Chapter 18

I didn't appreciate the general atmosphere at my opening at the C. Harris Gallery of Fine Arts. Financially the show was a success. When my entourage and I arrived at the gallery, sold stickers dotted all my paintings, and Craig Harris was ecstatic. At first, that's how I felt, but after I'd talked with my buyers, I realized some of them had purchased my paintings not so much for their artistic merit or investment potential but rather for the titillating fact that the artist had beheaded two men with a sword. My fame had preceded me, but not my fame as an artist.

Argh.

I aggravated this attitude when I walked into the gallery holding my cudgel. I had the staff in hand, not to show off, but to have it handy as a weapon should I need it. It wasn't until after I naively explained that the cudgel was a Shaolin wushu weapon, and that I was conversant with it, a saber, spear and broadsword, that I realized my fame with a sword made my fame as an artist an also ran. That's when I started to call my cudgel a walking stick and made a monumental effort to play down the decapitations.

The dynamics of the Denver show also presented some other differences from previous shows. Grace, as usual, entered the gallery on my arm — Mary proudly held my other arm — but my sister left my side shortly after our grand entrance. She not only didn't stay close, she rarely made eye contact.

"Grace is distancing herself from me again," I said to Mary.

"It's an approach/avoidance conflict, Brent," Mary said. "She'll go back and forth for the rest of her life. She loves you but can't have you. You have someone — me. She has... I was going to say no one, but that's not true. She has James and Deanna, but I think the Deanna connection is starting to wear thin."

"Waddaya mean?"

Mary shrugged. "I'm not sure. James is solid, but he'll be absent nine or ten months every year, and when he's around, Grace has to share him with Deanna. I wouldn't be surprised if Grace hooked up with a man tonight. To do that, she has to put some space between the two of you."

"Sounds logical," I said and stopped worrying about my sister yet again.

The next difference stepped in front of Mary and me and introduced herself. Katrina Leonard was an artist's agent, and her resemblance to Jane Wilson's lover at the time of Jane's death was startling. I put Katrina's age around forty. Amber shoulder-length hair set off a soft, beautiful face, and her amber eyes seemed to bore into my soul. I felt a strong attraction immediately, but a forty-something female and a seventeen-year-old male didn't fit any better than a brother and sister.

"Do you do private commissions?" she asked.

"I haven't. I will," I said.

"May we meet tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Brown Palace."

We agreed to meet for lunch at the hotel. She gave me a dazzling smile and left, and not just my presence. She left the gallery.

A couple of minutes later, I understood why she made a hasty departure when Gary Frazier, Craig Harris, Ruth Sage (the Santa Fe gallery owner), and David Bailand (the L.A. gallery owner) swooped down on me like a flock of vultures.

"What did Katrina Leonard want?" Frazier asked.

"She asked if I did private commissions," I said.

"What did you tell her?" Harris asked.

"That I haven't but I would. What's the problem?"

"I'd like to show your work in mid-December," Ruth Sage said.

"And I can schedule a show for you early in April," Bailand added.

Frazier gave Bailand an exasperated look. "David, I told you I wanted the spring show in Phoenix."

"Whoa, guys," I said, holding up my hands as if surrendering.

Ruth chuckled.

"And gal," I added. I'd liked Ruth the moment Frazier introduced her earlier. She was a bottle blonde in her late fifties. Stylish Western clothes with splashes of Indian silver and turquoise jewelry gave her a distinctive look, and I appreciated unusual but stylish looks. She was smart with a great sense of humor.

I said, "Ruth, a mid-December show will push me. I can't promise twelve or fourteen paintings by the first of December."

She grinned. "My gallery is smaller. How about eight?"

"That's possible. We'll talk later."

She nodded acceptance.

I looked at David Bailand. Unlike Ruth, the second I met Bailand I disliked him. I couldn't put my finger on why I disliked him, except to say he seemed too slick, too put-together, sort of unreal, which probably wasn't fair on my part. Still, that's how I reacted to him. Then I remembered that I was a poor judge of character. Crap.

I said, "David, a summer show in Phoenix is deadly. Gary graciously put off his show this fall for the opening here in Denver. I won't put him off until next fall because you want a spring show."

Frazier smiled and nodded. Bailand didn't look happy.

"How about a summer show, David?" I said.

He frowned and said, "I'll have to check my bookings."

Which was hogwash. A gallery owner knew his schedule like the back of his hand. "Do that and get back to me," I said and looked at each of the gallery owners moving my eyes from one to the other. "About Katrina Leonard and private commissions, if I make a commitment for a show, I'll honor that commitment. As an example, Craig, I was under a serious threat before this show. A powerful, evil man wanted me dead, which forced me into hiding, but even under those trying conditions, I met my obligation to you and shipped fourteen paintings slightly ahead of schedule. As long as I honor my commitments to all of you, whether I accept some private commissions or not is none of your business."

"Katrina Leonard has a history of burying an artist in private commissions," Craig Harris said. "That's why we're concerned."

