Page 141 of Love Is an Art
I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m definitely not up for some brushwork cross-examination.
His eyes narrow.
Think.
“I would say that withRegret, I definitely used a heavier stroke to convey my emotions.”
He nods.
Leaving the café and walking with Jurgen feels weird. I can’t explain how.
But it is the middle of the afternoon.
What I want to do is check that Officer Johnson is trailing us.
That was the plan: Officer Johnson will trail him when he leaves to see if he actually ships the painting or if he pockets the money.
But I don’t dare look around.
We walk out the door and down a side street, then pivot into another narrow street, Jurgen talking a mile a minute about this last art show he’s seen. We make a few more turns. I’ve lost my sense of where we are amid the crisscrossing streets of the West Village. I’m trying to respond to his questions about my artistic process and hoping that I make sense.
I’m off today. My body still feels sluggish, and my eyes are so puffed from the crying, they hurt.
This feels like an interrogation.I must just be tired.
And then he turns into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. I stop.
“You’re not an artist, are you?” he asks. He puts down my painting.
“That Latvian deal isn’t for real?” I ask stupidly.
He grabs my shirt collar with one hand. His face is mottled red.
I freeze, shocked.
Johnson must be nearby.
Jurgen’s hand grabs for my pocket.
I clutch at my pocket so he can’t unzip it, trying to push his hand away. He’s stronger than he looks. It’s like battling an octopus. His hand tightens on my collar.
“Are you wired? Are you an undercover cop?” he growls into my ear.
He grabs my hand.That hurts.
I knee him between his legs.
Jurgen doubles over.
Johnson runs up, Zeke behind him.
“You’re under arrest,” Johnson says, getting between Jurgen and me. I stand there in shock as Johnson gives a Miranda warning.
I can’t stop shaking.
Johnson arrests him for assault. I hand Officer Johnson’s partner the fake check.
We got him. We nailed Scammer Guy.
