Breaking In

By Brian T Marshall

James Ibedson has a problem. He was born with a silver spoon. And while he dreams of becoming a respected artist, the critics see a spoiled dilettante.

After a tepid East Side debut, he concocts an outlandish scheme. He will break into a museum. Risk his freedom, maybe even his life. Dare to challenge the masterpieces gathered there and hang a painting - his own - on the wall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian T Marshall
• Release date: Oct 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463326817

Book preview

BREAKING IN

Brian T. Marshall

Missppelled Press Magalia, California

All these people are made up.

None of this stuff happened.

That’s why they call it fiction.

Copyright © 2018 Brian T. Marshall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for reviewers who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

ISBN 978-0-692-047781

Library of Congress Control Number 2017953024

1. Fiction/General

2. Fiction/Crime

3. Fiction/Psychological

www.missppelled.com

Cover art: Steve Farchaud Formatting: Andrea Wagner

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

To Tom, loyal friend and master wordsmith.

To Kathi, Cara, Ken, Cathy, Tim and everyone else at North State Writers.

And to Nancy, who keeps me alive.

1

A cold, clear November night on New York’s Upper East Side. A three-story brownstone, dark at this hour, except for a few scattered lights. And in their glow a figure is seated, a man, James Ibedson. Staring at an empty wine glass, perched just out of reach.

So which one of them left it, he wonders. Left it for someone else to pick up. And did they realize at the time that it wasn’t really empty? That there was still a good inch of pale gold liquid, the Sancerre they’d been pouring, wasting away untouched? Probably not. Just as they probably hadn’t noticed the smear of lipstick left so fetchingly on the rim, or that bit of sludge, some remnant of smoked salmon or crostini, lurking there at the bottom. Because people, they were like that, more often than not. Especially the kind of people that showed up on opening night.

And then there’s the banquet table. If he really were an artist, he could paint that banquet table. And in his painting you’d see it all. What’s been eaten. What’s been left behind. What people do with food when they’re not really hungry, when they’ve never been really hungry, not even once in their lives. The way they pick, and poke, and nibble when food is no longer a necessity, just one more form of decor. When eating is merely a social function, something you do when the small talk dies out, when the trio stops playing, when your hand or your mouth grows bored.

Only now it’s his hands that don’t know what to do. That reach out to snatch up that very same glass, or perhaps a small plate, abandoned. Even though he knows, in a half hour or so, the clean-up crew will arrive, kids you’d swear must still be in braces, but are actually post-grad at Columbia, the ones without rich parents, or quite enough financial aid. Like birds they’ll swoop, like birds they’ll sing, making a game of it, bus trays clanking and damp towels swiping and just like that it’s all gone, and instead of a hangover, an aftermath, it’s back to being a gallery. Quiet and austere.

So what did you think?

He turns at the sound of Peter’s voice, preceding him down the stairs.

About tonight? he replies. No one threw up. I guess that’s a good sign.

Really, James, Peter chides back, when will you ever learn? We want them to throw up. Throwing up sells paintings.

Ever since The Flood, or well before it, Peter’s always been there. First all those years as a friend of his father, and eventually as one of his own. And though he must be in his seventies by now, and the hour is way past witching, he looks as fresh, as untrammeled, as one of those soon-to-arrive post-grads.

Peter pauses on the landing. Stares down at James, and the plate still clutched in his hand. You know you pay people to do that.

I pay people to do a lot of things.

James snags a glass of red, half full. Notices there’s a cigarette butt floating inside it. That must explain those tobacco notes.

"So unless I somehow missed him, Thompson was a no-show. And I didn’t see that guy from the Post either. Haggerty? Hafferty?"

Hannity, Peter tells him. Rhymes with sanity. And yes, you’re right, he didn’t make it, but he did send one of his proteges. That unfortunate girl with the glasses. I kissed up, or down, to her while you were busy playing artiste. So with any luck we’ll get a decent write-up, and Hannity will get the byline.

And Thompson?

On the very last step, there’s a crumpled napkin. Peter kicks it aside. Levitt’s thing premiered tonight. Helen Jenkins had her show. Plus twenty or thirty other temptations he probably couldn’t resist. He shrugs dismissively. Luck of the draw. Next time out, we’ll get him, and they’ll all be asking themselves what went wrong.

So was it really that simple, that random? If so, he could learn to accept it. But what really scared him was something else, a kind of random in reverse. That the more you cared about something, tried to make it go in one direction, the more likely it was to go in another. Like that one spot in an abstract, upper left corner, that you kept working, and reworking, and that refused to be anything but an ugly grey splotch.