"Point taken, but you folks need to know that I'm loyal to a fault. Gary stepped up and helped me start my career. To that end, I gave him an exclusive beyond Phoenix to include your galleries and two others, and so far I've been more than pleased with that decision. Nevertheless, there will come a time when I'll schedule openings in cities other than the six in Gary's network, New York City, for example, as well as later openings in other countries." I smiled. "I owe this expanded exposure and the ancillary increases in the price of my work to my buyers." I pointed at one of my large paintings, a nine-foot by seven-foot canvas. "That painting sold for $20,000 tonight. In five years or less, it should be worth double that amount. That won't happen if I limit my openings to six cities in the Western sector of the United States. Am I right or wrong?"

Frazier groaned. "You're right, dammit."

Ruth chuckled. "Now I understand why you act as your own agent."

"Los Angeles is New York City's equal in the world of art," Bailand said through tight lips.

"I don't think so, David," I said and resolved to check out Bailand and his gallery before I made any commitments to him.

"What was that confab about?" Agnes asked me after the gallery owners disbursed. Mary was talking to the wife of one of my buyers.

"Greed," I said with a sarcastic snort, and then explained the gallery owners' concerns.

"Katrina Leonard, huh?" Agnes said, looking surprised. "Katrina Leonard approached you?" She moved her eyes and head as if searching for the agent.

"She left the gallery, Agnes," I said. "I'm having lunch with her tomorrow at the hotel."

"I want to meet her," Agnes said.

"All right, but why?"

"Because she can place my work in the corporate or public sector, which is more important to a sculptor than a painter."

I nodded. "You act like you know her."

"Of her. I've never met her."

"Craig Harris said she's known for burying artists with private commissions," I said.

"I've heard that. Her buyer list includes not only collectors but also corporate clients. I'm interested in the latter. She made her mark as an artist's agent by introducing up-and-coming artists to buyers who are more interested in art as an investment than the artistic merit of the artist."

"Nothing wrong with that," I said.

"Nope, but most artists would squeal like stuck pigs if they heard either of us say so."

I laughed and said, "Drop by our table at the hotel tomorrow, and I'll introduce you, and then sing your praises after you leave."

She moved up on tiptoes, kissed my cheek and thanked me while she wiped away the lipstick mark with her thumb.

I made my deal with Ruth Sage. She'd pay all costs and take a forty percent cut. The price of my work would increase approximately twenty percent.

"Brent, you're missing a market," she said.

"Oh, what market?"

"Smaller paintings, say three-by-three or -four."

I laughed. "By golly, I think you're right."

"Toss in four that size for my show in lieu of two five-by-sevens. I'll price the smaller pieces so they'll sell, but our gross will still be larger than for eight large paintings. Even better, the ten paintings shouldn't represent more work for you than the eight."

"All right. Six large paintings and four smaller ones, right?"

"Yes. I'll fax the contract to you by the end of next week. Did you make a deal with Katrina?"

"No, I'm having lunch with her tomorrow."

"She can do you a lot of good, Brent. Just don't let her gain complete control."

"The chance of that is zero to zip. Still, I feel compelled to ask. What do you mean by complete control?"

"She's the best there is when it comes to private commissions, but as an agent for all your work, she'll derail your career-path vision into something that will work better in the short term but not nearly as well for the long haul. Think ten, twenty, even thirty years into the future when dealing with her."

"Thanks, Ruth. That sounds like good advice."

"Tell your friend, Agnes, that she's missing a market, too."

Ruth's statement hit me like a smith's hammer. "Damn! You're right." I looked around and spied Agnes talking with Deanna. I caught her eye and motioned her to me. When she joined us, I said, "Ruth pointed out that I was missing a market with the size of my paintings. I had to agree with her, and for her show in December, I'll be shipping four smaller paintings in lieu of two large ones. The gross should be higher."

Agnes nodded. "That makes sense."

"Then she said that you were missing the same market," I said.

Agnes looked as stunned as I'd been, but she fought the obvious. "I don't know if my work would be as powerful scaled down," she said.

Neither Ruth nor I commented.

"It's also possible that a smaller piece would take as much time as a larger one, especially the forged elements," Agnes added.

"That's possible, but lets try," I said.

"Let's... ?" Ruth said, looking confused.

"Yeah," Agnes said, "Brent enjoys anvil work, and he knows as much about a coal forge as I." She laughed. "I beat him every which way with welding, though." She stuck her tongue out at me. "So there."

"Interesting," Ruth said. "Brent, would you be willing to share billing with Agnes for your show in December?"

"Sure," I said.

"Agnes, can you ship two or three small pieces by the first of December?" Ruth asked.

"I don't know. I don't know how long it'll take to do small pieces. What size are you talking about?"

"Three or four feet tall, including bases. I'll display them on short pedestals."

Agnes nodded but made no overt commitment.

"I'll give you the same deal I gave Brent. All expenses are mine, and I'll only take a forty percent cut."

Agnes pursed her lips. "All right. I'll do it."

