Carl van Marcus - Naked and helpless

The job was easy – she would solicit portrait work from the club's patrons as they sat enjoying cocktails and listening to music. An easel set up in the lobby would show samples and advertise her work. Valdez thought it was an intriguing gimmick, something that hadn't been tried before. Jill would wear a long gown under a plastic smock and wear a lightweight easel-board that was hung around her shoulders by a cloth strap. With pastels and pencils in the easel tray and sketch paper clipped to the board, she was totally equipped to earn money as a quick portrait artist! Best of all, Garcia had told her that many prominent people frequented "La Jacaranda", the most famous niteclub in Mexico City, and who knows… she might get a commission for a portrait in oil! The sketches would sell for the equivalent of five dollars in American money, with three dollars going to her. And, she could expect generous tips – it was the custom in such establishments!

Of course, wardrobe was a problem. She didn't even own a long gown, except for a very girlish one in cotton gingham. Perhaps that is why Ernesto had so tactfully suggested taking her shopping.

Driving along the Paseo de la Reforma in her mentor's midnight blue Mercedes 600SL was a thrilling experience in itself. Julio threaded the shiny limousine through the crazy Mexico City traffic with aplomb. How, she couldn't guess; she was on pins and needles most of the time for fear that twelve cars would plow into the costly machine at once. Instead, she noticed traffic deferring to the obvious symbol of wealth and prestige. Don Ernesto had special license plates. She found that he was known to many, and in every one of the exclusive boutiques they visited the clerks would gush over him while they treated her with restrained professional courtesy. Only once or twice did she notice a cluster of salesgirls whispering behind their hands at a safe distance.

Don Ernesto, besides being an elegant dresser himself, had exquisite taste in women's clothes as well. Jill was flabbergasted at the array of parcels Julio placed in the trunk of the limousine, and in less than two hours of shopping! Garcia knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasted no time in indecision. There were dresses, both long and short, skirts, blouses, evening pajamas, shoes for dancing, sandals for casual wear, scarves and some lovely jewelry. (Many of the salespeople commented that she should be a model or, was she perhaps a young American film star?) It suddenly occurred to her, however fleetingly, that Don Ernesto was her Henry Higgins, and she, his Eliza Doolittle. Or was he her Svengali?

"Ernesto, I'm overwhelmed," she breathlessly confided when they were once again seated in the plush back seat of the luxuriously appointed Mercedes. "I just can't believe this is really happening to me, an art student from Kansas City, Mo! Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and in my wildest dreams, I never expected anything so marvelous!"

Garcia patted her hand paternally. He gave her a bemused and enigmatic smile. "Jill, you must always expect marvelous things to happen, otherwise you will find yourself settling for the crumbs of life. You are much too lovely – and too talented – to allow that. Just wait, Nina – there are many more marvelous things to come… things you truly never expected. This is only the beginning…"

He gave her hand a squeeze, and Jill felt a little flutter of sexual excitement from her chest down to the valley between her legs. She blushed and happened to look up quite suddenly to catch Julio's eyes in the rear view mirror. Their glances locked for one long instant, then the quiet young chauffeur again directed his eyes forward. She could not fathom his expression, but for some reason it troubled her faintly.

At length the sleek Mercedes pulled up in front of a splendid white edifice that was starkly modern. Even in her brief journey along the streets of Mexico City, Jill had already formed the impression that it was a city of contrasts: the very old and the very new, the terribly poor and the terribly rich, the clinically clean and the appallingly dirty. She read the script on the white canopy: GALERIA GARCIA.

"Oh Ernesto, this is your gallery!" the wide-eyed girl exclaimed.

"Yes. And you shall see it now. I hope you approve, Jill," he said, flashing her a devilish smile. Again, the little tremors of excitement. Garcia said something in Spanish to Julio as they got out of the car. The taciturn young man barely nodded. He seemed always to know exactly what was expected of him.

Jill's jaw was hanging slack throughout most of the tour. She had never seen a more exciting gallery. Curved walls, some white, some matte black (a fabulous backdrop for paintings) and one carmine red! Pin spots on tracks discreetly mounted and perfectly focused. Polished black, hand-hewn tiles on the floors throughout. The effect was stunning and faultless.

The main gallery featured contemporary paintings – clearly Garcia's preference. One small room was devoted to primitive art, with ancient carvings and exquisite wall hangings (some very old) made by Mexican and South American Indians. Another room was very different in character, with Oriental rugs on the floor and gems of French Impressionism. One got the feeling of being in a collector's home rather than in a commercial gallery.

There was a special room devoted to lithographs and etchings – Miro, Chagall, Dali, Klee – a fabulous collection of less costly works, beginning at a mere several hundred dollars! It was in this room that Garcia lingered, mentally calculating how much such lithographs would bring when they became containers for cocaine and heroin! The old way – drilling minute holes in frames, filling them with the dope then sealing and shipping them was expensive, and too risky. The narks had come very close to catching on. And there was always a residue that clung to the wood. Eventually it added up to several ounces, and several thousands of dollars lost. Yes, Dawson's "invention" would revolutionize his private enterprise, providing a trouble-free method of making him a multi-millionaire. Then he would be free to devise other intriguing occupations to satisfy his passion for illicit intrigue…

The staff at the gallery (they were all mature men and women who wore mostly black or dark brown suits and dresses; Don Ernesto had obviously planned it so that they would not be confused with the clientele – though you could hardly categorize these well-groomed, professional people as "sales clerks") were not only knowledgeable about art, they were linguists as well. Jill not only heard them speaking in Spanish, but in English, French, German and Japanese. She was overwhelmed, and conveyed her impressions to the gallery owner.

To Jill's effusive praise Garcia replied, "I'm glad it pleases you, Jill. My chief contribution was the notion that there should be a consistency, a uniformity of feeling to each of my galleries, so that one identifies immediately with the character and aim of the Galeria Garcia: to offer a selection of the finest representation of art works from all over the world, bridging time (that is, period) and culture – nationality. If you walk into the Galeria Garcia in New York or in Acapulco, you will find yourself in exactly the same ambient, down to color of paint on the walls and the tiles on the floors. It is a costly way to run a business, but in the long run, much more profitable. And there is much satisfaction to be gotten from the pursuit of excellence."

A middle aged woman who was handsome for her years, her black hair pulled back severely and done up in a sleek chignon, appeared from behind an unmarked door and approached them.

"Excuse me, Don Ernesto, but there is a client waiting in your office," she said in perfect English, knowing Jill to be an American.