Page 95 of Family Affair
“Still, never heard of you.”
“Understandable. But I would like to think you will.”
“Oh?” He turned then, pinning the reporter with his heavy stare. “Don’t get your hopes high, man.”
The reporter’s smile revealed yellow, widely spaced teeth. He looked in a dire need of a dentist reference.
“When did you start painting, Frank?”
“I don’t paint,” he replied smoothly.
“Have you had formal training?”
“Yes. In ping-pong.”
“Does Abe Collins know that some of his most high-end works here are actually fake?”
“Are you an art appraiser, too?” Frank rounded up on him.
“No, but I do a lot of research in my line of work. And I am very good at research.”
“Good. Research this: Georgia Code Title 16, Criminal Trespass. This is a private property, and you aren’t welcome.”
Stevie raised his hands in surrender. “Why so defensive? And I was invited.”
“You’re lying. Only affiliated reporters were invited.”
Stevie chuckled and lowered his hands. “You are sharp, never mind you look like a bozo. The infamous Frank Sheffield.”
His head was killing him, and this Stevie guy was making the pain substantially worse. “If you know of me, you must’ve heard that I hit first and ask questions second.”
“Why do we have to get to the gutter level? You’ll get arrested if you hit me,” Stevie warned, clearly aware of Frank’s multiple public brawling incidents.
“Jail time doesn’t scare me.”
“Prison time will. That Yosemite Valley is yours. As are the two local wonders by purported ethnic artists. And this Jackson Pollock improvisation. I admit, it’s by far my favorite. I am looking to buy it for my research.”
He may be in the throes of withdrawal, but there was nothing wrong with Frank’s poker face.
“You know what, Stevie?” He looked at his greasy hair, at a bandana tied around his forehead. “The sixties called. They want their hippy hair back.”
He upchucked Stevie on his sparsely haired chin and moved away.
It had been a long time coming, but finally things started getting out of hand. What the fuck were Ward and Father thinking? Why did they start inviting the media? The money alone was not enough? Now they wanted to flaunt it, show that they, too, could do good, cement their benefactor status in high society.
They had to stop, all of them, or the Stevie Starks of the journalism world would descend on them like vultures on a rotting carcass and rip them to shreds, piece by piece. And they would be right.
It had always been a matter of time. And he was afraid that tonight, the end had started.
He was so distracted that he missed the reappearance of the nice-looking lady with teeth by his side.
“Why so gloomy, Frankie?”
“Just… a lot going on.”
“Aw, I’m so sorry. How can I cheer you up tonight?”
How? To hell with it.
