Page 31 of The Picasso Heist
Eighty million comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Then eighty-five. There’s still a handful of paddles going up in the room but the phone bids have them outnumbered. I grab my cell and text Bergamo. His paddle hasn’t budged from his lap, but that’s about to change. Two words:Get ready.
I watch his head tilt to read the message. The next message I send will be the last.
“Tokyo’s bumped his ceiling to ninety-five. Three bidders now from Paris, one from Nice,” says Skip. “A half dozen more from all over. One of them from Monaco.”
“Shit,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Skip.
Guys from Monaco really don’t like to lose. Another reason for Skip to do what he’s about to do.
“When?” I ask. “When do you think?”
“At a hundred,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
“What, you think that’s too high?”
“No, I mean are you sure it’s going to work?” I ask.
Skip’s laugh does nothing to settle my nerves. “It’s a little late for you to be asking me that, sis.”
CHAPTER27
“DO I HEARninety-six? Ninety-six million?”
My eyes dart from the seats to the phones and back as I try to get a count. We were hoping to be down to a half a dozen bidders by now, but it’s looking close to twice that. Maybe even a baker’s dozen.
“Yes, thank you, ninety-six,” says the auctioneer, pointing at the front row. “Now asking ninety-seven. Ninety-seven million.”
“We’ve lost Tokyo,” says Skip. It’s the first good sign, and it’s quickly followed by the second. “Paris number three is out too.”
It’s not enough. There’re still four active paddles in the room. Not that they’re all bidding at the same time, but I can tell from their postures, even from behind them. The way they’re sitting, the straight shoulders. And their heads are still. At these stakes, there’s no neck swiveling, no checking out the competition.
“Bid ninety-seven… yes, on the aisle there, thank you. We continue, asking ninety-eight… ninety-eight million.”
Only three paddles now. The fourth slumps his shoulders, shakeshis head. He’s out. The price is climbing too high. Altitude sickness kicks in.
C’mon, one more. We need one more in the room to drop…
“Ninety-eight, accepted. We have ninety-eight million,” declares the auctioneer, pointing to the end of the phone table.
“Ninety-eight. That’s Mr. Monaco,” says Skip. “Ha. He’s probably French.”
“And he’s probably just getting warmed up,” I say. “It’s time.”
“You’re right,” says Skip. “Give me the signal.”
“Texting him now.”
I get back on my cell and type two letters to Bergamo. My thumb hovers over the send button, my eyes and ears locking in on the auctioneer, who’s pausing after ninety-eight million. He’s milking the moment with a sip of water. To hell with ninety-nine million. The second he puts the glass down, he lets it rip. No more monotone. Big round numbers always get the hype.
“Ladies and gentlemen, do I hear one hundred million?”
Bang goes my thumb:GO!
Bergamo looks down at his cell, and his paddle immediately shoots up. Current bid plus ten—those were his instructions, and he nails the delivery as he breaks decorum, calling out his bid in a booming voice and raising the stakes high enough to kill the action.
