The Night Café. Taylor Smith

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.”

      Four

      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.