Page 32 of The Picasso Heist
“One hundred and ten million!” Bergamo announces.
Audible gasps fill the room. “Now!” I tell Skip.
I watch the phone table, see a wave of confused looks. Their lines have all gone dead, only they don’t know it. No one does. No one’s even looking in their direction; they’re too busy gawking at Bergamo, who overbid by ten million. Is he a fool? A genius? They can’t figure it out, but when the dust settles, the headline will write itself. Sometimes you’ve got to spend a small fortune to save an even bigger one.
But the dust is still swirling. The crowd’s murmuring. Still, no one notices the staff at the phone table frantically motioning for their CEO. Waxman makes a beeline toward them while the auctioneer does exactly what he’s supposed to do in this situation: He takes back control. He’s a pro.
“We welcome a new bidder and a new bid,” he smoothly announces. “One hundred and ten million. Do I hear—”
He stops mid-sentence as he finally notices Waxman huddled with his staff at the phone table. The room follows suit, everyone turning to see what’s holding up the auction. It’s the moment of truth. Or, in Waxman’s case, the moment he tries to conceal the truth. The paper-clip-and-chewing-gum fix of the phones has given way; the hub is down. There’ll be no more phone bids. An hour ago, it could have been chalked up to mechanical difficulties. Now it’s on Echelon. He owns it. There’s no way Waxman’s stopping the auction. Not now. Not this far.
With a quick, discreet twirl of his index finger, he instructs his auctioneer to carry on.
Bergamo seizes the moment, calling out from his seat, “Let’s go! One hundred and ten million,” he says. “That’s the bid.”
“Indeed it is,” the auctioneer says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, I know those three remaining paddles aren’t going in the air again. It’s not that they don’t have the money. It’s that they don’t want to look like idiots. Bergamo just did something crazy, and only crazy can beat crazy. The auctioneer knows it too. “One hundred and ten million going once…”
“What’s happening?” asks Skip.
“We’re almost home,” I say.
The auctioneer raises his hammer. “One hundred and ten million going twice…”
“One hundredand eleven,” comes a voice from the back of the room.
CHAPTER28
DAMN.
That’s the PG version of what I’m thinking and then saying to my brother over and over. Skip’s cursing too. We’re a chorus. We were so close to getting it done. The phones are dead, but suddenly the room is very much alive.
Everyone’s looking to see who made the bid. They heard it, and now they’re all thinking:A woman?
All I can see is the back of her long, blond hair and the straight shoulders of her eggshell-and-pink-striped Chanel jacket. And her paddle. Number 5. It figures. Out of nowhere comes Chanel No. 5.
Jesus, Enzio. Don’t you stare at her too. Turn around, you’ve still got a painting to buy.Not that I can blame him. It was a wrap. A done deal. Bergamo had one-upped everyone in the room, and then—boom. Make thatalmosteveryone.
Now there were two. Not to mention the threat of more biddersjoining back in, which would spell disaster. Although that threat disappears as fast as—
“One hundred and twelve million,” says Bergamo, raising his paddle.
“One thirteen,” says Chanel. She has a French accent.
Bergamo wastes no time. “One fourteen.”
Neither does she. “One fifteen.”
“One sixteen.”
“One seventeen.”
“One eighteen.”
“One nineteen.”
Shit, shit, shit. Who the hell is she?
We can stomach paying the money—to a certain point—but not losing. And whoever she is, she seems hell-bent on winning. Of course, so does Bergamo. “One twenty,” he says.
