David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

An assistant approached the auctioneer and whispered into his ear. What he said was presumably what several members of the audience were already telling one another. They had recognized Malone. His name was being murmured.

“Very well,” the auctioneer said. “One point five million. Do I have -”

“Six.” The voice was no longer Doug’s, but Bellasar’s: a baritone with a hint of an Italian accent and more than a hint of annoyance.

“Eight,” Malone said.

“Two million,” Bellasar said defiantly.

“It’s yours.” Malone shrugged. “I guess you just can’t take no for an answer.”

The fury in Bellasar’s eyes was palpable.

“A black-market arms dealer’s money is as good as anybody’s, right?” Malone asked the auctioneer.

Bellasar stood.

“Of course, there’s blood all over the money,” Malone said. “But who says blood and art don’t go together?”

The bodyguards approached from the sides.

Avoiding them, Malone walked down the aisle toward Bellasar.

“Chase, what are you doing?” Doug asked in alarm.

Murmurs in the room grew louder.

Bellasar’s face was rigid with anger. “You just forced me to pay a million more than I had to for that painting.”

“I don’t recall twisting your arm. Maybe it’s God’s way of letting you know you have too much money. Why don’t you add that amount to what it cost you to tear apart my life? You’re interested in my paintings? I’ve decided to change my style. I’m now into performance art.”

Reaching into the pockets of his bomber jacket, Malone came out with a tube of oil paint in each hand. The caps had already been removed. Squeezing hard, he shot two streams of scarlet paint over Bellasar’s dark brown blazer.

Bellasar jerked his head back in shock.

“The color of blood,” Malone said. “You could call it a metaphor.”

He reached back to drive a fist into Bellasar’s stomach but changed position as one of the bodyguards lunged. Pivoting, Malone grabbed the man’s arm, swung, and sent him flying into a row of chairs emptied by members of the audience anxious to get away from the commotion. “Call the police!” someone yelled. As the chairs crashed and the bodyguard rolled, Malone prepared a second time to hit Bellasar, but the other bodyguard rushed him. Malone knocked the man to the floor, felt something sting his neck, and spun to thrust the sharp object away, realizing with alarm that Bellasar had pricked him with something on a ring he wore. Something inside the ring. As Bellasar swiveled the ring’s crested top back into place, Malone’s neck felt on fire. The heat rushed through his body. He had time to punch the first bodyguard before his mind swirled. Frantic, he struggled, but somebody hit him, and the floor became rubbery, his knees collapsing. As out-of-focus hands grabbed him, dragging him along the blurry aisle, his hearing lasted slightly longer than his fading vision. He tried to thrash but was powerless. The last thing he remembered was the scrape of his shoes on carpet.

He awoke to a raging headache, finding himself strapped to a chair in a large, dark, echoing area. The only light was from a harsh unshielded bulb above his head. Two men, a different pair than the first two, played cards at a nearby table.

“Need to go to the bathroom?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

“Too bad. Besides, you already did.”

Malone’s jeans were wet where he’d urinated on himself. His stomach was queasy. The back of his neck ached where Bellasar’s ring had jabbed him.

In the distance, a door opened and closed with a metallic thump. Two pairs of footsteps scraped on concrete, approaching through the darkness. Bellasar and Potter stepped into view. Bellasar now wore a navy blazer and gray slacks; Potter looked even more somber than usual.

Bellasar studied him. “You’re a fool.”

“I’m not the one who paid a million more than he had to for a painting.”

Bellasar spread his hands. “Money can be replaced. I was referring to your refusal to cooperate with me. If you’d accepted my commission, your life wouldn’t be in such disarray at the moment.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t and it is.” Bellasar studied him harder, then shook his head. “What did you hope to accomplish with that incident at Sotheby’s?”

“I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to get my hands on you when nobody else was around. Enough important people saw us together at Sotheby’s that if my body gets fished out of the East River, you’ll be the first man the police want to talk to.”

Bellasar, whose tan was enhanced by his brilliant smile, chuckled. “I assure you, if I wanted something to happen to you, your body wouldn’t be found in the East River or anywhere else, for that matter.” He let the threat sink in. “You have only yourself to blame. I made a fair offer. You chose to insult me by refusing. But I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you a second chance. I’ll arrange for your life to be put back the way it was. I’ll even raise my offer to seven hundred thousand dollars. But I warn you – I am not known for my patience. There won’t be a third chance.” He let that threat sink in also.

“Why are you so fixated on me? I can name a dozen artists with bigger reputations. Get one of them to do the portraits.” Malone mentioned the name of the most famous realist currently working.

“I already own a portrait by him. You underestimate yourself. I’m confident that one day your reputation will be bigger than his. I’m a collector. It’s well known that you never accept commissions. If I could persuade you to accept a commission from me after you’ve turned down so many others, I’d be receiving something unique.”

Malone didn’t respond.

“Pride’s a wonderful thing.” Bellasar sighed. “But bear in mind, I have pride as much as you do. This stalemate can’t go on forever. One of us has to relent. But I can’t be the one who does. In my business, it’s crucial that I never show weakness, that I get what I want. If you relent, you receive an honest wage for honest work. If I relent, I tempt dangerous men to test me. Given those alternatives, you have the most to gain and the least to lose by forgoing your pride for a time.”

“Honest work? Painting a likeness of your wife? You could get any competent sketch artist to do it.”

“I didn’t say anything about a likeness.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t hire a world-class artist and expect him to accept a preconceived notion of what a portrait is,” Bellasar said. “That would be absurd. Your style is representational rather than abstract, so I assumed the portraits would be in that manner. But I wouldn’t hold you to that approach. Inspiration mustn’t be constrained. All I ask is that you be totally honest to yourself and to the subject.”

Malone pretended to debate with himself. His objection to accepting the commission had been that he had to maintain his independence, but Bellasar had just given him all the independence an artist could want. Bellasar had also given him a reason to accept without making Bellasar suspicious.

“Honesty to myself and to the subject?”

“That’s all.”

“And when I finished, that would be the end of it? You’d put my life back the way it was? I could walk away, and I’d never hear from you again?”

“You have my word. Of course, if you do decide to accept my offer, I hope that the drama you arranged at Sotheby’s gave you enough emotional satisfaction that we can be civil to each other.”

Malone couldn’t help thinking that the drama had been arranged by both of them. Bellasar wouldn’t have made the appointment to meet Doug at Sotheby’s if he hadn’t assumed Doug would tell Malone. Bellasar had expected Malone to show up.