Page 101 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Ben gives him a fake chuckle in response. “Not for much longer, I hope.”
“Please, do come in,” Waylon says grandly, leading us into a cavernous room full of animal heads, dark wooden décor, and kitschy modern art. “You may not know this, but Swift was in fact my great-great-more-greats-grandfather—which explains my interest in your painting. Our predecessors,” he wraps one arm around his wife (who looks surprisingly similar to him), “sold all his works at some point when people still looked down on him and his legacy. They even changed our surname to distance us from him.” He makes a theatrical pause.
I’m pretty sure that‘legacy’he’s talking about included owning a bunch of slaves.
“Well, as the times are changing, I think it’s time to take back what is rightfully ours. Time to reappropriate his legacy. It is ours too, after all.”
Isabella sighs. “So romantic. Keeping family so close to one’s heart.”
I glance at Ben. “Romantic,” I echo, deadpan.
As they drone on about family lineage and the importance of generational heritage (which really is an impressive display of selective historical memory on how that heritage was created), I spot movement near the study’s side window, a blur of black sliding by.
Was that…?
I take another look.
Yep.
Robyn and Guy wearing masks.
They’re crawling past the window like jungle cats in orthopedic sneakers.
Behind them, Sienna appears to be urging them to move faster.
They can’t be discovered.
I turn to Isabella and gasp. “Oh my god. Is that—” I point to a massive painting on the wall. “Is that a Gainsborough? No. It can’t be.”
Ben catches on instantly. “It is. Look at the brushwork. And that subtle depiction of class… well, whatever the opposite of struggle is.” He steps closer and adds in a stage whisper, “Oh, no. Wait. I think it’s a fake.”
Waylon chokes, then blurts, “Fake? That’s impossible. I bought that at a Sotheby’s auction. Had to elbow that car dealer in the face to get it.”
“I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time someone overpaid for a forgery,” Ben adds, pretending to take a closer look with Waylon and Isabella eyeing him intently. “Although… I might be mistaken. On second look, it does seem authentic.”
I steal another glance toward the window—nothing left to see. Alexei notices too. He takes the bag from me and asks everyone to focus on the actual reason we came here. Carefully, he unwraps the painting and lays it down on a table in the middle of the room.
“There she is,” Waylon coos with glee like he’s meeting a long-lost relative. “Painted by the man himself, the family talent. Tragically murdered by a mob of people.”
“I read about that,” I say. “Wasn’t that a mob of people who were formerly his property?”
Waylon just flashes a devious grin and returns his attention to the painting, lifting it reverently.
“Employees,” Alex explains to me. “We call them employees.” He turns to our mark. “It’s as real as that other Swift you haveover there. But feel free to have it analyzed by an independent expert. Or just call in an anonymous tip at the museum that it was stolen for that extra bit of… excitement. We’ve stored a forgery in its place, which gives you the option to enjoy your new work of art in peace and quiet, or to use it for authentication.”
“Your customer service really is impeccable,” Isabella says, clearly impressed, her eyes doing a slow inventory of Alexei's physique before she swirls away to pour champagne.
Meanwhile, her husband launches into another monologue about his artistic lineage. A minute or two later, both of them are too occupied to notice our masked trio stiffly walking past the windows, a suspiciously large sack slung over Sienna’s back.
I choke on the champagne Isabella handed me.
Ben leans in. “You alright?”
“Hmm. Just very moved by the brushwork,” I reply tightly. “And the story accompanying it. So much emotion.”
Alexei sighs as Isabella starts not only ogling but also touching his biceps now. “Well, if everything is in order…” he begins.
Waylon nods, still cradling the painting, then he pulls a few stacks of money from a small chest on a side table. He tosses them at Ben without glancing up, oblivious to the fact that his wife has now linked arms with Alexei and is whispering something into his ear.
