The Night Café

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.”

They were approaching an intersection and the light facing them was yellow, but rather than brake, Rebecca stomped on the gas and they barreled through, narrowly missing a cyclist who’d had the temerity to venture a few inches beyond the bike lane. It earned them yet another middle finger. Rebecca adjusted her sunglasses and pretended not to notice.

“I really don’t understand what Mr. Gladding sees in August Koon’s work,” she confessed. “It makes me sick, the prices his stuff draws when so many more deserving artists are selling their work for pennies to his dollar—if they sell at all.”

“Like the artists whose work you carry?”

Rebecca nodded. “Case in point. Those impressionist pieces you were admiring, for example. That man’s work has been shown in major shows and several local museums, but he lives like a pauper. It just isn’t fair.”

“Life rarely is, in my experience. And to be honest, I’m still a little leery about dealing with Moises Gladding. He’s a pretty shady character, by all accounts.”

“So you said last night. But in my experience, saints are rarely patrons of the arts. Most of the really big sales these days are to Wall Street millionaires or Hollywood sharks. If I limited myself to customers who could pass a decency test, I’d have gone bankrupt long ago. Although I may yet,” Rebecca added grimly.

“I guess you’re right. Anyway, I’ve got nothing to say on the subject, since I’ve had some dubious clients myself. What about this painting? Gladding’s paying a quarter mil for it, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Is that a good price for a Koon?”

Rebecca frowned—sort of. The Botox mystery expression again. “I think the price is a little high for such a small piece, to be honest. I’m not complaining, mind you, since my commission is based on the selling price. Still, I think he could have gotten a better deal if I’d been allowed to negotiate a little.”

“Koon’s not in high demand?”

“Well, I’m sure he’s very comfortable.”

“Curious.”

“How so?”

“Well, I don’t know anything about art markets,” Hannah said, “but I do know something about characters like Moises Gladding. And the thing about arms dealers is, sometimes they trade in valuables other than cash. It’s an idiosyncrasy of the arms market that sometimes the people who want weapons don’t have much money, so they barter, trading something else for guns and rocket launchers.”

“Paintings?”

“More often drugs—cocaine or heroin, say—or conflict diamonds mined by slaves in Africa. But sometimes stolen art is used as collateral, too.”

“But the Koon painting Mr. Gladding is buying isn’t stolen. It’s an original.”

“I know. And actually, I’d expect one of Gladding’s customers to be trading a painting, not him. The IRA, for example, was once suspected of stealing a Rembrandt which they gave to a middleman who then financed the purchase of guns the IRA wanted. Terrorists have also been known to buy rocket launchers with stolen Picassos.”

Rebecca nodded. “We get Interpol and FBI lookout notices about stolen art all the time. I always thought it was shady billionaires or Arab sheikhs or something who were buying them.”

“Ah yes, the Doctor No scenario—the recluse with a private vault of old masters that he keeps for his personal enjoyment,” Hannah said. “Apparently that’s not how it works. Art, like drugs and diamonds, is just another form of currency—a Rembrandt traded for AK47s, cocaine for rocket launchers. Your basic commercial marketplace at work.”

“And that’s the business Mr. Gladding is in?”

“That’s exactly the business he’s in.”

Rebecca’s sunglasses had slipped a little way down her nose and she peered over them now at Hannah. “My, my. Nora’s little sister. You look so young, and then you open your mouth and the things that come out of it. No wonder Nora wasn’t sure you’d be interested in my little delivery job. Pretty small potatoes next to your world of rocket launchers and Rembrandts.”

“Oh, yeah, my life is nonstop glamour. Believe me, most of this is just theory to me, too. Just like the Koons of this world mostly deal with big-time New York art agents, the world of Moises Gladding is far removed from anything I usually get hired for. I’m just a girl with a gun who likes to travel and gets paid for it.”

Sunset Boulevard was far behind them now. They were heading uphill into canyon country.

“Anyway, it doesn’t sound like this August Koon’s a big enough name to factor into that world either. Although,” Hannah added, looking around, “these are pretty fancy digs up here. He must be fairly successful.”

Rebecca shrugged. “He does all right. But the man’s in his fifties, I’d guess, and his prices only started to climb in the past five years or so. As far as I know, this has always been his home base. Property around here would have been affordable when he was starting out.”

“So he lucked out in the real estate lottery, too.” Hannah consulted the Mapquest printout that Rebecca had given her. “It should be the next left, I think, and then the first place on the right.”

Rebecca took the left at the intersection and then a quick right at a tree-shaded gateway with an elaborately painted wooden signboard announcing the studio of August Koon. The crunch of the BMW’s tires on the gravel driveway startled a klatch of doves. They followed a winding lane through a grove of scrub oak.

“I should warn you, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality,” Rebecca said.

“I stand warned.”

As they emerged from the tree-bowered driveway, the roadway widened into a circular gravel parking area before a two-story white clapboard house. A rickety-looking garage stood next to the house, its double doors swung wide on loose hinges to reveal an aged yellow VW bus inside. Shades of the sixties, Hannah thought. The bus was only missing a paint job of psychedelic flowers.

Rebecca parked the car and they climbed out. Eucalyptus and pine trees intermingled with the scrub oak around the house, and the air smelled intoxicatingly fresh. The paint on the house was peeling and the perennials in the flower beds were fighting for survival against an onslaught of creeping kudzu vines and milkweed, but there was still something magical about the place, one of the many little woodland glades that existed practically in the heart of Los Angeles. Rebecca was probably right, that Koon had bought it back when properties like this were affordable. Nowadays, if you weren’t a Hollywood studio honcho or a trust fund brat, there was no hope.

The weather-worn screen door at the front of the house opened and a man stepped out. His severely receded hair was lank and mostly gray, curling over his ears. He wore a brown and yellow plaid cotton shirt that strained over a considerable paunch. His chinos were paint stained, the frayed hems puddling over equally paint spattered Birkenstocks. His thick brows nearly met at the deep frown creases over his nose, and matching creases ran down either side of a fleshy, unhappy-looking mouth. A portrait of the artist as a crotchety old man, Hannah thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Koon,” Rebecca chirped as he clumped down the front steps. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca Powell. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Koon ignored her outstretched hand, glanced dismissively at Hannah, then back at Rebecca. “Come for the painting, I suppose?” His voice was a deep, pack-a-day rasp.

“That’s right. This is Hannah Nicks. She’s a security consultant and she’s going to be delivering the piece to the buyer.”

“Humph.” Koon turned his narrow gaze back to Hannah. She couldn’t help feeling that he was finding her sub-par as security for his treasure.

Rebecca went around to the trunk of her car, her platform soles a little precarious on the rock-lined driveway. She withdrew a rectangular, padded black case from the trunk. “I brought a portfolio to carry the painting.”

“You’re not crating it?” Koon asked.