Page 68 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

I’d never met or even heard of a Brian Schrauth, but then again, half of Megan’s crew tended to use pseudonyms, like Junebug. For all I knew it was one of them.

I couldn’t think of Megan hanging out with anyone so apparently shallow and despicable, however.

“I’ll go talk to this gallery owner myself tomorrow,” I said. “Nice work, Jack. I’ll arrange for a bonus to your usual stipend.”

“Aw, shucks, Boss Man. You’re the best. I have to go and talk to Stan the Man about my monthly cycle.”

“He hates that.”

“I know he does,” she said. “I know.”

We both laughed and I packed it in for the day. I texted Megan when I got home, but she was apparently already asleep. Which stood to reason considering it was after one in the morning.

When I woke up the next day, I put on my power suit, with a dark red tie and my best cufflinks. I got a shoeshine ahead of time. If this Brian Schrauth were anything like I thought he was going to be, those sorts of things would impress him.

I arrived at the Schrauth Gallery and found it surprisingly well-appointed despite its small size. I knew plenty of movers and shakers in the city who favor intimate venues like that one. I was shown to the second-story office by a secretary in a tight skirt who was barely eighteen if she were a day.

“Mr. Schrauth?” She said, knocking on his door. “You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?”

“He says his name is Mason Wilder.”

A sudden gasp, the approach of footsteps, and then the door flew open. I looked down, way down at the diminutive redhead standing before me. He wore a cheap pleather jacket over a loud Hawaiian shirt. His sculpted goatee was at least ten years out of style, and the beer belly he sported spilled over the top of skinny jeans he really couldn’t pull off.

“THE Mason Wilder, you mean!” He shot his hand out for a shake. “The pleasure is all mine, sir.”

“Mr. Schrauth, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I’m just a peon compared to you. You’re a legend, man.”

He clapped his hands, green eyes bright with cunning. Low animal cunning, since he obviously wasn’t all that intelligent.

“So, come on into my office and we can talk business.”

I frowned. “You know why I’m here?”

“Sure I do. You’re a top-tier investor, one of the most legendary in the business. And you know a good thing when you see it. We can talk all about how you’d like to invest in my gallery over an espresso. Do you like mocha?”

“I’m fine, thanks. And I’m afraid I’m not here to invest in your gallery, Mr. Schrauth, charming though it is.”

“Oh.” His smile faded. “I see. Well, then what is it I can help you with? Would you like tickets to my grand opening gala? Only fifty dollars per person, or seventy-five for a pair.”

“I might take you up on that,” I said. “But I came here today to talk about the portrait in the lobby, the one of the man in front of a car. I’d like to purchase it.”

“Great, there should be a price tag on it.”

“There isn't a price tag in this case. I’m worried that the owner doesn’t want to sell or can’t sell it for some reason.”

“Say no more. I’ll get you that painting my friend.”

My eyes narrowed. “It’s very important that the decision to sell be made by the owner, and no one else. With no undue pressure applied.”

“Hey, I’m not going to pressure anybody. I promise. I’m just going to be the middleman, that’s all. But I’m telling you man, that pic is as good as yours. I could sell ketchup-flavored ice cream to a woman in a white dress. I’ll talk the owner into selling.”

I gave him a nod, then handed over my business card. “Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

“Will do, Mr. Wilder. Will do.”

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