Feint of Art: Page 3

  That seemed odd. If I were going to sneak into an art museum to murder someone, I would take another moment or two to steal something valuable. Then again, I was a reformed art forger, not a thief or a murderer, so what did I know?

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, I pulled into the parking lot at my studio building and inadvertently nudged the rear bumper of a large, expensive-looking car that was parked in my usual space.

  I didn’t mean to hit it. I didn’t hit it hard. But I did hit it.

  As far as I was concerned, bumpers were designed to bump things, thereby avoiding damage to the rest of the vehicle. Besides, dings on a bumper were par for the course in a big city. Unfortunately, the gentleman who stepped out of what I belatedly realized was a late-model Jaguar sedan did not agree with me on this point, a fact he soon made clear.

  “It appears you have scratched my bumper,” he said, straightening after a close inspection of the offended car part. He was tall—a tad over six feet—and broad-shouldered, and he filled out his fine gray Armani suit just about perfectly. It was hard not to notice.

  I pulled into the next parking space and braced myself.

  He approached my driver’s-side window, taking in my scruffy overalls, jean jacket, and wild sleep hair with a sweeping glance.

  “Sorry about that,” I replied, hastily smoothing my snarled curls. “Who are you?”

  As my mother often pointed out, I had been raised right, so it wasn’t her fault.

  “J. Frank DeBenton.”

  I was getting a sinking feeling that J. Frank DeBenton here was not going to be a sport about a scraped bumper. Reluctantly, I climbed out of my small green pickup and shuffled over to peer at the damage.

  “That’s not a scratch,” I informed him.

  “It most certainly is.”

  “It’s more of a ding. See here?” I pointed to a minuscule divot in the bumper. “The surface of the paint isn’t broken. I’m an artist. I know about these things.” I thought I was being rather helpful, under the circumstances.

  “Ding, scratch, whatever.” He waved dismissively. “You have damaged my car.”

  Despite his obvious displeasure, Mr. DeBounty was kind of cute, what with his dark eyes flashing in exasperation and his sleek mahogany hair gleaming in the early-morning sunshine. If that hair were ruffled up a bit, and if he were, say, naked, I could see painting him as a smoldering faun in a bacchanalian fantasy, a garland of grape leaves on his head, a wineskin in his hand, mischievously menacing a trio of frolicking nymphs . . .

  “What do you intend to do about it?” he continued, ruining the moment.

  Really, I found his attitude a bit of a puzzle. The only thing keeping my annoyance in check was that I had, in fact, hit his car. I forced myself to set aside enticing images of mythical revelries and instead tried to assume the knowledgeable tone of the San Francisco Chronicle’s consumer adviser. “You do realize, don’t you, that painted bumpers like these are little more than a rip-off by the auto industry to make money by convincing consumers they have to be maintained like the rest of the car. It’s a bumper, Mr. DeBootis. It’s supposed to be bumped.”

  “DeBenton,” the man said through extraordinarily even, white, clenched teeth. “J. Frank DeBenton. And I—”

  “How do you do?” I held out my hand. “I’m Annie Kincaid. I’m a faux finisher, decorative painter, portraitist—you name it. If it involves paint, I’m your gal. I have a studio upstairs.”

  From the stony look on his face and the reluctance with which he shook my hand, I surmised that he was unimpressed with my extemporaneous résumé.

  “I’m very sorry about your car,” I continued, hoping to wrap this up and get to work, since it seemed highly unlikely that this man would be posing nude for me anytime soon. “It’s a very nice car, too. I should have been more careful, but nobody but me ever parks in that space, which, by the way, is my parking space. So you see, I could give you my insurance information and everything, but you’re probably going to feel rather silly about all this later, so why don’t we just forget the whole thing? You don’t see me crying about my bumper, do you?”

  DeBenton looked askance at my vehicle. “And how, precisely, would you be able to tell if it had been scratched?” he inquired acidly.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “Oh, never mind, Ms. Kincaid,” DeBenton said abruptly. “I won’t pursue this any further. Do keep in mind, however, that this is not your parking space.”

