Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Finn

I narrowly dodge the sedan. The driver curses at me while he speeds away. The windows tinted, I barely glimpse the asshole's ruddy face. Definitely one of those arrogant Hollywood types with his overpriced designer sunglasses. Catching my breath, I'm not sure if this is my lucky day. Or my unlucky day. Friday the thirteenth can't be trusted. Without further life-or-death drama, I reach my destination. Though I wonder if that driver really wanted to kill me. The art world is conspiratorial. Competitive... And deadly.

Fig women in designer dresses revealing perfect tans and toned limbs. All engaged in lively conversation, no one takes notice of me as I head toward a table for two in the center of the restaurant. Soon after I take a seat, a young, good-looking waiter comes by and hands me a menu.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks.

"Just some water will be fine."

Though I'd love something alcoholic to calm my nerves, I don't want to be drinking in front of Kayla. I have too much at stake.

"Bottled?"

"Regular water's fine."

The waiter gives me a dismissive look, but returns quickly with my request.

"Can I get you anything to start off with?" he asks, his voice as icy as the glass of water he sets down.

"No, I'm fine. I'm waiting for someone."

The insolent server forces a smile and skirts off while I take in my surroundings. The place is filled with Hollywood moguls and celebrities. I immediately recognize Brandon Taylor, the Emmy-winning star of the hit TV series Kurt Kussler . Though he's dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, he's lunching with a suit—another familiar face—Blake Burns, the head of Conquest Broadcasting where my wife works. At a table nearby, I spot her boss, Jim Hartley, who's lunching with a voluptuous brunette. There's electricity in the air. A buzz. The sound of success.

After several sips of my water, I catch sight of a tall, stunning blonde heading my way. I recognize her immediately. Kayla Phillips. She's clad in a tight white pencil skirt, a cream silk blouse, and shiny black stilettos. A monstrous red designer bag grazes her arm. Her breezy gait exudes confidence, power, and sex. All eyes are on the statuesque beauty, and on her way, several diners spring to their feet to give her a chummy hug. She's obviously a regular here.

While she stops and chats with someone, I play back in my mind what I know from googling her. Age 29. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father, Stanton Phillips, billionaire film financier. Her mother, Esme Rawlings, Hollywood royalty, the daughter of one of Hollywood's legendary studio chiefs. Kayla... an only child. Highly educated. Fluent in five languages. Swiss boarding school, followed by Yale undergrad and the prestigious Sotheby's Institute of Art master's degree program in London. Quickly hired by their competitor Christie's, where she became head of the Contemporary Art Department, bringing in record revenues. Followed by a daring solo entry into the art world where she brokered major deals and privately curated major collections. Revered by all. A regular on the A-List party scene from international art fairs to Hollywood bashes. The epitome of brains and beauty. Catching my eyes on her, she shoots me a knowing smile as she saunters my way.

"Finn?"

"Yeah." Nodding, I rise from my chair as she extends her slender, manicured hand. I take it in mine and we shake. Just like the rest of her, her firm shake is one of confidence and power.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she says as I help her into the chair opposite mine. Her voice is breathy, laced with a slight British accent. It hints at wealth and culture.

"Not a problem. I haven't been waiting long."

"Thank you for meeting me here. I have a meeting afterward with one of my clients, who owns an art gallery on Melrose. Perhaps you've heard of him... Jaime Zander."

"The son of the late painter PAZ?" Payton Anthony Zander.

"Yes."

"I'm a big fan of his father's work."

"I am, too, and have sold several pieces to art collectors all over the world. The average price for one of his paintings has shot up from a few hundred dollars to over one hundred thousand in just a few years."

I register the dollar amounts. Wow! They're in the stratosphere.

"That's amazing."

"Of course, I've been instrumental. I represent the estate."

Before I can respond, the waiter comes by again. At the sight of Kayla, his expression warms. His eyes light up. What a kiss-up.

"So good to see you again, Ms. Phillips. Will you be having your regular?"

"Yes, and please, Chad, bring my Bellini with the salad."

"Of course," says the server as I peruse the menu. Everything sounds delicious and I ultimately decide on a gourmet cheeseburger with fries. Nothing to drink. I'll stick to water.

As soon as the waiter dashes off with our orders, Kayla resumes our conversation. She obviously doesn't like to waste time.

"So, Finn, I must say I was very impressed by what I saw. And you are very prolific."

"Thanks," I say humbly.

"How long have you been painting?"

"I think I was born holding a paintbrush." My early years are ones I'd like to forget. I'm grateful she doesn't pursue them.

Instead, my attractive companion laughs. Her laugh is throaty. And sexy.

"And what about professionally?"

I sold my first painting at twelve. I peddled it outside the Midtown Tunnel. Manhattan. I'm thirty-two now. I quickly do the math in my head and answer, "About twenty years."

"That's quite a long time. Have you ever exhibited?"

"I sell on Etsy and have had friends come down to my studio. I also sell at the Fairfax Flea Market every Sunday."

"Seriously?" There's contempt in her voice. Haughtiness. Nervously, I take a sip of my water while she continues.

"Andy Warhol once said, ‘Making money is art.' He's right. You're totally wasting your time. You need to think big."

As I ponder her words, our waiter returns with our orders. A roasted beet and goat cheese salad along with a flute of peachy champagne for my companion and a cheeseburger with parsley fries for me. Kayla immediately takes a sip of her tinted bubbly.

"Are you sure you don't want one? The Fig makes the best Bellinis in Los Angeles."

I'm tempted but decline and instead take a couple more gulps of my water.

"Bon appétit," she chimes.

"Bon appétit," I repeat before biting into my burger. It's delicious. Perfectly grilled, medium rare the way I like it.

