The Art Broker

By Brian Hamm

Las Vegas art broker and reformed rebel Jonah Devine hasn’t necessarily had an easy life, but his luck is about to change—or so he thinks.

Working the Strip’s upper tier, Jonah’s quickly getting a taste for the flashy lifestyle of a Vegas whale and is starting to forget that there is a very distinct line separating him from his high-end clients.

Cassie, on the other hand, has no misconceptions about her place in life. A runaway teen, she just wants to survive from one day to the next—which often seems like an errant hope.

On the way to celebrating a career victory, Jonah witnesses Cassie being accosted and rescues her. But his good deed during a seemingly chance encounter sets off a chain reaction that may undo everything Jonah’s worked for—and tugs at a web of deceit that will unravel his past as well as his future.

When you discover you’re a pawn, what’s your next move?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Hamm
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990744412

Brian Hamm

Las Vegas native Brian Hamm graduated from The University of Texas at Austin. The art consultant and author lives in Southern California. To learn more, visit www.brianhamm.com.

Book preview

1

MONDAY DUSK

Jonah Devine saw the young woman in a knit cap and ratty cutoff jeans run across the rubble of a demolished cinder-block building. She traversed the ruins, kicking up garbage and dirt with each stride until the man chasing her grabbed her shirt collar and yanked upward, noosing her neck.

Leaving his warehouse unlocked, Devine dropped a crated Minton vase in the back of his Ford truck and drove after her with tires smoking. The only other driver on the road, a man in the oncoming lane, didn’t seem to have noticed anything. As usual at dusk, this off-street between downtown Las Vegas and the Strip had cleared out. Nothing occupied this lost land through the night but vacant industrial buildings, crack and heroin dealers, and hookers too strung out to be employed by escort services.

But something wasn’t right about this woman being down here. The closer Devine drew to her, the younger and more frail she looked. He fumbled for his cell to call help as the attacker spun her around by her scrawny arm. The Latin-looking man had about 180 pounds on her, and his fist looked as big as her face when he punched it. Her head twisted sideways and her neck seemed to lose any ability to support it.

Why the hell wasn’t 911 answering?

The son of a bitch hit her in the gut. Her knees gave way and she fell to the ground. Devine tossed the cell and yanked the steering wheel. The truck jumped the curb, and the vase launched from the truck bed.

The scumbag lifted her, but she held a rock in her hand and smacked his eye socket. She twisted from his arms, falling to the ground, and started crawling away. The thug turned just in time to see the truck skid into him. His gargantuan body flew a few feet into the air, crashed onto the white hood, then slid off.

The woman, crouched and gasping, struggled to rise on her skinny legs. Devine ran around to the front of the truck and ... hesitated. This guy was huge.

The man, with black prison tats up his arms and around his neck, scrabbled to a sitting position in the oily grime and glared up. Bizarrely, when he held up his hand defensively, his fingertips were caked in dried blood.

Devine stepped forward and whipped his foot through the air. His boot plowed through the man’s fingers, striking his cheekbone. A tooth soared from his mouth in a string of blood, and he fell back against the asphalt.

Without Devine at the wheel, his truck engine roared and the tires squealed. Cursing all the way, he spun around and ran toward the truck. At twenty-eight years old he had the body of a sprinter, though, he never knew he would need it to chase down his vehicle.

The truck screeched to a stop in the middle of the street.

Get in, Jonah. Please, she shouted. He’s got a gun.

She knew his name? Devine stood motionless.

Hurry, Jonah. Please.

The man lifted his back off the blacktop, wobbled for a moment like a baby, and reached around into his waistband. Devine leapt into the truck. She smacked the shifter into drive and accelerated down the street.

Her curly hair, hanging from beneath the cap, was dyed bright red. She had blue eyes and a mild case of acne. This wasn’t a grown woman; it was a young teen.

How did you know my name? Devine said.

If I tell you what I know, will you give me money to get out of town?

Right now we need the police.

They’re coming for you. You need to help me.

Who the hell are you talking about?

With a trembling lower lip, she said, She’s evil.

