Shooting Gallery by Hailey Lind Read Free Book Online Page A

DeBenton Building. The light, bright space included a fifteen-foot beamed ceiling punctuated by three skylights and two ceiling fans, as well as the original wide plank floor and redbrick walls. A bank of tall, double-hung windows along the northern wall let in a soft natural light that was perfect for painting. Near the door was a sitting area where I entertained clients and friends. In a fit of whimsy one rainy afternoon I had painted a faux fireplace on the wall, complete with a cozy roaring fire. In front of the fireplace I had arranged an old Persian rug, a faded velvet couch, two flea market chairs reupholstered with discarded fabric samples and my trusty staple gun, and a wicker trunk that doubled as a coffee table and storage for blankets for the nights I was too tired to drive home safely.
    Most of the studio, though, was devoted to my work. Several large easels held paintings in varying stages of completion; a motley collection of garage-sale bookcases were jammed with art reference books, cans of paint, jars of applicators, cartons of brushes, and scary-looking bottles filled with scary-acting noxious chemicals; and along the rear wall were three large worktables, a light box, a steamer, and several heat lamps. Beneath the worktables were covered plastic bins packed with an assortment of faux-finishing tools masquerading as junk: goose feathers gathered from Oakland’s Lake Merritt that were perfect for painting the squiggly veins of faux marble; old plastic sheeting for creating a wonderful texture when pressed into wet glaze; and Styrofoam blocks for stamping “bricks” into murals. Wherever I went I kept an eye peeled for odd bits of rubbish that I could use to create new effects.
    Frank decided to stash his multimillion-dollar Picasso beneath a pile of Belgian linen canvas tucked behind a large carton full of plaster bunnies. I had acquired the bunnies at an auction two years ago for pennies on the dollar in what I could only describe as a triumph of creative optimism over practical sense. My assistant, Mary, had taken one look at the ugly rodents and informed me that I was no longer allowed to attend auctions.
    â€œSafe and sound,” Frank said as he patted the plaster bunny box. “Just don’t spill anything on it.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Coffee. Paint remover. Sticky buns.”
    â€œSticky buns?”
    â€œJust by way of example.”
    â€œTell you what, Frank,” I said. “If you’ll install those window locks and let me get to work, I’ll keep away from the Picasso when I eat my usual breakfast of coffee, sticky buns, and toxic solvents, okay?”
    Frank laughed, picked up his toolbox, and got to work. I watched, impressed, as he efficiently unscrewed the old brass fittings, sanded down and puttied over the screw holes, drilled new holes, and screwed in tamper-proof steel locks. My landlord had never struck me as the type of man to know his way around power tools. Then again, last night he had extracted the keys from my locked truck neatly enough.
    Finished with the window locks, Frank reminded me once more to set the alarm whenever I left the studio, and departed just as my friend Pete arrived. The two men nodded coolly, unconsciously puffing out their chests as they passed.
    â€œHow do you do, Annie?” asked Pete as he headed for the small kitchen enclosure. “Cuppa Joe to clench your thirst?”
    Originally from Bosnia, Pete honed his English by watching soap operas and memorizing his word-a-day calendar, resulting in an impressive, albeit eclectic, grasp of American idioms, history, and culture. But whatever his linguistic quirks, Pete operated my fussy secondhand espresso maker with the skill of a master croupier at a roulette wheel. This was a very good thing because I had a serious caffeine addiction, and the rest of the gang put together could scarcely manage to boil water.
    â€œEspresso, Americano, latte,