"And the colorado rocky mountain high / I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky / I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly / Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang as the limo rolled down the dark streets to Denver City Park. She had a sweet high voice that pierced the roaring in my ears and let me hear each word of the song distinctly — a rare pleasure for me. We were en route for a sunrise session of tai chi.

Grace was conspicuous by her absence. As Mary predicted, my sister had hooked up with a man at the opening. I didn't meet him, didn't know his name. I hoped her time with him would give her joy and pleasure.

Agnes was conspicuous by her presence. Unknown to me, she'd taken tai chi lessons, and during the show when Mary suggested tai chi at sunrise the next morning, Agnes had asked if she could join us.

"Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang.

"High colorado." Mary's voice filled in the chorus.

"Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang again.

"High colorado," Mary sang.

Agnes and I applauded when the chorus ended.

Minutes later, the four of us spilled out of the limo onto green grass. Dark grass. The sky was lightening, but the sun had not yet cast its glow across the ground.

"What time is sunrise here?" I asked.

"7:13," Mary said. "Five minutes from now."

I dropped my cudgel on the grass and said, "Let's start the first form anyway."

Would the Rocky Mountain light be different than the light of the high desert? We were closer to the sun. The light should be different, I reasoned as my body moved, synchronized with the movements of my companions. Sunlight struck the high buildings to the north before it crept across the ground, and its glow was sweet and clear, pristine but for the normal pollution in the city air.

Then I turned toward the majestic mountains. Suddenly, I understood what John Denver was singing about. The purple mountains changed hues, soaking up the light, reflecting it back to our eyes as sunlight danced across its craggy surfaces.

"Perfect," I muttered.

Mary giggled, and then laughed.

"What?" Deanna said.

"Private joke," Mary said.

Because we'd all stumbled, we started the form again and maintained our concentration until it was complete, moving immediately into the second form. Agnes stayed with us. She was awkward still, but I could see a time in the near future when she would be beauty and grace.

Grace.

You should be here, Grace. Here with me.

Back in our room, Mary and I showered together. Fun. I washed her hair. She washed mine. I washed her pussy. She washed my dick. A lot of fun. Then she went down on me while hot water pelted the back of my head and back. Beyond fun — perfect.

We were toweling each other dry when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," I said, thinking Grace might be calling.

It wasn't Grace.

"Mary, it's your neighbor lady," I said and handed her the phone.

"Is something wrong with Little Bundle?" Mary asked, fear striking her almond-shaped eyes.

Before I could respond, she took the phone and asked her neighbor lady the same question. From Mary's posture as she listened to the answer, I gathered all was well.

I finished drying off and walked naked back into the bedroom. Was Grace all right? That she left with a man last night without saying anything to me upset me more than I wanted to admit. That she missed sunrise tai chi upset me further. That she still hadn't called was starting to piss me off.

I walked to the window and pushed the drapery back. Those mountains make the mountains around Phoenix look like speed bumps, I thought as I gazed at the rocky peaks. The notes to Rocky Mountain High rumbled through my mind.

"Brent, say hi to Little Bundle," Mary said and handed me the phone.

"Hello, sweet Little Bundle," I said as my eyes continued to soak in the awesome beauty of the majestic mountains.

"Hi, Bent," the girl said and giggled.

"Are you having a good morning?"

"Bye."

Dial tone.

I laughed and looked toward Mary to tell her that Little Bundle had hung up on me. I said nothing. I watched as she touched herself. She was in a chair, and her slim legs were draped over the arms. Her eyes were fixed on mine.

"Do you ever get the urge to just jack off?" she said.

I remembered my time on the boat during the storm. I nodded.

"That's how I feel right now," she said. "Sucking you off made me hot, but I don't feel like fucking. I just want to jill off. Do you mind?"

I shook my head as I watched her fingers rub tight soft circles over her clitoris.

"Good. You can watch or not. I don't care. I just want to give myself a good come."

"I'll watch," I said.

I looked down. My cock was hard. I fisted it.

"Would it bother you if I jacked off?" I said.

"Knock yourself out," she said as her eyes rolled back in her head.

I took a chair across from her and watched as she stuffed two fingers inside her, and then moved her other hand from her breast to rub her clitoris.

"Hmm," she said, "this feels so good." Her eyes met mine again but they lowered and watched as I stroked my cock.

"If I tell you a secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself?" she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Grace and I talked about masturbating."

I said nothing, but my cock lengthened a little.

"She said she gives herself a good come just about every day."

I said nothing.

"I told her that I did, too."

"When did you have this conversation?"

"During your hiatus with that rock. We were at my apartment. She was helping me arrange the furniture, and we were taking a break. I don't know how the subject came up, but we were candid with each other. I liked that. Grace is my best friend, Brent."

"She refers to you the same way," I said.

Her fingers flashed faster.

"Anyway, we talked about how we touched ourselves, what we did to come. Our methods to bring about the happy event are a little different. Most of my sensations come from my clitoris. Grace needs to feel full. Not that her clitoris is insensitive, mind you." Mary groaned and her eyes rolled back in her head again. "There's more. Can I trust you with more? Grace can never know that I told you these things. I'd lose her friendship."