You’ve lost me. Who—

Bullets seared through the truck. Shattered glass flew throughout. The truck whipped around the corner, then did a loop, popped over the curb, and careened sideways into a radio station billboard on the back of an unhitched trailer. Devine launched diagonally into the glass over the steering wheel, impeding her from reaching the shifter to put it in reverse. She swung the door open and took off running.

Distracted by checking his forehead for blood, he grasped late for her body. Wait.

He moved into the driver’s seat and maneuvered the truck away from the tangled advertisement. With the attacker gone and he largely unhurt, he dialed the police and searched for the girl. After he circled the block twice, it hit him. He’d lost her.

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At the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, in a building not four years old, and in a large room with wall-to-wall windows on one side and city work regulation documents, internal memos, and wanted posters on the other, Devine sat between two cluttered desks as if they were bookends holding him up.

Deputy Chief Frank Pisani, his godfather, leaned against one, his broad shoulders pulled in by his folded arms on his otherwise medium-sized frame.

Another cop, Detective Langley, whom Devine knew all too well, said, What I don’t get is how she would know to go to your warehouse?

That was my first office location; probably still on the Internet.

Sounds as if this is a vice case rather than a violent crime one. The detective leaned back, pushing out his barrel chest and belly, then came forward and peered into Devine’s eyes. Were you soliciting her for sex?

I wasn’t living out your fantasies, Langley.

That’s Detective Langley to you, you prick.

He saved the girl and rearranged the guy's teeth, Deputy Chief Frank Pisani said in a New York accent. Write it up.

Devine looked up at the wall clock, and shook his head. His black stubble beneath a Greek nose on a tan oblong face was rough to the touch, and the South by Southwest T-shirt and frayed-at-the-heels jeans on his six-one, sinewy frame needed to be changed. I did what I could. I have a dented hood and bullet holes in my truck to prove it.

Better than what we could've done to him, Pisani said. 

She was just a crack whore, Detective Langley said. Which is why I’m sure you picked her up. Probably pissed off her pimp.

Cassie isn’t a crack whore. A woman, late twenties, with salon-cut, wavy brown hair, high-cheek bones and wide-mouth, walked up wearing a well-tailored suit jacket and skirt. She’s a fourteen-year-old girl who needs help.

Pisani gestured to her. Jonah, this is Michelle Erickson. She’s been working with us on teen runaways, so I emailed her your sketch.

Giving them free legal advice, Detective Langley said. Making our jobs more difficult.

Devine said to her, Any idea who this woman is she referred to?

Have you ever used a prostitute?

Never.

Cassie’s madam is a woman named Athena, and she’s a violent mess. Could there be any reason why Athena would harm you or set you up? Could she have something on you?

I know you don’t know me, and I hate to sound like a Pope light, but I’ve never slept with a hooker or been to a brothel. And no one has anything on me.

Devine’s cell rang. He glanced at the number display—his associate.

Go change your clothes, and get to Orient Beach, Pisani said. It’s your big night. I’ll keep you posted.

Devine glanced again at the sketches he’d made of the assailant and the girl. Call me tonight if you find out anything. Same with you, Michelle.

Watch where you hang out, Detective Langley said, his eyes narrowing.

Devine walked out of the office with Michelle.

I’m sorry if I sounded suspicious, she said. It’s a little hard to trust people in this city.

Devine gave a half-nod.

Pisani walked up and handed him an ASP baton. Police used the retractable steel weapon, less than eight-inches closed, as a non-lethal instrument. Some added protection.

What I need is a gun.

I’ll see what I can do. But at least keep this in your car.

Devine took the ASP baton and turned to Michelle. Cassie seemed sincere, and I wish I could’ve helped. But let me reassure you, I have nothing to do with that world.

2

MONDAY NIGHT

Devine strode through the gaming area of Orient Beach Resort & Casino, through the discordant sounds of brassy chatter and the electronic clanking that mimicked silver dollars spilling into slot bins. The hand-painted ceiling depicting a Caribbean night sky encircled by a thatched eave gave him no comfort. Wearing a Tom Ford indigo-blue suit, he pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves, unsticking the dress shirt from his underarms, and wet his lips so he could attempt a smile.

