Lisa Jones - My Hunger

I have to talk to Ava and convince her to come clean. It’s the only way to end this and end it now. I hit Redial and this time I leave a message. Taking my phone with me, I head to the bathroom to shower, determination burning through my veins. I’m ready to take action. For my family. For Rebecca.

An hour after my insightful chat with my father, I pull my car into the nearly deserted back parking lot of the gallery. We’re closed and I’m not about to open the doors until I’m back here to prevent a three-ring circus.

Stepping out of the car, I am dressed in my standard finely tailored gray suit with a well pressed white shirt and a gray tie. I’m also wearing my best steely “Bossman” persona, as our accounting manager, Ralph, often calls it when he thinks I don’t hear him. My cell rings and, noting Dean’s number, I lean on the car, staying outside beyond the earshot of employees to answer.

“Did you talk to the detective?” I ask.

“Yes. And as I suspected he’s a good guy who wants justice, but he pretty much told me the district attorney just wants a conviction. He’s going to do whatever it takes to pressure you to help him, even if that means dragging you through mud.”

“He doesn’t have to pressure me. I want to help.”

“I get that and I told him that, but the bottom line here is he has to deliver a conviction—and that means someone is going down. If it’s not Ava, it’s going to be someone else. You can’t let him turn that into you.”

I curse and Dean says, “Ditto that from me. I talked to an attorney named Nick Rogers on your behalf. Many of us call him Tiger because he’ll rip your throat out if you mess with his success, which means his clients. He’s in court today, but I set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’m assuming under the circumstances you can make it?”

“Can we make it later tonight? I need to get back to New York to deal with the backlash this causes at Riptide before it gets to my mother. I’ll double his fees. Hell, I’ll triple them. Just get me in, and now.”

“I’ll find out and text you the answer and the address. This is going to get messy, Mark.”

“Then let me just go talk to Ava. I can get her to talk.”

“Not no, but hell no—and Tiger agreed.”

“If I can end this, then I have to do it.”

“If you go, you go with Tiger by your side. Just wait until we talk to him, Mark.”

“I have my family, my employees, Sara, and the members of the club to think about.”

“As a member of the club, you think I don’t know that? We’ll talk to Tiger. We’ll get a plan and we’ll attack. I’ll call Tiger now, but I might not hear back right away since he’s in court.”

“Right. I’ll be here.”

“Where is here?”

“At the gallery.”

“If the detective shows up or calls you, keep your mouth shut. Tell him to call me.”

“Right. Hurry the fuck up with that meeting.” I end the call and head toward the door. I’m about to enter the building when a flurry of activity occurs to my left. Turning, I find myself accosted by a female reporter with a cameraman.

“Mr. Compton,” the pretty blonde says, “I understand you have one dead employee and one arrested for counterfeiting art. I assume the two are related?”

“You know what they say about assuming,” I comment dryly, pushing open the door. “It makes asses out of pretty reporters.”

She grimaces. “So they’re not related and you’re just, what, unlucky?”

“I’d say you’re the unlucky one, or just the unwise one. People who call and schedule interviews do better than people who sideswipe me.”

“You won’t take my calls.”

“Eventually I’ll take someone’s, and it won’t be the reporter who started my day out on the wrong side of the door.” I enter the gallery and lock the door behind me.

Bright white floors gleam beneath my feet and a memory slams into me. It was near closing and I’d heard our salesperson Mary in a conversation with a customer. Something about the unknown female’s voice had compelled me to seek her out. Rebecca. I remember the moment I first saw her, her green eyes alight with excitement, her long brown hair windblown and sexy. I couldn’t look away, and I’d known she was special, that she belonged here. That she belonged with me. Damn it, she’s supposed to be here now .

Forcefully I shove aside the thoughts and reenter the present. Somehow I’m standing still. Out of myself. Out of control. Setting my feet back in motion, I push through the entryway to the offices and my attention turns to the reception desk where our receptionist, Amanda, is taking a message on a call while the often flippant but always efficient accounting manager, Ralph, is kneeling at a drawer to remove a file.

I lean on the wall and watch them, wondering when they’ll notice me. Amanda groans as she finishes the call and three more lines begin to ring, shoving her hands through her long brunette hair. “This is insanity,” she wails. “They won’t stop ringing. The press and the questions are driving me nuts.”

Ralph grabs the lines one after another and quickly takes inquiries, then puts them all on hold. “All press,” he says. “Focus on putting them on hold and getting to customers and the talent who support this place.”

“Ralph, you’re not hearing me. They won’t stop calling .”

“There’s an ancient Chinese saying about the press,” he tells her, referencing his heritage.

“What is it?” she asks. “And it better be good.”

“I don’t remember. I’ll ask my grandmother.”

Amanda growls at him, “Ralph, this is serious.”

“It says,” I interject, “that if you put the press on hold, leave them on hold.”

They both whirl around to face me, all but jumping out of their skins, a feeling I understand too well right now.

“Mr. Compton,” Ralph says, straightening fully. “We weren’t sure if we’d see you today or not.”

“I’m hoping to get a plan of action in place here and return to New York in the next few days.”

Amanda answers another call and puts it on hold. “Another reporter.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I reply. “Put them on hold and leave them on hold.” Considering Mary was arrested for trying to pass off counterfeit art and Sara resigned from her job to pretend fairy tales come true with one of the richest artists on the planet, I add, “Put the phones on the answering service and just check them for important calls once an hour. I don’t want an intern in here who could say the wrong thing. I assume I have a stack of messages?”

“All on your desk,” she says, giving me a concerned look I really don’t need right now. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering and hopefully going home on Thursday.” I glance at the two of them. “We’re going to keep the gallery shut for the next two weeks except for private showings, and that includes all scheduled events.”

“Oh, good,” Amanda breathes out. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with reporters in person.”

“We will, but not until I’m here to do it myself.” I glance at Ralph. “You’re picky and obnoxiously honest about people. Go through the sales resumes and prescreen. Send me your top ten by e-mail. I’ll look them over for the future.”

“Obnoxiously honest,” he repeats. “I’ll try to live up to that observation.”

“See that you do.”

Amanda clears her throat and surprises me with, “Speaking of Sara, can we ask her to come back when she returns from Paris with Chris Merit? She’s so good with people, and, well, the questions about Mary and Rebecca are awkward.”