A Brilliant Plan

Chapter 5

RON AND I drove downtown in his unmarked Ford Crown Victoria; the type that you always mark as a 'police car.' The first minutes we rode in silence, the police radio sporadically crackling incomprehensibly and the computer console between us beeping intermittently. He knew the way. I did, too.

"Want to use siren and lights?" He asked suddenly.

I sat up startled. "Excuse me? Isn't that at your discretion? Is it that urgent?"

Ron gave a laugh; he had a nice laugh indeed. "No, it is just that sometimes civilians riding in a police car have the strangest wishes. Like touching the gun. Or driving through the traffic with sirens and flashing lights."

"What a pickup line!" I had to laugh. Calendar, do be careful of Freudian slips. "No, sorry, no such wish. I never wanted to become a policeman or a fireman. My parents raised me with a solid ounce of doubt against all types of authorities. Not that I don't trust you, but my parents used to shower in your tear gas."

"That rubs off. But you are different. We are talking expensive stuff, jewels, diamonds, gold... "

"Yes, I became something of an artist. Some may say an artisan. But the money isn't what drove me. For me, it is the fascination with the material itself. Rare, beautiful and passionate. I want to translate that longing into something special."

"You create it just for museums or for John Doe, too?"

I gave him a laugh. "It is for the rich John Does of this world, the ones who are willing to pay the price. The museums will display me when I am dead and famous, no Sir, no money there. Museums are more for the ego and a certain degree of fame, like my stuff is on display in the Amsterdam Museum of Royal Art."

"They are?" Then, slightly confused, "since when is Amsterdam in England?"

Now he had me confused. "Amsterdam is the capital of the Netherlands. Not England."

"Amsterdam is neither the capital of England nor the Netherlands," he answered.

"I thought that a Royal Museum must be where the royals live. And don't they always live in the capital city of a state?"

"Ahh, so the Netherlands is a kingdom, too." Brilliantly delivered.

This guy was too good to be true. I had a laughing fit, pounding the dashboard.

"So you are really a museum piece?"

"Yup. There was a competition for a royal set for the inauguration. Not the crown, which was handed down from King Mom, but a ring and a scepter. I participated and won. Some years back."

Ron was impressed. "You must be good then."

"I am." We were almost at the gallery but I looked straight ahead not giving anything away.

As we passed the gallery, he gave me a look-over from the corner of his eyes. I didn't even change breathing; we all have our tricks up the sleeves. After a minute, he realized his 'error,' gave a small phony curse, did an illegal U-turn at the next light and headed back.

The Altward Gallery resided in one of the poshest locations in San Diego's Downtown district, the Gaslamp Quarter. On that particular stretch, all of the high-price boutiques and high-class galleries competed for the swipe of the customer's platinum AMEX. If I had opened my shop in San Diego instead of Redondo Beach, this would have been my location, too.

The gallery offered about sixty feet of prime retail window front on the first floor, topped by a second floor of equal grandeur. The shop sign offered only an understated but absolute tag line "Altward Fine Arts." The heavy and polished ground floor blinds were closed. The second floor windows were unshielded, featuring extra thick glass for the displays that held larger showpieces such as gold statues, helmets, jewelry-covered boxes and one large gold chain that would have fit on any gangster rapper's thick neck. Quality stuff that impresses rich collectors. Exactly the point the gallery owner tried to make.