  “Is that right?” Although relieved that he was not going to jack up my insurance rates, I felt proprietary about my parking space. And I was beginning to suffer severe caffeine withdrawal.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said smugly. “It belongs to me. All the parking spaces do. I am the new owner of this property, as I’m sure you read in the memo I sent to the building’s tenants two weeks ago.”

  Hmm. Memo. I was a little behind on my paperwork.

  “My office is right there,” he continued, pointing to a prime ground-floor suite distinguished by an imposing oak door, which now sported a black lacquer sign with J. FRANK DEBENTON ENTERPRISES, SPECIALISTS IN SECURE TRANSPORT discreetly lettered in gold leaf. It was only then that my mind registered the presence of the six armored cars parked at the rear of the lot.

  Mr. Enterprise adjusted his cuffs and straightened his tie. Pride of ownership exuded from the top of his Armani suit jacket to the tips of his Italian calfskin loafers. The slightest trace of a smile hovered on his well-formed lips.

  Realization dawned.

  On its heels came horror.

  I had just rear-ended my new landlord.

  “Oh,” I blustered, eloquent as always. “Okay, then. I’m really sorry about . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to . . . Good to meet you, Mr. DeBoo—BENton. Sorry about the bumper and everything. Maybe we could do lunch sometime? My treat. So . . . See you ’round!”

  And grabbing my canvas tote bag, the one with a faded image of Mona Lisa that my assistant, Mary, had “improved” one rainy afternoon by giving Mona several nose piercings and a truly impressive blue-and-green Mohawk, I fled up the exterior wooden staircase to my second-floor studio.

  The building was a former chair factory, built in the days before electricity, when multipaned windows and tall ceilings were essential. The light-filled space was an ideal setting for artists’ lofts, even though every year there were fewer real artists and more architects and computer designers, all of whom claimed to be artists in their own right. I wasn’t buying it. As far as I was concerned, art involved getting messy and working with noxious chemicals like turpentine and horsehide glue. In my view, the architects and computer people were far too neat and much too comfortable to go anywhere near the label of “artist.”

  Yanking open the perennially stuck upstairs door, I walked halfway down the hall to my studio, number 206. As usual, I felt a thrill of pride when I spied my lavishly painted wooden sign:

  TRUE/FAUX STUDIOS

  ANNA KINCAID, PROPRIETOR

  FAUX FINISHES—MURALS—TROMP L’OEIL

  NOT FOR THE FEINT OF ART ALONE

  The sounds of Sammy Davis Jr. and the aroma of French roast coffee assailed my senses as I opened the door. My assistant, Mary Grae, waved a piece of paper in my general direction.

  “ ‘J. Frank DeBenton’? Who the hell is J. Frank DeBenton?” she demanded without preamble, as if we were in the middle of an ongoing conversation.

  I studied Mary’s outfit du jour. The ensemble featured a black fishnet blouse worn over a shiny, vaguely scaly vinyl vest, which contrasted nicely with skintight black jeans and a silver key chain jangling from the belt loops. Her blue eyes were outlined in black kohl, her dark blond hair sported an assortment of black ribbons, and on her feet were the ever-present Doc Martens black boots. Nearly six feet tall and twenty-three years old, Mary was a scary symphony in black.

  “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t read my mail,” I groused, dumping my jacket and books on the secondha
nd desk that Mary and I had painted a virulent shade of purple last spring in a fit of Impressionist angst. “And can we turn down the volume, please?”

  Mary had recently become enamored of the Rat Pack, so the strains of Sammy, Ol’ Blue Eyes, Dino, and That Other Guy now frequently filled the studio. Thanks to Grandfather’s influence, I was more of an Edith Piaf fan myself.

  “J. Frank DeBenton?” Mary repeated, though she obliged me by lowering the decibels to within reason. “What kind of name is that?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied absentmindedly. “French? Maybe Swiss?”

  Mary shrugged and tossed the letter onto the already cluttered desk. “Sounds like a prick,” she said in the declarative tone reserved for the true believers and the truly young. Mary was only eight years my junior, so I probably should not have thought of her as all that young, but in my experience, the twenties were a very aging decade.