A security guard held open the gold-mirrored door to the express elevator that served one of the two penthouses. Hosni Moneir stepped in after him. Devine’s shoulders drooped. He was as interested in discussing past-due accounts with a three-hundred-pound Egyptian as he was in getting grilled by a detective.

Hosni had perfectly sheared short black hair, leaving tiny bangs curving his large forehead, and a bass-like mouth that distorted his face when he spoke. Any chance I’m going to be glad to see you?

Try to have fun, Hosni. It’s not every night there’s a VIP party to celebrate our work.

I’m supposed to celebrate a financial black hole?

We’ll talk tomorrow.

You can’t keep putting it off. You gave this place way too much credit. And I’m one vendor who’s cutting your ass off.

Look, Hosni, let me deal with Peter Colton. You just worry about how you’re going to handle all the new business I’ll be sending you. Because I know this for a fact, when something’s hot, money flows to it.

A chime sounded and the doors slid open.

That’s great news for me, Hosni said. "Because if you don’t pay me by Friday, I’ll seize everything your company owns, and you’ll start working for me at my hot new studio. He stepped into the penthouse. And Devine, my janitor will be making more than you." He lumbered off.

Devine paused in the vestibule amid the murmur of party conversation, blew out a breath, and ran his fingers through the crown of his tousled black hair, dried by the 105-degree heat outside. He entered the coffered-ceiling hallway, passed by a stone frieze fragment portraying a bountiful harvest, and stepped onto the grand salon’s French limestone flooring. He hoped Hosni hadn’t brought a chisel to take it back.

An expensively dressed group of about forty people mingled in the room. He cut through them until he heard …

Here’s Jonah. Christine Bonner, his thirty-two-year-old director of interior design, wearing a silver jacket in printed Mikado, took two long strides up to him and kissed his cheek. She pushed her collarbone-skimming blonde bob over her ears and whispered, Didn’t get the memo? It’s a client party, work night. Not a fashionably late, drink till dawn night.

Something horrible ... Devine couldn’t put it into words. I’m sorry I’m late.

Tonight we need the charm and the pearly whites. Please, pull it together.

After a brief introduction to a famed restaurateur, Christine led Devine away. "You had two magazine interviews lined up earlier tonight, ARTnews and Interior Design. I sold us as best as I could. And Peter Colton wants to see you on the sundeck. She pulled him closer. He’s in a great mood; a whale already checked into the other penthouse. It’s happening, Jonah. We’re going big."

In the atrium in front of the sundeck, Mrs. Covatta, art collector and Las Vegas power broker, offered him a cheek to kiss. Spectacular work. This penthouse reeks of money.

Now if only my bank account would. Devine waved off a waiter with a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops.

Mrs. Covatta had a golden mane, alive from blow-dry bar visits, and fine lines around her thin lips and hazel eyes, seeming to distinguish her from those less wise. Might a woman who built a construction giant make a suggestion to her ally in the arts?

Fire away. Everyone else is.

Hone your political skills.

Devine’s eyebrows rose.

You’ve been loyal to a select few. One, really. She looked out to the sundeck, where Peter Colton stood. But don’t let that loyalty dictate your future. Because as boring as the winner will be, its coffers will be enormous.

I’m always looking for new business.

Mrs. Covatta said, I’ll arrange some introductions. A man with your talents shouldn’t be splashing around where only children play.

The arm floaties were getting embarrassing. Devine gently squeezed her hand. I’m wanted outside. Let’s meet for brunch. I have a work of art you’ll want to see.

On the balcony overlooking the Strip, Peter Colton, silver-haired and broad in face and chest, charmed his guests with tales of old Las Vegas.

That’s when I used to carry a revolver in my downtown casino. Learned while running bingo parlors down south in the late seventies that it helps keep away the cheats and attracts the beautiful ladies.

And legend has it, Devine said to the group, his large physique was shaped by hugging every female patron who had visited the place—more likely, though, by hurling blackjack tables at card counters.

The crowd laughed along with Colton, who introduced Devine, but quickly interrupted him before he could work the crowd.

