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‘What’s that?’
‘The history of the painting: who it was first painted for, who first owned it, then sold it on, any letters or old catalogues mentioning its existence – that kind of thing. These paintings fetch big money; even the Mafia, even the Latin Kings, sometimes take art instead of money owed. The top stuff just goes up and up in value. You wanna take this guy down, you better have all your ducks in a row.’
He handed the samples back to her. ‘You’re an unusual woman, an original. I like that. Too many people are scared to step out of line, but you… I get the feeling that you never even joined that line. You’ve always been an outsider, like me. Bring me the provenance and I promise I’ll make your case rock solid. But like I said, it’s gonna cost you.’
Latisha carefully wrapped the glass slides in a tissue, deliberately spinning out time. ‘The most I got is 500 dollars,’ she answered, thinking of the pearl necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother. ‘I ain’t got a penny more.’
Hector Ortega switched the microscope off and reached under the makeshift laboratory bench for the wooden crate that functioned as a small drinks cabinet. He poured out two glasses of rum and held one out to Latisha. Realising that if she was going to do business with him she was expected to drink with him, she took the glass, praying it wouldn’t taste like the moonshine her grandpa used to make.
Hector watched as she sipped cautiously, then less cautiously as she found she liked the rich taste. Pleased, he sat back down.
‘So tell me, what’s he like, this art dealer you’re gonna bring down? And what’s he done to you that you care so much?’
‘He’s a soul-eater and a killer; he lives on others’ talents, and on fear. A charming player who burns up people like paper. I don’t even know he understands what he does, but I know this much: he seduced my friend and then he had her killed to hide this—’ She held up the glass slides.
‘Then he’ll kill again. You’ll need to keep Henry Firestone’s boys by your side,’ Hector told her. ‘I’ll take 200 now, and the rest when you bring me some paperwork I can test. In the meantime, study the painting you think is false and study it well. Somewhere that guy has probably slipped up – some tiny detail. I have no doubt a hunter like you will track them down.’
Flattered, Latisha smiled, and Hector Ortega noticed for the first time that afternoon that her broad, flat-planed face was a thing of beauty, lit up like that.
‘Why thank you, Mr Ortega, I never thought of myself as any kind of detective.’
‘More of a missionary, I’m guessing?’
‘Crusader. And just because I’m a woman, and a great mountain of a woman at that, don’t meant I ain’t noble.’
‘El que quiera peces que se moje el culo – whoever wants fish should be prepared to get his arse wet. It will be an honour to help you,’ he declared, then clinked his glass against hers.
*
Back in her own apartment Susie lay soaking in a hot bath, trying to wash the sex away, Felix’s touch, his semen, the memory of him inside her, the intelligence of their kisses, the sincerity in his eyes. She had a choice, she knew, but there were too many facts, too many coincidences and circumstances linking Felix to Maxine’s death. And now there was the Latisha woman standing in the shadows, pushing her into action.
She sank down, allowing the water to close over her head, her hair a floating mass of red strands. She would play them all, she decided, continue with her work and continue on the trail Maxine had left for her.
For a moment she opened her eyes underwater and stared up. Maxine’s face was staring back down at her, her wide blue eyes cloudy in death. Shocked, Susie emerged from the water, spluttering and shaking.
*
Latisha got home late. It was dark by the time she stepped out of the subway entrance and began wearily walking towards 125th Street and her apartment. She was thinking about Gabriel, about how young and frightened he’d looked when she confronted him. Felix had some hold on him she couldn’t understand; he must have. But then why had he used the fake old yellow paint on his own painting? Was it a question of ego, like Hector Ortega had suggested? A kind of bravado, as if he was flaunting the possibility of being exposed as a forger in his own work? Did he unconsciously want to be caught?
Latisha, stepping over a puddle, her crutch sinking into the wet, tried to imagine what it must do to your soul, faking another artist’s work like that over and over. She recalled Maxine, during those long hours of sitting, describing how important it was to develop your own voice, your own original set of imagery, something she had struggled with living with Susie Thomas, whose personality Maxine always said was far stronger than her own. If Maxine had fought Susie’s influence on her work, what was it like to whore yourself completely to another artist’s brushstrokes? And surely it couldn’t simply be for money?
*
Henry Firestone was just locking up after a late session respraying a Mercedes. The client had insisted it needed to be done that very d
ay. He knew better than to ask questions on jobs like that, but nevertheless it had been a long and exhausting eight hours. As he turned away from the shop front he noticed a black BMW with tinted windows cruising slowly down the street. Always on the alert for unusual sightings in the neighbourhood, Henry was wondering whether it was some rival gang venturing onto his turf when Latisha turned the corner, swinging her crutch with her usual vigour while loudly talking to herself. To Henry’s amazement, the BMW heading toward Latisha slowed down until she, oblivious to its existence, had passed it. Then, very deliberately, the car did a U-turn and began trailing her.
A cold dread filled Henry. He unlocked the door and reached for the rifle he kept hidden behind it. He waited until the older woman was just a couple of feet away from him, then grabbed her arm and bundled her into his garage, slamming the door after them.
‘Miss Latisha, you’re being followed!’ He peered through the viewing slot he’d had made for such occasions. Outside, the BMW had come to a halt. At the wheel a short, muscular white man with hair shaven close to his head was staring out at the garage.
‘You know this creep?’ Henry asked Latisha, stepping back so that she could see the man for herself.
‘No, but he looks like he has bad intentions.’
‘Bad intentions? Miss Latisha, he is someone’s boy for sure. Someone has made you their mark. Any idea who?’
‘Maybe. But if he thinks he can scare me into silence, he’s wrong. What can they do to a sick old lady like myself?’
