Page 1 of Dirty Dealer
1
Jude
“You’re the best.” My client says, signing with a mixture of relief and awe. He’s not stroking my ego or sucking up either.
Iamthe best. It’s a fact, and people don’t pay me for my humility. “Did you doubt me for a second?” I say toward the Bluetooth mic and signal before maneuvering my car around a truck. It’s too beautiful of a morning to be stuck staring at a back bumper for the next mile.
“Maybe, but I shouldn’t have. Seriously. Saved my ass on this one.” He swears under his breath before his deep chuckle fills the line. Satisfaction. Joy. It’s as clear in his laughter as it is his next words. “I don’t know how you do it, man, but damn am I grateful. I called everywhere. I had my assistant calling every single breeder in the state of California.”
“You know I take care of you.” A genuine smile works its way on my lips, and regardless of what a total pain it was to track down his thirteen-year-old’s only birthday wish list item—a pair of teacup terrier puppies, available and ready to leave their mother in a matter of days—I’m happy I could come through. After all, it’s how I’ve built my business.
“And they’ll be here Wednesday? I want to surprise her the moment she walks in after school.”
“I’m delivering the little rascals myself. Pups will be there in time. Promise.”
“I’ll be working from my home office all day. She leaves for school at eight, so any time after is fine.” We’ve already worked out the details, but clients tend to reiterate them, and I get it. This is important to him. It’s personal.
“They’ll be there. You have my word.”
After ending the call, I lower the windows and inhale the cool, salty air. This mid-morning hour provides a rare and peaceful moment to cruise down the coast without weekend beachgoers clogging the road. I’m on the way to one of my favorite suppliers, at the request of a client, but this doesn’t feel like work at all. In fact, the only thing that could make it better would be someone to share this moment. I glance at the empty passenger seat—the perpetuallyemptyseat—then shake off the idiotic longing. I’m where I am right now because of my tenacity for business and my sheer stubbornness to prove everyone wrong.
Maybe not everyone. No, I’ll never live up to my father’s standards.
Not that I care what he thinks.
I am living my best life. This ismydream. I enjoy the challenge of waking up each day to hunt down the next treasure to suit a client’s need. To some I may resemble an overpaid errand boy, but they have no idea how difficult it is to find a signed first edition ofDraculasomeone is willing to part with.
I’m the dealer my rich and famous friends call when they need . . . anything. Antique set of vintage China your great-grandmother used to serve Sunday dinner with? I’ve got it. A ’56 Aston Martin? I’ll find it. Original display art made one hundred percent from repurposed and recycled items.I know a guy.In fact, that’s exactly what has me headed to Hermosa Beach.
One of my best clients likes to commission artwork for her high-end hotels, designed specifically to fit each décor, and after she explained what she wanted for her new Malibu location, I knew a Chance Bateman original would be the perfect fit. He’s about halfway through the finished product, and since Darlene Sheehan asked for an update, I thought I’d drive to see it for myself. That, and after working with Chance on over a dozen projects this last year, I consider him as much a friend as colleague.
I pull up to the curb of his bungalow, a view of the beach in the near distance. Chance enjoys gardening—hence the immaculate yard—and I find him outside digging through dirt and flowers. I step from my Bugatti and shut the door before making my way up the drive.
Chance notices my approach, pulls the gloves from his hands, and meets me halfway. “Hey, Jude.” He lifts a hand and sings his greeting in tune to the iconic song.
It’s only the thousandth time someone’s said hello this way, but because Chance Bateman is a friend, I don’t have to play polite. I flash a sarcastic smirk. “Never heard that one before.”
He chuckles and clasps me across the back. “How the hell are you, mate?”
“Can’t complain.”
He nods toward the house. “Beer? I have a few growlers from that brewery I told you about last time you drove down.”
“You know I can’t say no to that.” I follow him inside to the kitchen. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
“I grew up in Oz, so your rules of propriety don’t apply.” Chance spent so many years in Australia his accent stuck, along with the belief that any time is a good time for drinks. He pulls the beer from the fridge, filling two glasses before handing one over. He nods for me to follow him out back to his studio—a converted detached garage that allows him space to make a mess—or art, as he calls it. Right now the object in question looks more like a hunk of junk, but I’ve no doubt in a matter of weeks it’ll be show-stopping.
“So what do you think?”
Before me is the bones of what looks to be three headless mermaids—sunning themselves on the hood of an old Impala. At least that’s the only item of value I spot amongst the art piece as it stands. “Why don’t they have heads?”
“They will.” Chance points to one of the headless creatures. “I decided to use plastic water bottles for the hair. It’s a process melting them down and then shredding the material to resemble hair, but I think I’m on the right path. That, and collecting enough cans and metal bottle caps to get the scales right.”
I nod, noticing now how the mermaid tails will glint and shine in the full light. Chance is brilliant, though I don’t inflate his ego by telling him so. Only an artist would be able to take all this trash and turn it into something beautiful.
“Aubrey and I walk the beach in the morning and collect what’s washed up, but it’s slow going.”
“If scheduling is a problem, get a few cases of water and soda from the store and empty them down the drain?”
