Taylor Smith - The Night Café

Now there’s a first.

“Just pretend I never called. I’m really sorry.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Stop apologizing already. It’s no big deal. And Nora?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about Rebecca. This situation she’s in—it’s lousy, for sure. But you know what they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. She’s going to be okay.”

“I really hope so.” But Nora’s sigh said she didn’t believe it for a minute.

The Sandpiper Gallery was across the road and just north of the Malibu pier. If Rebecca had owned the building or the Malibu waterfront on which it stood, her financial problems would be nonexistent, but Nora had said that the property was a rental and not a cheap one at that. It had been Rebecca’s husband, Bill, a wheeler-dealer Realtor with delusions of grandeur, who’d insisted on this pricey location. Apparently he’d had visions of bringing in wealthy clients to buy art for the multimillion-dollar McMansions he was hoping to peddle—except Bill spent more time playing the ponies at Del Mar and Hollywood Park than in flogging real estate. Now Rebecca was stuck with a long-term lease that even Sotheby’s might have thought twice about taking on. How many commissions would you need to cover prime real estate like this and still pay the grocery bill? If the gallery was just some rich woman’s hobby, it might not have been a concern, but as a breadwinning proposition, it was iffy.

Hannah pulled into the gallery parking lot, empty except for Rebecca’s fire-engine-red BMW. Climbing out of the Prius, she stretched muscles gone tight from the hour spent in traffic. Something moved in the corner of her eye and she swung in time to see three gray pelicans flying in low formation over the choppy waves, hunting for a fish dinner. Or maybe they weren’t hunting at all, just having an exuberant game of follow-the-leader in the morning light.

Hannah smiled, then reached back into the car, grabbed her soft leather messenger bag, slung it over her shoulder and headed up the gallery’s sand-blown front steps. A sign in the front window said the gallery was closed on Mondays, but there were lights on inside, and when she tried the handle, the door opened and a bell tinkled softly. Instinctively, she kicked the sand off her shoes before stepping onto the gleaming hardwood floors.

She’d been to the gallery with Nora once before, and a glance around told her that it looked much the same. Hannah was no expert, but something told her that this much kitschy sweetness wouldn’t fly in the serious art world. Although the paintings hanging on the walls looked similar to what Hannah had seen on her last visit, Rebecca had added tables and pedestals on which were arranged lower-priced vases, lamps and other pieces of wheel-thrown pottery—a way to expand the customer base, perhaps, and boost the bottom line.

The office was nestled into a corner of the gallery behind a long walnut credenza that served as a room divider. Rebecca was at her desk, an antique rolltop number with rows of pigeonholes and a green baize pad. Her head turned as the door closed and Hannah saw that she was on the phone. Rebecca smiled and held up a finger. Hannah waved, then started a slow stroll around, studying the merchandise.

Three or four fabric-covered movable walls were scattered throughout the long room, providing extra hanging space. On one of these near the entrance were three colorful paintings, each seemingly illuminated from within. One was a view of the mission at San Juan Capistrano, red-orange and fuchsia bougainvillea spilling over the adobe arches of the courtyard walls. In the next painting, gulls wheeled and dove across a sparkling seascape while children gamboled along a sandy shoreline. The third picture was of an old California hacienda peeping through thick foliage. The scenes were familiar and nostalgic at the same time, sucking a viewer in as only a Southern California landscape could.

“Stop you right in your tracks, don’t they?”

Hannah turned, surprised. She hadn’t heard Rebecca come up behind her. Nora’s friend was dressed in a gauzy, flowing, peach-colored summer dress, and platform espadrilles whose laces crisscrossed up her legs. Hannah had actually ironed a white cotton blouse that morning and gone so far as to wear a skirt—denim, but a skirt nonetheless. What’s more, the pedicure to which Nora had treated her a couple of weeks earlier still looked good in her brown Joseph Siebel sandals. She’d even put on a pair of dangly earrings, but she still felt woefully underdone next to Rebecca. No matter, she reminded herself, this wasn’t a job interview. She already had the gig, if she wanted it. She just needed to decide if she did.

“I like this one of the kids on the beach,” Hannah said, turning back to the middle painting. “That dark-haired little boy reminds me of Gabe.”

“You might have been to that beach with him. It’s just north of San Diego.” Rebecca smiled. “I would consider adding the painting to the payment if you’ll take the Koon to Mexico for me.”

“Sounds like a bribe.”

“Guilty as charged. Can I get you a coffee? Some sparkling water?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

“Okay, well let me just shut everything down and we’ll head over to August Koon’s. That was him I was just talking to. I told him we were on our way.”

Rebecca suggested they take her car to Koon’s studio in the Hollywood Hills, but Hannah hesitated. As a matter of principle, she preferred to be behind the wheel—you never knew when the situation might call for evasive maneuvers—but it made little sense to drive two cars. Since Rebecca knew the way, Hannah resigned herself to riding shotgun.

There were compensations. They dropped the convertible’s rag top once they got inland, away from the thick marine layer, and Hannah leaned back in the BMW’s butter-soft leather seats. There was no easy way to get from Malibu to the Hollywood Hills, but the slow cruise up Sunset Boulevard gave her chance to enjoy the gorgeous spring weather and the view of the rolling estates and breathtaking mansions along the way.

It should have been a relaxing ride, but her ease didn’t last. Maybe it was Rebecca’s platform sandals that made for the herky-jerky ride, gas and brake pedals stomped with equal vigor. Her hands were also in constant motion. If she wasn’t tucking flyaway tendrils into the silk scarf stylishly wrapped around her head or turning the rearview mirror to check her teeth for lipstick, she was dialing through her iPod for appropriate road music. After Rebecca cut off yet another driver, who peeled around them on a shriek of rubber, flipping the bird as he roared past, Hannah regretted not insisting on driving. Her little Prius wasn’t glamorous, but she’d survived assassins in the desert and gangbangers on L.A.’s mean streets, so the prospect of death-by-bimbo seemed undignified.

“Tell me something,” she said to Rebecca.

“What’s that?”

“Why are we picking up this painting? Why didn’t this artist bring it to your gallery?”

“The great August Koon? He wouldn’t deign to come into a little gallery like mine. He made it abundantly clear when we first spoke that he’d never heard of it. He probably wouldn’t even be dealing with me if I hadn’t been representing a client like Mr. Gladding. Koon is represented by one of the biggest agents in New York.”

“So why didn’t Gladding go to Koon’s agent to procure the piece?”

“He won’t work with the man. He told me the agent burned him on another deal in the past. If Koon wanted to sell, it had to be through Mr. Gladding’s own representative—me. I still can’t believe my luck. I’m just glad he remembered my gallery when he needed someone to handle this for him.”