Page 25 of Alpha Bait

"Sort of. We'll get a bunch of artists to come. Like a gallery show."

"Know any artists?" My brother asked skeptically.

"Yes! Remember when I worked for Mr. Biggs? We curated some of his collections. I have some of the top art dealers in Manhattan on speed dial."

"Perfect. Let's do it."

"See? We can agree on something," I said to my brother with a smile.

"I can toast to that."

We clinked glasses together and within a few days, we had artists, a guest list of 400 and a venue. Before the party, I volunteered to drive into the city to meet with two of our best artists and select pieces from their uptown galleries for the show.

I hit Tatiana Rubenstein's gallery first. She was a short, biracial artist with one blue eye and one brown one and a splattering of freckles across her face. Tatiana's gallery wasn't busy, so we made quick work of her pieces. Her modern art on lesbian identity and gender dysphoria had been raging in the art world recently and I knew a few friends on the corporate scene who would have killed to get a hand on one of her pieces.

After Tatiana's, I had to find my way to Ken Grant's gallery. I didn't know Ken personally but he'd gone to Princeton with Jamal and the two maintained a business relationship for years. Ken's gallery should have been three blocks over from Tatiana's but when I arrived there, the doors were boarded up with a tiny sign with lettering that had been washing off by one of the spring rains.

I huffed and called Jamal.

"Jamal! Where the hell is Ken's gallery."

He read off the address where I stood.

"Uh huh... I'm there and he isn't."

"One sec..."

"You better not be playing with me..."

"I'm not. Shit. It's all the way in Tribeca. I just saw in my email that he moved. I'm sorry. You don't have to go today if you don't want to."

"No I came all the way out to Manhattan and Ken deserves to sell a couple paintings."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Tell my assistant I'll be back tomorrow. I think I'll just overnight in the city."

"Okay. I'll get you a room at the Ritz."

"Thank you, Jamal."

"See you tomorrow."

Jamal kept together so many details at once, it wasn't shocking one had slipped through the cracks. I'd foolishly opted to drive myself into the city rather than getting a driver, so I sat in traffic for two hours to cross Manhattan. By the time I found street parking near Ken's gallery, I couldn't wait to get to my hotel room.

I opened the door to Ken's and noticed a few people milling around his large installations. A black woman with a giant afro approached me.

"Hi there, welcome to Grant's Gallery. Can I get you anything? We have champagne, red wine, cappuccinos, and water."

"May I have a cappuccino dear? And do you mind telling Ken that Indie's here."

The woman gasped, "Indie Holloway?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Oh my goodness! I watched your talk on black women in business last year and I loved it."

"Thank you," I replied, "I'm glad that it meant something to you."

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