Firecracker

“Claude? Where’ve you been this whole time?” Salome cries out, as she spots me hanging by the railing.

She is, as usual, wearing something both form-fitting and fashionable, surrounded by half-a-dozen hanger-ons who’ve been lavishing attention onto her from the opening of this exhibition.

“I’ve been talking to a couple people,” I say. “Say, remember J, the journalist I was telling you about? NYT Arts?”

“She sounded nice,” Salome says, nodding her head.

“Well, she’s here to cover your exhibition,” I say. “You might want to talk to her at some point today, get in a good word for yourself.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Salome smiles. “You’re always on top of everything.” She turns to two of the men hanging by her side, sharply dressed guys with matching red bowties, and makes their introduction to me. “And this is Claude, the man who I was telling you so much about,” she says, turning to face me.

“We’ve heard an awful lot about you,” the one on the left says, bobbing his head rapidly as he speaks.

“Yes, you must be world famous from that livestream with Scarlet,” the other says. “Simply remarkable!"

“Yes, yes, I watched that one with great interest,” the first one says. “I was there as you killed ‘em, cheering you on!”

Tactless men.

“I was just in the right place at the right time,” I tell them, and I see Salome opening her mouth to speak. “Salome, what’s been on your mind?”

“I just wanted to thank you!” she laughs, giving me a quick hug. She turns to face the bow-tie men and the other hanger-ons. “I never thought that I’d be getting my art on display so quickly. And such a prestigious gallery, too! It never could have happened without Claude’s guidance. ”

“I merely nudged Salome in the right direction, gave her a few pointers,” I say humbly. “All of the talent resides in the woman before you.”

“The paintings are superb,” one of the ladies next to her says, grabbing onto Salome’s arm. “I love the way you’ve arranged the colors in that one, so dramatic! So dynamic! So… original!”

She’s pointing at the Rothko.

“You think so?” I ask her in a flat voice.

She nods, excited.

“And what a great tutor you must be, to let her take such a bold step on her own! Only three colors, all in blocks… oh, how much are you selling it for?” she asks.

Salome and I exchange glances. We both know that there is nothing particularly notable about that painting. It was meant to be a study, nothing more, but what Holly has done…

“I haven’t thought too much about selling my works,” Salome laughs. “But get in touch with Holly! I’m sure we can work out a fair price.”

“Great! I must have this painting for the new exercise room,” the woman says. “And you know, I’d be willing to pay a little extra to secure it from any other potential buyers…”

“I appreciate that, Laura,” Salome smiles.

“It’s been great talking to all of you,” I say, excusing myself from the conversation with a brusque wave.

I could put up with these sycophants if I thought there was something I could get out of them, but these fools are second-tier frauds who can’t even tell that Salome’s paintings aren’t worth jackshit. Either that, or they’re so **** for a taste of that Najbreit name that they’re willing to make fools of themselves for the smallest chance at recognition. Neither is an attractive prospect.

Down the stairs I go, searching for a particular figure, when I spot Elianne standing alone before one of Salome’s paintings. This is the one with the rabbit pawprints streaked across its surface. The first painting we ever made together.

“Where’s your mother gone?” I ask Elianne.

I was secretly hoping to catch the two of them arguing. Maybe I could have found something to use against Holly that way.

“I don’t know,” Elianne shrugs, flashing me a mischievous smile.

“You’re a sharp girl,” I say, drawing up beside her to look over the painting as well. “I think you’ve kept good track of where she is.”

Elianne pauses, looking me up and down, seeming to casually undress me with her eyes. A chill runs down my spine. So little effort, for such a dramatic impact. She takes after Father that way.

“Holly left the building,” Elianne says. “I don’t know where she is now.”

We both stare at the painting in silence, continuing to size each other up out of the corners of our eyes. I note her sensual curves, the humour in her half-smile, and then the way she suddenly grabs my arm.

“He’s behind us right now,” she whispers. “The one that you’re looking for.”

“Who?” I ask, though I too know who she’s talking about.

What’s scary is how she knew he was the one I’ve been trying to talk to.

“Morton,” she says, her voice so quiet I could mistake it for the wind.

“What makes you think that I—“ I begin saying in a regular volume, when Elianne simply squeezes my arm and turns around, a bright smile on her face.

“Mr. Morton!” she calls out, grabbing his attention instantly.

The man is old, in his mid-seventies, and sports a singular tuft of hair that would look pathetic on virtually anyone else. But despite his age, he is still bulky and imposing, a searing red tie and stubby fingers cooly clasped around each other completing the image of a statesman still in his prime.

“This is Claude Ashworth, the man that I’ve told you so much about,” she says, presenting my hand to him. We shake. “And Claude, of course, you know him already, but this is Clark Morton, Chair of the RNC.”

“I was impressed with how you handled affairs down in Colombia,” Mr. Morton tells me, his voice low and booming. “You did much better than most of my operatives, and I’m not just talking about the ****.”

I glance at Elianne, trying to put together the pieces and not blow this singular opportunity that she’s handed me. What has she told him? And… she’s on regular speaking terms with the Chair of the RNC? How did that happen? Why was she telling him about me?

“I can’t take credit for everything that happened down there, but—” my voice gets cut off by his.

“But you ran circles around that government. She told me the parts of the strategy you came up with,” he says, smiling at Elianne. Then, he leans up close and whispers in my ear. “You were willing to fight dirty. I like that.”

“Anything to win, sir,” I reply.

“Small wonder your family took him in,” Morton tells Elianne. “He fits right in with you lot.”

“That he does,” Elianne laughs. She glances to the side and catches the eye of Isaac Seligman, hanging by the exit. “I’ll let you two men talk. I’ve got another billion to chase.”

“She’s a real firecracker, isn’t she?” Morton chuckles, watching as Elianne scoops up Isaac by the arm, the two of them heading out the gallery and into the night.

“Never seen another like her,” I admit.

Then, I notice that he’s still staring at her… is he checking out her ass? Mr. Morton nods to himself, and then places a hand on my shoulder.

“Sonny,” he says, his voice dropped an octave down, “how much of a gentleman are you?”