I came here on the spur of the moment. I didn’t tell anyone. There’s only one way you could have known – you had someone following me.”

Potter’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t even blink.

“You’re trouble,” Malone said. “Leave.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner.”

“Hey, what part of no don’t you understand?”

Potter was sitting at a table directly across from the entrance, staring as Malone stepped into the Coral Reef. The man’s solemn business suit contrasted with the colorful tops and shorts of the many tourists who had made the ten-kilometer drive from Cozumel’s only town, San Miguel, to visit this locally famous restaurant. Years ago, it had been no more than a beer and snack shop for divers attracted to the clear water of the nearby reef. But over time, the building and the menu had expanded, until the restaurant was now listed among the must-sees in every Cozumel travel guide. Potter had every right to be a customer, of course, but although the place was usually busy, Malone considered the Coral Reef to be his private refuge, and he resented that Potter had contaminated it.

Pausing, he gave Potter a long, hard look, then turned to Yat-Balam, the round-headed, broad-faced, high-cheeked Mayan proprietor. Softening his features, Malone said hello. He had never needed a lot of friends in order to be happy. An only child who had been raised by a single mother and who had been left alone a great deal as a child, he had learned to feel comfortable being alone, to be a good companion to himself. He didn’t feel isolated living away from the only town on this small island off the eastern coast of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. Nonetheless, the restaurant had become important to him. He visited it every day. He had established a warm rapport not only with Yat but also with Yat’s wife, who was the cook, and Yat’s three teenage children, who were the waiters. Along with occasional visitors from the art world and Malone’s former Marine unit, not to mention divers who returned to the area often enough to be regulars, they fulfilled his social needs. Until three months ago, there had also been a woman, but that had ended unhappily, for she had definitely not enjoyed an isolated life, even if it was on a Caribbean paradise, and had returned to Manhattan’s art galleries and receptions.

After a few pleasantries, Yat said, “There is a man who has been sitting all evening but refuses to order anything except iced tea. He keeps staring at the entrance. He says he is waiting for you.” Yat directed his almond-shaped eyes in Potter’s direction.

“Yes, I saw him when I came in.”

“He is a friend?”

“A nuisance.”

“There will be a problem?”

“No. But I’d better get this settled so I can enjoy my meal. What’s the special for tonight?”

“ Huachinango Veracruz.”

Malone’s mouth watered in anticipation of the red snapper prepared with green peppers, onions, tomatoes, olives, and spices. “Bring him one and put it on my bill. I’ll have the same.”

“I’ll get another place setting.”

“No need. I won’t be eating with him. Better bring us each a margarita also. I have a feeling he’s going to want a drink after I’ve finished talking to him.”

As Malone started past the busy tables toward Potter, Yat put a cautionary hand on his arm.

Malone gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I promise, there won’t be trouble.”

The restaurant had an octagonal design, with thatched walls that stopped at waist level, allowing a view of the ocean. A full moon illuminated the surf. Over the bar next to the restaurant’s entrance hung a painting Malone had given to Yat, depicting the beach. Here and there, posts supported beams that spread out like spindles on a wheel and held up the round, tent-shaped thatched roof. The effect was spacious and airy, no matter how crowded the room was.