Page 35 of The Picasso Heist
Now, out of the blue, I have another job. I have to figure out what the hell is happening with this supposed new security measure that, for sure, no one mentioned to the low girl on the totem pole.
But I can’t figure it out. At least not on my own. I need Bergamo’s help.C’mon, Enzio. Come up with something. Anything.
Suddenly I see a spark in his eye. It’s followed by an easy laugh. “Well, Pierre, whatever this new security measure is, it must be a pretty big secret,” he says.
“What do you mean?” asks Pierre.
“I’m looking at your newest hire, and she has no clue what it is. Isn’t that right, Halsey?”
“It’s actually Halston,” I say.
“My apologies,” says Bergamo. “Wrong about the name but right about that look on your face. You clearly haven’t been instructed about this new security measure, and beauty should never be kept in the dark.” He loops his arm through mine. “Shall we go learn it together, Halston?”
Pierre thinks Bergamo’s just being Bergamo, laying it on thick and hitting on me. He suspects nothing else.Well done, Enzio.Score one for the quick-thinking doyen of fashion.
Not so fast.
“I hate to be a spoilsport,” says Pierre, “but I’m afraid Halston won’t be able to join us.”
“Why not? Why can’t she join us?” asks Bergamo. “Let me guess—you’re going to say it has something to do with added precautions, and it’s for my protection.”
“That’s right,” says Pierre.
Bergamo’s laugh echoes through the now-empty auction room. “Do I look like I need protecting from Halston here?”
“I don’t think that’s—”
“Do you know what I think? I’ll tell you,” says Bergamo, cutting Pierre off. “I think I just bought that Picasso for a hundred and forty-nine million dollars, and on top of that, I’m going to pay Echelon a buyer’s premium of over twenty million dollars. Do you know what that entitles me to, Pierre?Anything I fucking want.”
“And what is it that you want, sweetheart?” a woman says.
I don’t have to look to know who it is. And Bergamodefinitelydoesn’t need to look. He’s married to her.
As fast as you can sayprenup,Bergamo unloops his arm from mine, turns, and smiles lovingly at his wife, Deborah, a former runway model who’s now strutting up to us. She has clearly enjoyedthe champagne this evening and is somewhere between tipsy and tanked.
“I want for nothing, darling,” says Bergamo, kissing her cheek. She rolls her eyes.
“When can we go home?” she asks. “I’m bored.”
The fact that De-bore-ah couldn’t care less about announcing her boredom in front of Pierre and me is pretty much all you need to know about her. It’s as if we don’t exist in her eyes. Until suddenly we do. Or at least, I do.
“Wait,” she says, turning in my direction. She puts a hand on her hip. “Weren’t you at our last party?”
Thankfully she’s looking at me and not her husband because I’ve never seen a man’s jaw tighten so hard so fast.
I feign an acute case of deafness. “Excuse me?” I ask.
She squints. “Yes, that was you, wasn’t it? In the black Bottega Veneta,” she says. “I never forget a dress, especially one that isn’t my husband’s.”
“I think you might have her confused with someone else, darling,” says Bergamo.
“No, she’s the one. You were flirting with her,” she says. “Or she was flirting with you. Same difference.”
It’s amazing how fast sweat can appear on a man’s forehead. I can feel a few beads forming myself.
“I wish it were me,” I say. “Not the flirting part. The dress. If I were the one at your party in that dress, that would mean I could actually afford a Bottega Veneta.”
I turn to Pierre with a look that saysHelp me—I’m in the crosshairs of a drunk Deborah Bergamo.
