Caveat Emptor by Ken Perenyi Read Free Book Online Page B

the Flemish wreck—“and eight hundred bucks.” He was puzzled that I wanted the picture on the wall, and for a second I thought I’d put my foot in my mouth and raised his suspicions. So I quickly said, “Just so I’d have something to put back on my wall.” He took it down and considered it, shaking his head. I knew we were going to make a deal, and I adamantly stood my ground. Finally, doing his best to look as disgusted as he could, Ephron capitulated.
    â€œOkay, okay. You want cash, right?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, you’ll have to wait a few minutes,” he said, and asked me to follow him back to the front room. He carried both paintings, placed them on the table, and asked me to have a seat. Again he disappeared with the old lady, who I glimpsed giving me suspicious looks. Again they kept me waiting, and again I heard more whispering. I was cringing in my seat and becoming apprehensive. A couple of times, Ephron came out to assure me that the money was on the way.
    Then, just when I expected a squad car to arrive, I looked on in wonder as a black Cadillac limo pulled up in front of the gallery. A chauffeur got out and opened the rear door. A voluptuous blonde dressed in black and wearing an expensive string of pearls alighted. She was just like the type I’d seen at Parke-Bernet. Ephron opened the gallery door and greeted her. She too gave me the once-over and asked, “Is this him?” Ephron nodded, whereupon she opened an exquisite little black bag. I watched with delight as her fine slender fingers extracted a wad of bills. Peeling off eight Ben Franklins, she handed them to me without a word, turned, gave Ephron a peck on the cheek, and returned to the waiting limo. I eventually learned that the blonde in black was the old man’s mistress.
    Our business concluded, Ephron got out a piece of paper, wrote down the phony name I had given him and a sentence or two, stating that I had received eight hundred dollars cash for a “portrait of a man.” I signed it, and with a sweet smile he handed me the wreck.
    Now that we were old friends, Ephron got back to the subject of the other pictures I’d mentioned that my “uncle” had left me. After making me promise I’d bring them by, he took a pair of plated gold cuff links off his shirt and, grabbing my hand, he said, “You’re a handsome young man. I want you to have these … but don’t forget those other pictures.” I was thrilled with the gift he pressed into my palm and gave him every assurance in the world that I’d be back with more paintings. As I left the shop with the greatest feeling of relief, I flung the cuff links in the gutter and went straight to Bloomingdale’s.
    Just moments before, I had been flat broke, wondering how to finance a new voltage regulator for the Bentley, not to mention more hot dogs and French fries at Callahan’s. Now, there were eight hundred dollars in crisp new bills in my pocket and a genuine antique painting and frame under my arm!
    But my euphoria was short-lived. Just as I was entering Bloomingdale’s, it hit me. I had left the manila envelope at Ephron’s! It had my real name and address on it! Panic-stricken, I swung a U-turn in the store’s revolving door and ran back to the gallery. I burst in, and there was Ephron. He looked at me, surprised. In a split second, I caught sight of the envelope lying under the table near the seat where I had waited.
    â€œI forgot something,” I explained, while scooping up the evidence and heading for the door.
    â€œDon’t forget the other—” were the last words I heard, as I closed the door and raced back to Bloomingdale’s to buy a pair of leather boots on sale.
    A few months later a suspicious noise in the engine warned me I was heading for trouble with the Bentley, so when a Brooklyn collector offered me four grand in cash for it, I grabbed the