David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

“At first, I explained to everyone who came that we were closed, but finally there were too many. It became too much.” Weary, Yat gestured for Malone to join him in the dining area.

To the right, on the bar, Malone saw a tequila bottle and a half-empty glass. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Yat stared toward the front door. “They kept wanting to know when the restaurant would be open again, and I couldn’t bear repeating so many times that I didn’t know. In the end, I finally just sat here and listened to them bang on the door.”

“You’ve got to tell me,” Malone said.

“A man came here this morning and offered to buy the Coral Reef for more money than I ever expected to see in a lifetime.”

Malone had a sick sinking feeling.

“I spoke to my wife and children about it. They work so hard. We all work so hard.” Yat shook his head, depressed. “It was too much to resist.”

“Potter,” Malone said.

“Yes, Alexander Potter – the same man who was here the other night. He said to tell you he sends his regards.”

“And those of a man named Derek Bellasar?”

“Yes. The Coral Reef is to remain closed indefinitely until Señor Bellasar decides what to do with the property.” Yat stared at his glass, picked it up, and took a deep swallow. “I should have thought about it longer. I should have waited before I signed the papers. Now I understand that the money means nothing if I don’t know what to do with my time. I didn’t realize until now how important coming here was to me.”

Yat’s use of the past tense was so poignant that Malone poured tequila into a glass. “I know how important it was to me .” When Malone swallowed the clear, sharp, slightly oily liquid, his eyes watered, but not just from the alcohol. He felt as if someone had died. Bellasar, you son of a bitch, I’m going to get you for this, he thought.

“I almost forgot,” Yat said. “You had a phone call.”

“What?” Malone wrinkled his brow. “From whom?”

“A man at the gallery in New York that sells your paintings. He said he had something important to talk to you about.”

With an even sicker feeling, Malone reached for the phone.

“You sold the gallery?” Malone dismally repeated what he had just heard.

“Hey, I’m as surprised as anybody.” Douglas Fennerman’s voice was faint, the telephone connection a hiss. “Believe me, it was the last thing on my mind. But out of the blue, this absolutely fantastic offer came in.”

“From a man named Alexander Potter, negotiating for someone called Derek Bellasar.”

“That’s a funny thing, Chase. Potter said you’d know who bought the gallery even before I told you the name. But just in case you didn’t, he said to make sure I passed along -”

“His regards.”

“Are you clairvoyant?”

“And Bellasar’s regards, also.”

“Amazing. Do you know these people well?”

“No, but believe me, I intend to.”

“Then everything’s going to work out. You and I go back so far, you’d have been the first person I called, even if Potter hadn’t suggested it. I want to tell you how honored I feel to have represented you.”

Malone felt a tightness in his throat. “If you hadn’t promoted me so tirelessly, I never would have had any breaks.”

“Hey, you’re the one with the talent. I’m just the messenger. But just because we’re not in business together any longer, that doesn’t mean we won’t still be friends.”

“Sure,” Malone managed to say.

“We’ll still get together from time to time.”

“… Sure.”

Doug sounded melancholy. “You bet.” He tried to muster his former enthusiasm. “And at least it won’t be like you’re in business with strangers. Since you and Potter and Bellasar are acquainted with one another, it’s something to build on. After you’ve worked with them for a while, you might even get to be friends.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You never know.”

“I do know.” Malone’s jaw muscles hardened.

“Well, you won’t be in business with them anytime soon,” Doug said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Bellasar plans a complete renovation of the gallery. All your paintings are being put in storage until the job’s completed.”

“What?”

“You’re going to be off the market temporarily. Could be a wise move. My guess is, once the gallery reopens, your work will increase in value because it’s been unavailable.”

Malone tightened his grip on the phone. “And my guess is, Bellasar will guarantee those paintings are unavailable for a very long time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Making Bellasar and Potter wish they’d never heard of me.”

“Wait a minute, Chase. Obviously, I haven’t been clear. There’s no reason to feel threatened. If there’s something you’re worried about, if you need to be reassured about something, just tell me. I’m meeting them Wednesday morning at an auction at Sotheby’s. I’ll pass your message along.”

Sotheby’s? Malone quickly calculated: Wednesday morning’s thirty-six hours from now. He gripped the phone so hard that his hand cramped.

“Chase?”

The husky shout made Malone turn from the suitcase he was furiously packing.

“Are you in there, Chase?”

Peering through a bedroom window, Malone saw a tall, heavy-chested man with short blond hair and a sunburned, big-boned face standing on the devastated beach.

“Jeb?” he yelled.

The big man chuckled.

“Jeb! My God, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I can hear you, but I can’t see you, buddy. Where are you?”

“I’ll be right out!”

When Malone hurried from the house onto the back patio, Jeb Wainright broke into a grin. Thirty-seven, the same age as Malone, he wore sandals, baggy brown shorts, and a garish flower-patterned short-sleeved shirt that had its three top buttons open and showed the curly blond hair on his chest. His shorts revealed the bullet scar on his left thigh from the night Malone had saved his life after they’d been shot down during the Panama invasion. Even after ten years, he still had his military physique: broad shoulders, well-developed muscles.

“I knocked, but I didn’t get an answer.” Jeb grinned more broadly as Malone came toward him. His face was as craggy as the exposed limestone around him. “I started to worry that you didn’t live here anymore, especially after I saw all this.” He gestured toward the torn-up beach and the toppled palm trees. “What the hell happened? It looks like a hurricane hit this place.”

“It’s a land developer’s idea of civic improvements.”

“These aren’t the only changes. I drove past that fantastic restaurant we went to the last time. I figured we’d have dinner there, but it’s closed.”

“Courtesy of the same land developer. I don’t want to ruin my mood by talking about it.” Malone gripped Jeb’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you. How long has it been? At least a year?”

Jeb nodded. “And now I’m back for another diving vacation. Maybe a little windsurfing.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

“In a rented car out front.”

“I’ll help you carry it in. You’ll stay here, of course.” A troubled thought made Malone hesitate. “But you’ll have the place to yourself. You caught me at a bad time. I have to fly to New York tomorrow.”

“What? But I just got here. Can’t you put off the trip for a couple of days?”

Malone shook his head no. Anger quickened his pulse. “I need to settle a score with the guy who’s responsible for all this. You’ll understand when those bulldozers get cranked up again. You might even find yourself sleeping on the beach if they get orders to push these walls down.”