If you would excuse us, I need to speak to Mr. Devine alone about a new project here at Orient Beach. Something unique, breathtaking. His notoriously charismatic smile beamed from his bronze face as he pulled Devine back a few steps toward the lap pool. The VIP casino. I want it filled with masterpieces, ancient artifacts, Colton said just loud enough for the onlookers to hear. Nothing on the Strip will rival our high roller room. They’ll feel like royals ...

As Colton spoke, the smell of hard liquor and peppermint on his breath, Devine’s brow twitched slightly. Masterpieces? Or copies of masterpieces? Or art picked up at garage sales? Colton could talk big about paying a fortune for a popular singer or tacking some frivolous addition onto the hotel, but his grip on his money usually won out; or, in this case, his grip on the money he owed Devine.

I’ve budgeted forty million for this quarter alone, Colton whispered, almost twice that for the following one. So you have a lot of work ahead of you.

Five percent commission—all Colton would stomach—on forty mil? Devine’s olive-green eyes blinked wildly, and two million dollars began to flash in his head. He saw himself on a brightly lit billboard, like one of those lucky sons of bitches with no teeth who’d just won a huge jackpot on the first play.

Jonah, that means I want you to procure the art for it. Make the VIP casino a knockout. Colton wheeled around to his waiting guests.

With his eyebrows V’ed, Hosni Moneir walked by. Devine’s gut tightened. It was time to get off the financial merry-go-round. He grabbed Colton’s arm and pulled him gently to attention.

I appreciate you keeping me in the loop of your business expansion, but when I can’t even afford Taco Bell, I need to request a part of the balance due me for this penthouse project.

It’s better for you if we talk about that later. Colton smiled at a young brunette in a black sequined cocktail dress.

But I have the problem now.

You got a problem? You got one? Colton put his hands on his waist and stuck out his big chest on his six-foot-one frame. My casino guest in the other penthouse says some of the artifacts in there are fakes.

Sir, everything in that suite is authentic.

You think it’s easy for me to corral million-dollar players when my broker is trying to pass off papier-mâché as artwork?

Devine went eye-to-eye with him. They’re mistaken.

Colton’s eyes widened. Whales don’t make mistakes. They only lose money to pay for yours.

Should I ask them for my balance?

Don’t get smart with me. Get over there and straighten this out.

Devine stopped a man carrying a tray of champagne flutes. I’ll return shortly to discuss my fees and hear about the art you want for the VIP casino.

If you manage not to make us both look like idiots, I’ll have Dolores arrange an appointment. Now get over there.

Devine tossed down a glass of sparkling wine spiked with elderflower liqueur—almost gagged—and cut back through the crowd to Christine. Get one of the interns and have her help you find out everything you can on Kevin Temple.

The CEO of Basin Gaming? she asked.

It’s a priority.

Devine stepped away, then turned back toward Christine. Have we had a woman named Athena request business from us?

Christine shook her head. Why?

Devine stopped for another full flute.

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Cassie sprinted down the back alley of the seedy motel to four teenagers who were passing a joint. A chocolate-skinned girl with platinum-blonde short hair hugged her, as did a Latina with big hoop earrings. A lanky older boy in comparison to her, with long sandy hair and wearing camouflage pants, gave her a nod. His name was Danny.

Have you seen my dad? she said.

Danny rolled his eyes.

Have you?

Wanted me to tell you he was starting a new job. Danny took a hit of the joint and let the smoke ease out of his mouth, then passed it to a Hispanic boy with a devil-face tattoo on his arm. I bet you can guess where you’ll find him after his first day.

A chain link fence separated them and the back of a bar, which had another alley and a service drive that ran beside it. Cassie placed the knit cap in her pocket, exposing the blonde roots of her bright-red dyed hair, and climbed to the top of the fence. Right as she was about to jump to the other side, a vehicle accelerated loudly and bright lights hit her. A wine-red Lincoln Continental skidded to a stop below her. While the man who beat her up got out of the car, she scrambled back to the side with the teens.

Aware her petite figure and bow lips on a mousy face projected no threat, she stood straight, with her chin up, the fence between them. I’m not going with you, Santos, so get lost.

The man pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket.

I don’t want your money, she said.

Whoever gets me the girl, gets the money.