Kayla picks at her salad, her acid green eyes on my hands.

"Finn, you have extraordinary hands. I bet your long fingers are talented in more ways than one."

I almost choke on my next bite. Did she just hit on me? I falter for a response.

"I play the guitar and I'm very handy. I can fix just about anything."

A smug smile lifts the corners of her full red lips. "Oh, I bet you can."

Her eyes don't move. She notices the gold band on my ring finger.

"So, I see you're married."

"Yeah."

"Really? I didn't know that."

She's clearly not done a lot of digging about me. The truth is, not much comes up when you google me. Google my wife, however, and there are hundreds of entries and I'm mentioned in some.

"What does your wife do?"

"She's a news reporter... an investigative journalist for Conquest Broadcasting News."

She cocks her head. "Interesting. What's her name?"

"Skye Collins. She uses her maiden name."

"Well, I must say that was a wise decision. No one would take anyone with the last name Hooker seriously. Especially a newscaster." She rolls her eyes. "I've seen her on TV. Quite the in-your-face one."

I let the digs go. "Yeah, she's really passionate about what she does. And is really good at it."

"Like you." She pauses to take another sip of her sparkling beverage. "So, any children?"

"Yeah. One. We had a baby nine months ago... a girl."

Another eye roll. "Shame on me. I should have known better. I thought your wife was getting fat when she was in fact pregnant."

I'm taken aback by her words. They border on another insult, but I bite my tongue and say, "She carried very small. Hardly anyone knew she was pregnant. Plus, she never mentioned it on the air or took a maternity leave. She purposely low-keyed it."

"Whatever." To my relief, she changes the subject, refocusing on me. "So, Finn, have you ever had representation?"

"You mean like an agent or manager?"

Another pick at her greens. "Yes, exactly."

"No."

"Well, you should. You have untapped talent and I would like to be the one to see you reach your potential."

"Excuse me?"

"I know many collectors who will pay top dollar for your work. The marketplace right now supports emerging artists. Everyone wants to be the first to own someone new and fresh. Art on the edge. A gifted artist who will one day become legendary."

I set down my burger and digest her words. Is she saying what I think she's saying? On my next rapid heartbeat, my hunch is confirmed.

"Finn, I'd like to represent you."

"Wow!" The word flies out of my mouth.

"However, you must be open to reinvention."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll be honest with you. And you should know I never hold back."

My heart thuds in anticipation while she takes another sip of her Bellini.

"Your name... it's got to go. It will never sell paintings. You need something new... a memorable one with an artistic ring."

"What's wrong with Finn?"

"Ugh! Seriously? The first thing that comes to mind is that Huckleberry douche from that god awful book my sixth grade teacher forced on me."

I don't tell her that Huckleberry Finn was my childhood hero. A dreamer like me. And that coincidentally, Hooker was the last name of a wealthy woman he fabricated to save his slave friend Jim. Instead, I say, "It's short for Phineas."

"Phineas. I love it. It's so breathy and sexy!" She flashes another seductive smile. "Who is your favorite artist?"

So many names whirl around my head. Picasso . . . Chagall . . . Matisse . . . O'Keefe. Then, I blurt out another: Jackson Pollack.

Back to her drink, she scrunches her face in deep thought. Then, she puts the flute down and breaks into a triumphant smile. Her next words sail off her lips. "Phineas Jackson. It's perfect!"

I say the name to myself. Phineas Jackson . It does have a ring.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Wonderful. Now, with that little issue out of the way, let's talk business."

I let her talk away. I don't know the first thing about business. Maybe that's why I've never succeeded.

"It's a straight forward deal. I take a commission of twenty-five percent. I know it's a little higher than the standard, but I am not your standard agent." Narrowing her eyes, she shoots me a wry smile. "And may I add, not in any way. Daddy taught me you get what you pay for in life."

My pulse in overdrive, I'm still processing my incredibly good fortune to be repped by the best in the art world—wait till I tell Skye!—when a thickset, greasy-haired man swaggers up to us. Dressed like so many here, he sports a navy gabardine jacket over an open-collar white shirt and jeans. His paunch hangs over his belt, the shirt buttons straining. As he gets closer, his cloying cologne wafts up my nose, nauseating me a bit. I feel like I've met him before, but where? Kayla's eyes instantly light up at the sight of him. Leaping up from her seat, she gives him an effusive kiss on both jowly cheeks.

"Sheldon! How wonderful to see you. I missed you at Art Basel in Miami."

"Yeah, I had to miss it. Network shit." His voice is loud and gruff with a thick New York accent. "You see anything good?"

"To be honest, darling, same old, same old. No one set the world on fire though the parties were divine." She turns to me. "Oh, forgive me... Let me introduce you to one of the foremost collectors of contemporary art in the world... Sheldon Greenberg."

Sheldon Greenberg? The Sheldon Greenberg? The producer of all those crime shows I've watched on TV?

"Sheldon, I'd like you to meet Phineas Jackson . My newest client."

The meaty man doesn't offer his hand. He doesn't smile. Just a jut of his stubbly double chin and one throaty throwaway word: "Hey."

Kayla ignores his prickish behavior as I study him. His face is vaguely familiar. Again, I wonder—have I met him before? Seen his photo somewhere? With his expensive sunglasses perched on his large, balding head, could he possibly be the jerk who minutes ago almost ran me over? Before I can search my mind, my companion chimes in.

"Sheldon, you're going to cream your pants when you see his work. There's absolutely nothing like it out there anywhere."

"I'm ready, sweetheart. Call me anytime."

"Trust me, Sheldon, Phineas is going to set the art world on fire."

I suddenly want a Bellini to quench the burn in my chest. One of my favorite Springsteen songs spins in my head.

"I'm on Fire."