Of course, this still could be a trap...
But caution just wasn’t on her agenda, tonight. She turned the knob and walked right in.
Unlike what she’d seen of the rest of the building, this room was still in perfect shape — except for a head-sized hole on the right wall, providing an impromptu window into the next office. But the other walls were fine, the door had a lock, and an overhead fluorescent illuminated the room.
In the middle crouched a bunged-up metal desk with a TV on a crate next to it; two metal folding chairs were on the client’s side of the desk. On a card table against the back wall sat a hot plate, with an open door nearby leading to a tiny bathroom. A sleeping bag, rolled up, was snugged in a corner; and the tiniest of refrigerators purred. These were spartan quarters, to say the least, but the place was spotlessly clean.
Behind the desk, his hands folded on the desktop, seated in an ancient swivel chair, was a gray-haired man of perhaps seventy with wire-frame glasses aiding lively dark eyes of indeterminate color, a neatly trimmed but thick salt-and-pepper mustache, and a long but well-tended beard every bit as gray as his hair. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt buttoned all the way up, with no tie — the suit was out of style but not threadbare. Despite the surroundings, he struck Max as both dignified and businesslike.
“Mr. Sherwood?” Max asked.
He rose, gestured to one of the metal folding chairs opposite him. “I would be pleased if you called me Woody... And you’re Max?”
“I’m Max,” she said, and couldn’t help but smile. “Interesting place of business. Do you, uh, live here as well?”
As she sat, so did he. “At the moment I do, yes... Sometimes being an art speculator causes us to reevaluate our lifestyle and make certain subtractions.”
“Like a bed, for example?”
He sighed, but his response seemed chipper. “I won’t deny that I’ve had a few setbacks of late... but I’m just one deal away from Easy Street.”
“Is that in a nice part of Seattle?”
“It’s an expression, dear. Pre-Pulse.”
Max thought: I need to hang with a younger crowd.
Sherwood was saying, “You know, dear, you’re very young and quite pretty. You look healthy.”
She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. “Thanks... I guess. What does that have to do with any transaction we might have?”
He patted the air with one hand. “I meant nothing by it — just an observation. But the people who bring me merchandise are, by definition, thieves. The young ones are drug addicts and don’t have your... robust glow. The older ones have a... hardness about them, that I hope you will never achieve.”
She didn’t know what to say to that; no matter: Sherwood was plowing on.
“Now I’m not saying a woman... a young woman... can’t be a thief, and a good one. I’ve known a number, over the years... The female thieves I’ve known have either been... unpleasantly hard, or, frankly, gay... or both.”
Not knowing whether to be amused or irritated, Max said, “And you’re wondering if I’m gay?”
Teeth flashed in the beard again. “My dear, at my age I’m afraid it’s damn near irrelevant.”
Max returned the smile. He was an engaging old boy. “Would you like to see what I have for you?”
“Oh yes,” he said, with just a hint of innuendo. “I think we’ve had sufficient conversation to satisfy the social contract, don’t you?”
She answered that with a glazed smile.
With her back to Sherwood, she slowly unzipped the bag, slipped the necklace surreptitiously into her pocket, then slid out the painting. When she turned back to him, his mouth dropped like a trapdoor.
After a long moment of staring at the painting, he asked, “Is that... that the real thing?”
“It should be.” She smiled. “But I won’t be offended if you want to test it.”
“Please,” he said.
She placed the painting on the wide desk and, from one of the drawers, Sherwood withdrew a device that he explained was an UVIN. Then, standing at the desk, the painting like a patient on a surgical table awaiting the doctor’s skills, he said, “Get the lights, would you please, child?”
Max did as the old boy requested, and the fence fired up the UVIN and ran its rays over the painting. He looked from the painting to her, his expression almost... alarmed; and then back down at the painting, going over it again with the ultraviolet light. A crack of thunder made her jump; heavy rain hammered at the windows and echoed down the corridor.
“My dear,” he said finally, “this is indeed a genuine Grant Wood.”
Trying to conceal her excitement, Max asked, “How much?”
“Normally...” He shrugged. “... six figures, easily. But you may have guessed I don’t have that kind of money around here. Actually, I don’t have any kind of money around here... but I know several buyers who do.”
A pulse of excitement jumped in her stomach. “So — what’s our next move?”
Somewhere under that beard, Sherwood had worked up a half smirk. “I suppose you trusting me, for a few days, is out of the question.”
“I like you, Woody,” she said. “But not that much.”
“I can hardly blame you. Well, then, here’s the situation. If we want to sell this beautiful painting for anywhere near its value, people are going to want to test it. To see it tested... For that to happen, I need to have it here.”
Max didn’t like where this was going. “What’s to keep you from screwing me?”
“Besides my age, and the price of Viagra?” He shrugged. “All I have is my word. Didn’t Mr. Vogelsang vouch for me?”
“Oh, sure... but who’d vouch for that sleazebag?”
“True, true... but I assure you, I’m honest.”
“Woody, you deal in stolen property.”
“That’s true, but I do it honestly.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Okay, Woody, you call me, and I’ll bring the painting, and whoever wants to see it tested, can see it tested.”
“That would be a workable plan,” he said, “but for two things.”
“Go on.”
“First, my function is to buffer you from the buyers and the buyers from you — I provide insulation of sorts, should — for example — you or my client turn out to be participating in what used to be called, quaintly, a sting... is that pre-Pulse term familiar to you?”
“That one is,” she admitted.
“Second, rain’s coming down like a veritable son of a bitch, and you should not risk taking that painting out into it, even with that zippered pouch of yours.”
Max shrugged with a knowingness beyond her years. “Maybe so, but I’m still not leaving the painting here. You have a nice line of bull, Woody, but I just met you... and you may be an honest crook, but you’re still a crook.”
He made a clicking sound in his cheek. “That is a fact... and this is a commission I could dearly use right now.”
“Fine. Well?”
The fence let out a big sigh. “All right, little lady. Let me make a phone call. There is a client I know who would be perfect for this acquisition.”
“Excellent. Tell me about him... or is it a her?”
For the first time, a frown creased the fence’s brow. “I can’t give you a name or any background — you’re compromising my professional ethics enough as it is.”
She said nothing; she was frowning, too.
Sherwood removed a cell phone from his suit-coat pocket. “Do I make the call? I’ll do my best to get the buyer to come down right, now.”
“... Make the call.”
“But you can’t be here.”
Now she was getting pissed. “Woody, I can’t not be here.”