Page 56 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

She shrugged. “The way that the Gallery owner spoke about them. I don’t know. I could be full of shit.”

“I still don't see how this apparent dead-end is going to lead us to finding the portrait.”

“It’s a place to start.” Jack sat back in the chair. “One of the things that makes me so damn good at my job is my ability to network and form connections.”

“And you’re modest too.”

“What’s the point of modesty when you’re this good at what you do? My point is, I have feelers out in the artistic community. SOMEBODY out there knows who El Vampiro really was, and how his next of kin is.”

I nodded. “So, all hope is not lost.”

“All hope is never lost. Not with yours truly on the case.”

“Do you know where I can find this Yours Truly and hire her?”

“Haha.” She glared. “You’ve got a little pep in your step today, Mason. Your eyes look alive, instead of being windows into the dead soul of a venture capitalist.”

“You’re every bit the capitalist that I am. Or should I say hustler?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I meant it as a compliment.”

“How?”

“Never mind that.” She stood up and examined me more closely. “You’re relaxed, no tension in your shoulders… but there are dark circles under your eyes. I’d say that you spent the night with someone special, and that’s why you’re not throwing things in frustration that I couldn’t find that portrait yet.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you done?”

She grinned ear to ear. “That’s a yes. All right, boss man. I’m about to blow this pop stand, check on some of those irons I have in the fire on your behalf.”

“Thanks, Jack. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you’re working as fast as you can.”

“See? There you go being all nice again.” She shook her head. “She must have a magic pussy.”

I choked on my wheatgrass latte as she grinned and made her exit. Jack was going to be Jack, no matter what.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Megan

Being an artist is a tough life. When you’re on the outside, it looks like it’s so easy. Set up an easel in a park, paint the picture, sell for money. Lather, rinse, repeat.

People think artists are these lackadaisical free spirits who spend all their time creating art or musing over blades of grass—when they’re not attending Avantgarde parties frequented by celebrities and politicians.

In reality, I worked my ass off to make a living off my art. The fact of the matter is, selling paintings just isn’t much of a moneymaker when it comes down to it. The time and money and materials invested in the process often make it a break-even prospect at best. This is why original oil paintings are priced so highly. The artist is trying to recoup their investment and maybe make enough money to keep the lights on and buy a box of mac and cheese.

So I didn’t just sell my physical paintings. I sold prints of them, usually online through different websites like Etsy. The competition is fierce—there are literally millions of artists trying to see their stuff online, and the website algorithms reward mediocrity. If you don’t believe me, just let me say two words. Addison Rae.

Still, if you’re both persistent and prolific, you can gain a revenue stream from online print sales. I had yet to see my work plastered on a coffee mug or a shirt in my public life, but I apparently sold some of those items online.

Since I wasn’t actually manufacturing the mug or the shirt, or packing them up and sending them, I only received a royalty commission of fifteen percent. On a six-dollar coffee mug, that’s not much, so you can’t live off online work alone.

But wait, there’s more! You can also do commercial art, i.e. art created solely for the purpose of selling something or making money. When I painted the art for a collectible card game I was tapping into that revenue stream. The only problem is those corporate clients are picky, fickle, and don’t understand why you just can’t paint what they see in their heads.

Then, there’s the biggest crapshoot in the game, which is setting up somewhere in the subway or the park and trying to sell your work directly to the public. You might sell a dozen paintings on a good day. But usually, you wouldn’t sell anything at all. Worse, you technically have to have a license to sell things on the street—an expensive license with all kinds of conditions and caveats to make it next to worthless.

The cops will chase you off, or worse, write you a ticket. In extreme cases, I’ve heard of artists being arrested or even being forced to destroy their own work.

So there was a lot more to it than just painting a picture and slapping a price tag on it.

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