  I retrieved the single sheet of cream-colored linen stationery, elegantly embossed with my new landlord’s name and logo: a shield emblazoned with a roaring lion. I skimmed the letter quickly, my stomach lurching when I read the final paragraph. Great. Just great. Now what was I going to do?

  I turned to Mary. “Did you read the part about the rent increase?”

  “What?” Mary’s blue eyes widened in outrage. Despite her tough-as-nails exterior, Mary was frequently shocked by the world’s duplicity. “I told you he sounded like a prick.”

  “I’m afraid the distinguished J. Frank DeBenton is the new owner of the building,” I said, rereading the letter. “He’s reminding me that my lease expires April first and he intends to bring the rent up to ‘market standards.’ Translation: he’s doubling the rent.”

  “What a bastard!” Mary exclaimed, watching me with concern. “What are we going to do?”

  A surge of affection ran through me. Paying the rent wasn’t Mary’s worry, but trust her not to abandon me. I shook my head. “I don’t know. There’s no way I can afford double the rent.”

  “Who’s doubling the rent?”

  The deep voice resonated from behind the wooden partition I had built to hide the aluminum industrial sink, microwave oven, and mini-fridge from the rest of the studio. It was followed by the distinctive spitting sound of an espresso machine.

  I felt my spirits lift. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on me.

  “Pete!” I yelled over the noise. “Have I ever told you I love you?”

  Pete poked his large head around the side of the partition. “No, you have never said this to me. No woman says this to me. How am I ever going to carry on my genetics if no woman ever says this to me? This is my problem, you know, because it takes two to tangle.”

  Mary and I shared a smile at Pete’s take on the English language as he disappeared behind the partition. Pete was constantly looking for love and could not understand his lack of success. Neither could we: he was as sweet as they came, and handsome in a hulking, potato-like kind of way. Born in Bosnia, Pete now owned the stained-glass business across the parking lot, but made himself at home here. He was a good friend and, just as important, the only one in our circle who could coax foamy milk for cappuccino from my cranky, garage-sale espresso machine.

  The spitting was replaced by muffled clinks and clanks, and Pete emerged carrying a tray bearing three cups of cappuccino, a sugar bowl, spoons, and enough paper napkins to supply a day care center. He was an incongruous waiter, his six-foot six-inch frame supporting beefy shoulders and a large, broad, flat face with stern brows and gentle brown eyes.

  “Who’s doubling the rent?” Pete repeated as he set the tray down on the wicker trunk that served as a coffee table in the sitting area where I entertained clients.

  “Our landlord,” Mary answered, flinging herself onto a large fake-leopard-skin floor pillow. A designer friend had been stuck with the pillow after the client who ordered it had a conversion experience at a PETA rally, became a vegan, and started wearing clothes woven from hemp. The client claimed she could no longer tolerate upholstery that reminded her of the slaughter of innocents, and since the pillow was kind of horrible looking, my designer friend gave it to me.

  “It’s truly a doggy dog world,” Pete declared with a sad shake of his head. Last month I had given Pete a word-a-day calendar, hoping it would untangle some of his worst linguistic snarls, and it had been a success of sorts. Now he made twice as many mistakes, twice as enthusiastically. He lowered himself gracefully onto the old red velvet sofa and distributed the coffee. “You want me maybe to talk to him?”

  “Yeah,” Mary chimed in, her eyes narrowed. “Pete and I could talk to him.”

  “No thanks, guys,” I said with a grateful smile. It was nice to have a loyal Bosnian and a Gothic Madonna ready to go to battle for me, no questions asked. “Unfortunately, he’s within his rights. There’s no rent control for business properties in San Francisco.” I joined Pete on the sofa and sipped my cappuccino, momentarily achieving a state of bliss.

  “So what’s the Plan?” Mary inquired from the pillow on the floor. Mary always seemed to think I had a plan.

  Mary was heartbreakingly young.

  “Well, I might have considered throwing myself on his mercy and appealing to his aesthetic sensibilities, but I think I just blew it,” I told them.

  “Already?” Mary asked, sitting up and scooping copious amounts of sugar into her coffee. “Have you even met him yet?”

