Feint of Art: by Hailey Lind Read Free Book Online

California, I always insisted, it was possible to find bottles of wine under seven dollars that were still drinkable. Apparently Brazil disagreed.
    He set his nearly full glass on the wicker trunk, where it wobbled ominously. “I had no reason to doubt him, you know,” Anthony said, wiping his face with a manicured hand. “Harlan and I have done business for years. Years! All of us sell to him. My God! This is unprecedented, calamitous, ruinous!” He tossed his silvered head melodramatically.
    I felt for him, but after last night’s events my sympathy was muted. We were talking forged drawings here, not life and death. On the other hand, I had just identified two major forgery jobs in as many days, which seemed more than a little coincidental. “I would like your help, Annie,” he said confidentially. “This is your world. Perhaps you could find Harlan Coombs or the drawings.”
    My world indeed, I thought waspishly. Geez, make a little splash in the world of art forgery at the age of sixteen, and people couldn’t stop bringing it up.
    “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that world anymore,” I began. “I—”
    “I am not insinuating that you are in any way still involved with your grandfather’s, shall we say, special occupation?” he said with an air of sincerity. I wasn’t buying it. “But you are in contact with him, and perhaps some of his friends, yes?”
    “Well, I . . .”
    “Please, Annie. For old times’ sake. For your father’s old friend.”
    Nice try. Like I was sucker enough to think that helping Anthony Brazil would somehow earn me my father’s esteem.
    “I would, of course, make it worth your while,” he added.
    Now he had my interest. I hated to focus so much on money, but I was staring down the barrel of a major rent increase.
    “How much are we talking about?”
    “I could offer, oh, say ten percent of their market value.”
    “Twenty.” I figured I had him on the ropes, and I knew he could afford it.
    “Ten, and that’s my final offer.”
    “Twenty, Anthony. It’s a bargain at twice the price and you know it.”
    Brazil blanched. I was starting to think it was his version of a facial tic.
    “Fine,” he snapped, and stood up. “Twenty percent. I need those drawings and I need them soon. You have only one week and then the deal is off. Agreed?”
    I nodded.
    “Oh, and Annie,” he added as he moved toward the door, “this must be done with the utmost discretion. The utmost. My reputation is on the line. I trust I can count on you?”
    “Sure thing,” I said, opening the door for him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m the soul of discretion.”
    Brazil grimaced one last time and was gone.
    I leaned against the door, thinking. Years ago I had vowed never again to involve myself in the underworld of art fakes and forgers. Unfortunately, I now had to make some money and I had to make it quickly. I didn’t see any way around it: just this once I would have to break my vow.
    One week to catch a forger. Luckily, I knew who he was, and had already planned to ask him a few questions about a certain fifteen-million-dollar fake.
    It looked like Anton had been a busy boy lately.

Chapter 3
     
     
     
     
“Repairing” your fake will add immeasurably to its worth. By painstakingly patching torn drawings and “touching up” flaking paint, you give the collector the impression that the artwork was cherished enough for its “previous owners” to pay for costly repairs.
     
—Georges LeFleur, “How to Market Your Forgery,” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger
     
    I retrieved my assistant, a latte, and a gruyère cheese croissant from the bakery, asked Mary to continue working on a large fir dining table we were faux-finishing to resemble intricate inlaid stone, and set out to find Anton Woznikowicz.
    As I headed across town I sipped my latte and reminisced about how patiently the paunchy, good-natured Pole had taught me to