The boys looked at each other for apparent agreement, and then the two girls grabbed them when they tried darting after Cassie, giving her a head start running down the alley. The Hispanic teen with the devil-face tattoo on his arm gained the most distance on her, but he gave up once she made it to the busy street.

"You won’t be so lucky next time. That pendejo will pay us big bucks to get you."

3

MONDAY LATE NIGHT

The Orient Beach security guard at the VIP elevator bank squinted at Devine. "This penthouse? Shouldn’t you be entertaining the guests in the other suite? It is your party."

Devine pointed up to the disgruntled guest he had to go reassure. Another rich bastard who thinks because he has a coffee-table book on the masterpieces at the Louvre, he knows everything about art.

The security guard shook his dome-like bald head and grunted through his bulbous nose, and swiped his key for Devine to access the penthouse.

Let them know I’m on my way up, Devine said.

Devine’s grim reflections surrounded him in the gold-tinted mirrors. He buttoned his suit and shook his head. His big night. It never stops.

The chime rang for the penthouse floor. He walked out into the vestibule and past a five-foot-high sea-flora sculpture made of hand-blown crystal, carved Swedish pine, and rosewood, all appearing to sway by the caprices of an amorous ocean. One of the double doors to the penthouse suite was open. Devine announced his name and continued down the narrow, high-ceilinged hallway into the grand salon.

You don’t look like what I expected. A young Asian woman, with edgy pixie-cut black hair and full red lips curved into an assertive smile, stood in the atrium. She wore a Gucci mini skirt, pink-satin Miu Miu jeweled-heel sandals, and a silk blouse with a deep-plunging neckline, revealing the inside cups of her breasts.

He felt overdressed.

What should I look like? he said.

Like you’re two therapy sessions and a scalpel away from completing a transgender program.

Then the surgery was a success. He grinned.

A smile softened her haughty demeanor, and her large eyes with dark pupils came awake. She offered her hand. I’m Sun.

Nice to meet you—Jonah Devine. Unhappy with our work?

The suite’s lovely. You have a sensational eye for detail and beauty.

She moved a few steps to caress the tenth-century Indian sandstone Kubera perched on a pedestal. Sitting three-feet in height, the lord of wealth, a diminutive and portly man, had a money bag in one hand and a mongoose in the other. Around his neck was a necklace adorned with jewels. Variations of Kubera under other names had spread over the centuries from India to Japan, from Hinduism to Buddhism, from protector of wealth to provider of great charity and reliever of poverty.

Funny, though, she said, on my visits to India I’ve seen most of these turn out to be made much later than those they’re imitating.

Devine looked at it suspiciously, then turned. "Funny, I worked for months to find an authentic one. Artwork is my area of expertise. I even went to India myself to check it out with a professor of South Asian art."

Most in your field are so lazy they never leave their studios.

For me, half the fun is traveling the world to find the perfect piece to complete a design.

She shrugged, then pointed to two small statues. Can you tell me about these two? Are my eyes correct in what they’re seeing?

Devine picked one up, an 8-inch alabaster female figure, her hand covering one of her breasts, with a marble mount and base. Late sixteenth-century small caryatids. French. I had hoped that a guest would appreciate, like I did, the sculptor’s play on Greek art; deceptively, unlike this female one, yes, the other is of a man. He placed it down gently. Enjoy your stay. He started walking down the hallway with her following.

On her forefinger, she spun a large De Grisogono amethyst ring with pink sapphires and emeralds. Are you going to search for more art?

Authentic pieces only.

She tapped his arm. Maybe I can help. I have friends with large collections, one in particular coming in from Europe. He’s always adding pieces, selling some. He’s never satisfied.

It’s usually an addiction. He hesitated at the elevator. What kind of art?

Manet, Lucas Cranach the Elder, some others.

Your friend has great taste.

I’ll tell Peter I unjustly slandered you if you’ll do me a favor, she said. I have a bottle of Champagne chilling. Can you open it for me?

I don’t want to interrupt your evening.

I’m alone, only in to gamble. The Champagne was for when I hit a lucky streak in baccarat. Her lips twisted. Unfortunately, the poor butler has to keep icing down the same bottle.

Devine broke into a smile. "I better help him