Brushes by Courtney Pierce

Author:Courtney Pierce [PIERCE, COURTNEY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: baby boomer, Immortality, legacy, magic, old masters, painting, art
Publisher: Windtree Press
Published: 2015-02-07T08:00:00+00:00

Anthony handed the valet his briefcase, a fifty dollar bill wrapped around the handle. He ducked into the yellow Lamborghini. The valet opened the passenger door and set the briefcase on the seat—without the fifty dollar bill—and waved Anthony out of the garage.

The morning commute in Manhattan could be a bear, but not when accompanied with the soaring strings of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Stopping at the intersection of West Fifty-seventh and Park Avenue, Anthony glanced over at the clean-cut man in black sunglasses sitting in a BMW 750i. The guy smiled, stuck up his thumb, and nodded. Yeah, buddy, you only wish you could own this car.

As he pulled up to the modern glass building in the Financial District, Anthony wasn’t sure if he’d be coming here in the next few weeks, or to his office in downtown Portland, Oregon. He hadn’t been back to Portland since Raleigh Coulter’s death. Things were tense with those clients. He had to keep them appeased for a little while longer, especially Judy Hawkins. She’d been particularly annoying and rude in her persistence to reach him. The nastier the calls became, the less likely he’d even make the effort to return her call.

Preparations to flee had already begun. The new passport arrived yesterday. Three major tasks remained: shred, ship, and book a flight to Amsterdam. He’d already started shipping his art to his apartment in the ancient city. The Vermeer would be last, but it belonged in Amsterdam, away from the noise of New York. In the meantime, he had to keep the appearance all continued to be normal.

“Good morning, Mr. Dromov,” the parking attendant said and opened the driver’s door.

“Hey, Jack, you been good?” Anthony handed the young man a twenty and grabbed his briefcase. “Be gentle with her, buddy.”

“Gotcha covered, Mr. Dromov.”

Whirling out of the revolving door, Anthony strutted through the marbled lobby toward the bank of elevators for the upper floors. A gathering of worker bees, sporting sneakers for their pedestrian trek from the subway, waited with him for the first elevator to arrive. He chuckled to himself. At least they’ll all get out before me.

“Hey, Diane,” he said to his assistant, trying to get past her to shut himself in his office.

“Stressed. Salena Steward is on three. I told her you’d have to call her back, but she insisted on holding. We’re now up to fifteen minutes and she’s driving me crazy!” Diane made an exaggerated growling noise. “Will you just talk to her please?”

Anthony rolled his eyes and sighed. “All right.”

He shut the mahogany door behind him. The script formulated in his mind as he threw his briefcase on the leather chair in front of his desk. His hand grasped the receiver. Before he picked it up, he smiled to prepare for the show.

“Mrs. Steward! So good to hear from you! How have you been?” he said, keeping his voice bright.

“Yes . . . oh yes, Mr. Dromov, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.” Salena’s voice sounded frailer than the last time he’d talked with her.

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