And speaking of ugly, what the hell had happened to the cheese board? Four hours ago, when they’d dropped the thing off, it had been its own little work of art. Now it looked like the contents of an overturned semi, spilling across the highway. Reaching down, James grabs a small hunk of Stilton. Pops it into his mouth. Realizes he’s forgotten to eat and is now officially starving.

And what about sales? he throws Peter’s way, searching for some bread, or a cracker.

The triptych went in the first half-hour. Some suit whose wife insisted it would look perfect in their entry. A few of the smaller still-lifes, that thing you ripped off from Miro. As always, he has to get in at least one dig. Payment for use of the hall. Not gangbusters exactly. Still, we both know with you, it’s never been about the revenue, has it?

Now he sees it. The Miro comment had just been a feint, a set-up. Keeping him distracted till the real insult got lobbed.

No, he admits. It hasn’t.

He’s finally found a heel of pugliese. An unopened Evian. Carries his score to a couch near the back, and then throws himself on down.

Peter— what am 1 doing?

Eating, it looks like.

No, I mean this. He raises his hand, still clutching the bread, and gestures around the room. Playing the artiste. Having the show. All of it.

Hold that thought.

He watches as Peter slips back up the stairs, too nimble by a half. Then gnaws off a hunk of his impromptu supper, and chases it down with a sip. Bread and water. Prisoner’s fare. But what exactly was his crime? He thinks about all the times he’s been in this same room, sitting on this same couch, looking at somebody else’s work on the walls and thinking, someday it will be mine up there instead. So now he’d finally gotten what he’d wanted. Did they really lock you up for that now?

And then Peter’s back, bearing two heavy tumblers, and a bottle that is clearly not filled with water. When he catches James trying to read the label, he intentionally turns it away.

Don’t worry. It’s the good stuff.

Good stuff, bad stuff, the payoffs the same. And it makes him wonder. Does Peter need a shot to deliver his piece, or think James needs one to hear it?

He fills each glass with a finger of amber, then passes one to him. James gives it a tentative sniff. Peat bogs. Wood smoke. A tang of North Sea. He was right— it is the good stuff.

Cheers.

Cheers.

After all its fragrance promised, the taste itself is almost a disappointment. Still, it’s not like he’s complaining.

So. As to your question. Your career, such as it is. Peter pauses a moment. Consults his watch. In about ten or fifteen minutes, the caterers should be back. The same ones we both saw earlier. Bright enough kids, working their way through college, most of them still undeclared. And I can guarantee you each and every one of them has some crazy idea about what they really want to do with their lives. Be a musician, or act off-Broadway, or, god forbid, be an artist. And I can also guarantee that at some point in the very near future they will take that dream, and put it in a burlap bag, and drown it in the East River. Because when given a choice between a life of abject poverty and a life of relative comfort, most people won’t think twice.

He takes a moment. Takes a sip. Brings his gaze back round to James.

But for you, there never was a choice. Never any need to pick one or the other. Which is, of course, a good thing. Still, when people meet you, meet your art, they know that’s the case. That thanks to your father, and his father before him, you’ve had advantages, opportunities, they can only dream of. It makes them suspect you. Resent you. Call you a dilettante. And that, of course, is a bad thing. The flip side of the coin.

It’s nothing he hasn’t thought through before, far too many times to count. But hearing it now, given voice by another, somehow makes it worse, makes it better, all at the same time.

So what do I do about it? he asks his friend. Get myself a secret identity? Pretend I’m starving away in some garret?

You wouldn’t be the first, Peter concedes. Still, eventually, the truth would out. You’d be exposed as a fraud, a poor little rich boy, and whatever reputation you’d managed to establish would go straight down the tubes. Better just to play it straight. To hope you have enough talent to make everything else—your money, your background— irrelevant.

Hope? he throws back. Meaning you think I don’t?

Everybody’s got a tell. And for Peter, it’s his hesitations. The way he’ll answer your question sometimes by not answering at all.

Then why’d you offer to do the show? James asks. Was it just some kind of favor?

For the first time that evening, Peter looks his age. Too fragile to dodge anymore.

Maybe. A bit. He sighs in exasperation. Look, James, let’s be honest. You’ll never be a genius, one of those people who blows the field wide open. But you are a damn good painter. You’ve got the eyes, and the hands, and, most importantly, the heart. The passion. And if I stuck your stuff up on some magic wall, put it next to anyone else just breaking in right now, yours would be just as strong. Just as vital.

Then why can’t I get any traction?

Because that wall, it doesn’t exist. Every dealer, every curator, every two-bit collector, they’ve got their prejudices. Their preconceptions. And there’s no way, in this town at least, you’ll ever get past that. Pausing, he nods towards the front door. The world that awaits just beyond it. Now if you were willing to leave New York…

No, James insists, This is where I live. I’m not getting ridden out on some rail.