  “I ran into him in the parking lot,” I confessed. “Literally.”

  “You collisioned with our landlord?” asked Pete, aghast.

  I propped my feet on the wicker trunk. “We call it a fender bender,” I told him, and started to laugh.

  Mary and Pete exchanged puzzled looks. I worked the joke harder.

  “Fender Bender—Frank DeBenton. Get it?”

  Pete reached over and pushed my cappuccino closer to me. “You should imbibe more, Annie,” he said gently.

  Annoyed now, I pointed out the obvious. “He’s your landlord, too, Pete.”

  Pete’s large brown eyes registered sympathy, but nothing near my level of anxiety. That was Pete. Loyal to a fault, eternally optimistic, but a bit slow on the uptake.

  “Yes, but I have a five-year lease,” he said.

  Oh. Maybe Pete wasn’t so slow. I had always liked the freedom of a year-to-year lease, and it had never occurred to me that the real estate fever that gripped the rest of the city would turn this run-down factory district into a sought-after neighborhood. But then the twentysomething computer folk had caught on to the appeal of loft spaces. Even the dot-com bust had not greatly eased San Francisco’s real estate market. Rents in former artists’ colonies were spiraling upward, and landlords had started kicking the artists out into the streets or, worse, across the Bay into Oakland.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was a true Oaktown booster. But in my line of work, which involved persuading rich people to part with their money in the name of art, a San Francisco address had an undeniable cachet. Now, with the prospect of penury staring me in the face, I wondered for the umpteenth time if I shouldn’t relocate my studio to Oakland, where life was cheaper, the weather better, and the people, perhaps not coincidentally, nicer.

  After spending a few minutes chatting about the evils of property ownership, the deplorable lack of rent control in a city that seemed determined to run the hardworking poor out of town, and whether one really could tell the difference between VHS and DVD when viewed on a television set manufactured in 1978, we decided we had all better get to work.

  I thought it best not to mention the previous night’s incident at the Brock, since the last thing I needed right now was one Goth and one Bosnian bodyguard. As soon as Pete trotted off to his warehouse to receive a shipment of stained glass from Germany, I called Ernst again and left messages on both his cell phone and his office numbers. I also tried looking Anton up in the phone book; it had been years since I had been in his San Francisco studio. To my surprise, there were several Woznikowiczes in th
e directory, but none was an Anton. I checked the Yellow Pages. There was no professional listing for him under “Art Restoration,” either.

  Impatiently I decided that any further sleuthing would have to wait until after Mary and I finished up a project for Linda Fairbanks, an interior designer who wanted “old, aged, interesting but not crumbly” garden ornaments for a client’s conservatory without—surprise!—paying for real ones. We had spent most of last week beating the mass-produced ornaments with hammers and bunches of keys, dousing them with acid, soaking them in tea baths, rubbing them with leaves, and splattering them with pigment suspended in a translucent oil glaze. The cheap cement garden cherubs and gnomes, a birdbath, and a small fountain now looked old, graceful, and expensive.

  It had been a stretch with the gnomes.

  Three hours later, Linda arrived on schedule and practically swooned with pleasure at our work. So many of the designers I knew were swooners that I figured it had to be a required course in design school. I wasn’t much of a swooner myself, especially where concrete garden gnomes were concerned. Neither was Mary, who had explained to me, “Norwegians don’t swoon. Swoon in a snowbank and see how long you last.” But Linda was a well-respected designer with a large and affluent clientele, and as such she was my entrée to the kind of people who had a spare $250,000 to decorate the new town house. Best of all, Linda paid her bills on time and without haggling, so I was not above a little pandering.

  Mary and I bundled the figures in bubble wrap and carried them, armful by heavy armful, carefully down the stairs. The building had no elevator, and after several trips lugging cement garden ornaments, I cursed my second-floor location. We loaded up Linda’s silver SUV and sent her happily on her way, the gnomes waving bye-bye through the rear window. As Mary and I stood in the sunshine stretching our tired muscles, I made a mental note to cite the lack of an elevator in my negotiations with the new landlord.