Outcasts

Chapter 10 - Morning After

Helen Carty had to admit she was anxious about what the reviews would be for last night's opening. She was at the stove in her bathrobe, spooning scrambled eggs onto two plates, was reaching for the bacon she'd already cooked when she heard a man's voice down the hall.

"Listen to this..."

Propped against a pillow in Helen's queen-size bed, bare-chested Victor Sykes had an iPad on his lap and was reading aloud from The New York Times review of Mavro's debut: "The young artist has forcefully shown that the abstract and the figurative can combine with gusto. His plywood panels are infused with a tribal sense of spontaneity."

He scrolled down the screen and continued: "The pieces are charged with a visceral vitality, links to the skateboard underground that spark Mavro's work."

Helen came in with a breakfast tray and set it on the bed. "The writer is charged with alliteration."

Sykes reached for a piece of bacon. "The writer should be sainted." He took a bite and read her another quote while he chewed: "In short, they have that most coveted pop-art element. Wall power." He looked up at her and smiled. "You give him the buzz words, the guy writes this and looks like a genius."

Helen sat on the bed with the tray between them. "So what now?"

"Now we deliver the paintings we sold and get your money from Geller."

"The man should be a happy camper."

"The man should be writing songs about you." He held out his hand. "Come here."

"Drink your coffee." She'd poured two cups in the kitchen and handed him one. "I'm late as it is."

"Philip can wait."

"Philip doesn't know the..."

She was interrupted by a chirp from the cell phone she'd left on the bedside table.

"Speaking of..." She reached over and picked up the phone, could see by the caller i.d. who it was. "Good morning, Philip." She looked pointedly at Sykes. "I can find him. Why?" She listened, frowned, nodded. "I'll tell him. Thank you."

Sykes watched her disconnect the call, still frowning. "What?"

"He said he got word that there's a problem at the gallery."

"What kind of problem?"

"He said you'd better get down there."

~~~~~~

The A Train station was only two blocks down from Helen's Central Park West apartment, so Sykes took it south to West Fourth and jogged east to the gallery. When he came around the corner of the street it was on, he saw a sheriff's car and a large cube truck parked in front.

He ran up to one of the men in coveralls loading bubble-wrapped paintings into the back of the truck. "Where are those going?"

"They been impounded," the man said.

"What do you... Impounded by who?"

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Ask him."

Sykes saw a man in a Deputy Sheriff windbreaker writing on a clipboard. "Excuse me," he said when he went over, "can you tell me what's going on?"

The deputy looked up. "Who're you?"

Sykes indicated two more paintings that were about to go into the cube truck. "I represent the artist who painted those."