Page 27 of The Picasso Heist
CHAPTER23
THE ARCHITECTS OFthe Echelon auction floor knew exactly what they were doing. Their inspiration? The Roman Colosseum.
Let the superrich battle each other to the death with their massive bank accounts or at least until everyone except the winner screams for mercy by lowering their paddle swords in shame. The room is round and offers tiered seating above the auction floor for special invited guests. A veritable cheering section.
Although tonight there are no guests. It’s a strictly private affair due to the “delicate circumstances” surrounding a Picasso never before sold, let alone seen by the public—not until a few weeks ago, when Echelon discreetly announced the painting’s existence to its members. Of course, nothing creates a buzz quite like a hush-hush announcement.
“This is some turnout,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Terrance Willinghoff, in his three-piece navy suit and pink bow tie, looks at me as if he’d forgotten I was here. I’m not surprised. He’spreoccupied, surely thinking—hoping, praying—that Echelon scores a huge sale tonight with the Picasso. Meanwhile, I’m simply doing what the new girl is supposed to do in this situation: help wherever needed.
I’m not needed. “Huh? Oh, no. You’re fine, just fine,” says Terrance. “Our work’s done.”
Meaning that the valuations department has little to do with running the auction. That’s a whole other department, the auction team.
“Yes,” says Pierre, stepping into the conversation with his open collar and ascot. “Valuations is behind the scenes; we don’t make the scene.”
Which explains why we’re in the back of the room looking on as the members begin to settle into their seats after enjoying a cocktail hour featuring caviar and Cristal. Champagne loosens up the shoulder muscles, or so the old auction joke goes. More paddles get raised.
Terrance uses Pierre joining us to escape, mumbling about needing to go check on something.
“So,” says Pierre once we’re alone, “welcome to your first auction night. What do you think?”
“It’s a spectacle,” I say.
“That’s a very good word for it. The same in English as in French.Le spectacle.”
“How many of these have you been to over the years?”
“More than I can remember,” he answers, “although this one’s right up there on the panache scale—another good word. All the usual suspects are here, of course, but there are a few boldface names we don’t always see. Real characters.”
“Like who?”
Pierre motions. “Second row, on the aisle. Letitia Collingsworth. Widow of Bradford Collingsworth. Do you know who he was?”
“I don’t,” I say.
“It’s okay, most people don’t. He was the largest grower of oranges in the United States. Do you see the empty seat next to her?”
“Yeah.”
“Look again.”
I stare across the room, squinting. “Wait, what is that?” There’s something on the seat. “Is that a lunch box?”
“It is. And do you know what’s inside?”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
“Her husband’s ashes.”
“C’mon.”
“I’m serious. She takes him everywhere with her. She—” Pierre suddenly freezes. “Holy shit. What’s he doing here?”
“Who?” I ask, although I know exactly who he’s talking about.
“Enzio Bergamo,” says Pierre. “He just walked in.”
