Page 64 of Captive Ruin

At two days’ notice, I know the best I’m going to get is stuff no one else wants, but I have to try.

It’s a frustrating, hopeless day, and by mid-afternoon I’ve all but given up. I’ve managed to secure four more pieces of work, all from artists that are mediocre at best. The only saving grace is that they are new, but I’m not even sure two of them will arrive in time.

Sierra chooses that moment to walk back in with her usual energy and excitement, and I brace myself for the conversation I have to have.

“We need to talk.” I get in first before she can say something encouraging that I can’t bear to hear.

“But…” She glances at the door. “…Okay.” She leans against the wall, looking at me expectantly.

“Michael Amiento has canceled,” I tell her, hoping it’ll be easier if I just rip off the band-aid.

“Oh. Right.” No other reaction. I was expecting more.

“So has Jeanne Quek,” I add, in as steady a voice as I can muster.

“Okay.” She nods. “Hence the other arrivals?”

I blink. “What arrivals?”

“The shipment that’s just come.”

I’m on my feet. “What shipment?”

“The two vans at the back with about twenty pieces. They just got here. I was coming to let you—”

I’m already walking past her, heading for the receiving area. It’s not even a loading dock, it’s just a service entrance into an alley with barely room for one van, let alone two.

It must be another screwup. Except the last one wasn’t a mistake at all.

Two delivery guys are waiting when I round the corner, both in Crozier uniforms. I can’t help but give them a puzzled look, taking in their usual clipboards along with a folder bulging with papers. I peer outside, seeing the vans Sierra mentioned. The doors of one of them are open, a dozen pieces within, packaged carefully in plywood crates. Four more uniformed men stand around, waiting to work.

“Is this… for here? Or are you collecting?” Maybe they want the Amiento pieces I didn’t hand over last week.

“Delivery for Anderson Gallery,” one of them says, proffering his clipboard. “We need a signature, please.”

I take it in a daze, looking down the manifest. Four pieces by Wolfgang Tillmans. Three by Taryn Simon. Sculptures by Liu Wei and Wangechi Mutu.

This isn’t emerging artist territory, it’s established blue-chip gallery. Gagosian, Pace, David Zwirner level.

My jaw is hanging open, and I close it with a snap. “This is… uh…” A mistake. But my name is on the docket. “Where has this come from?”

“We just deliver it, ma’am.” He raises his folder. “But these are the provenance documents for each work.”

Sierra has followed me, standing a short way back, and I pass her the clipboard then take the larger folder. Of course there’d be provenance for works of this value. I’ve never had to deal with it before—not at the scale I usually work—but Sierra’s good with this stuff.

I open it with fingers that somehow aren’t trembling, because it hasn’t yet sunk in that this can be real. The first page is a loan agreement for one of the Taryn Simon pieces. It’s from a private collection for me to sell on their behalf, and take my commission. One Bastien Fournier—who I’ve never heard of.

The next piece is the same. And the next. I flick to the end of the folder, checking the last. They’re all pieces from the same collection, and I don’t know anything about it.

“I need to… look this over,” I mutter, flicking back to the loan agreement and reading carefully. My commission would be sixty percent. The usual for this sort of thing is forty to fifty. It’s generous beyond measure, and this is a private lender. Those usually work at thirty.

I don’t understand. How has this happened?

“Yes, we were told you might say that,” the other man says. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken out loud. “We were also given this package.”

I look up. He’s holding out an envelope, bulging with its contents. My name is written in hand on the front, with no address.

I pass Sierra the folder and take the envelope, ripping it open. There’s no note but a small velvet presentation box inside. I take it out, my confusion deepening as I open it up.