Fine, Peter tells him. Just so long as you accept the consequences. The fact that there will be a few disappointments along the way.

Disappointments. The word sounds harmless enough. He lifts his glass, drains what’s left, slowly shakes his head.

So 1 guess this means I won’t be getting into the Met anytime soon.

Peter gives him a rueful smile.

Not unless you pay at the door. Either that, or break in at night.

*****

Then all at once, their quiet is shattered. The caterers have returned. Van doors slamming, a peal of laughter, rubber soles on red oak floors. One of the girls—dark frizzy hair and honeyed skin—has been giving him the eye all evening, but he’s decided to play dumb. Because that’s another problem with having too much money. Every time a woman makes a play, you wonder what she’s really after.

He says his goodnights to Peter, thanks him yet again, only to realize that, after their talk, he’s no longer sure what exactly he’s thanking him for. Then waits out front for his ride home, and whatever anonymous face the Uber genie happens to send his way. It’s unusually warm, especially for November, with the Holidays looming ahead, and just the thought of Christmas dinner makes him wish he could leave town instead. His father as he pours the wine, that tremor in his hand, and the scattering of blood red drops he leaves on the white tablecloth. His stepmother, Anne, and her odd little stories, still a stranger after twenty-some years. And the staff, of course, hovering in the background, waiting to snatch up his plate, and dreaming of their own families waiting back home, homes not much larger than the old man’s master bath.

The ride uptown is a quiet one. They hit most of the lights just right. He’d been hoping for a talkative driver, someone to banish his thoughts, but instead he’s just some withdrawn twenty- something, with muted jazz on the satellite, and a faint scent of weed on his jacket. So what’s he doing up at this hour? Him and all the rest? James generally keeps working-man hours, in spite of not having a job, and so he seldom sees it. This second city, the one that comes out at night, with its seedy bodegas, and its girls on the corners, and its aura of threat, of menace. For a crazy moment, he almost wants to reach up, tap the man on the shoulder, tell him to let him off right off there. So that he can finally dissolve. Disappear. And in doing so find himself.

But of course, he doesn’t.

The loft, as always, is waiting for him. Waiting for him to come back home. Only tonight it seems emptier, more cavernous, than usual. Restless, he rummages through the fridge, finally settles on an apple he finds there, then eats it standing by the big plate glass window, staring down at the streets below. By the time he finally makes it to bed, it’ll be almost three o’clock, which means that the next day is probably wasted, or at least as far as work is concerned. And then he stops. Recalls each face at the opening, each one of Peter’s words. Maybe every day from here on in is wasted, as far as work is concerned.

Eventually he falls asleep. Dreams whatever he dreams. And then awakens, alert and clear-headed, just as dawn is claiming the sky. He has no idea of where he’s been, what angels, what oracles have visited him as he’s slept. But as for what they’ve left behind, even an idiot could see it. For the first time in days, in weeks, in years, James Ibedson has a vision.

He knows what he’s going to do.

2

When he wakes for the second time, he can tell that it’s much later. Because if there’s one thing he knows in this world, it’s the light inside that room. The mauve of early morning as the sun first clears the skyline. The prosaic, no-nonsense glare of mid- day, when the cars in the street, the scurrying forms on the sidewalk, no longer cast any shadows. And that thing that happens at around four o’clock, or even earlier this time of year, when the colors start to bleed, and all your thoughts turn maudlin, and those same shadows are back with a vengeance, ready to claim the world. Light is a painter’s closest ally, and sometimes his worst foe. More than paint or brush, palette knife or canvas. More even than his own hands. Even blindness itself could be tolerable, livable, as long as you could still feel the touch of the sun on your skin. Know the light was out there somewhere, even if you’d never see it again.

All of which is a very complicated way of saying that he’d guess it’s about nine-thirty, a quarter-to- ten. A guess that’s confirmed a second later as he glances over at his bedside alarm. He grabs a second pillow. Stuffs it behind his back. Surveys the loft with a critical eye and decides it could use a good cleaning. Decides too that rather than call up his service, he’ll tackle the job himself. That something about banging around with a vacuum and a mop, going after all those dust bunnies, actually sounds good. Purging. Which must mean it’s finally happened. He’s finally lost his mind.

And if he needs any further proof, all he has to do is drift back a few hours. Remember the way he’d woken up at dawn, only to find that moment of total clarity. Of knowing. Just out of curiosity he takes his idea, his divine inspiration, and tosses it out there, into the bright light of day. Studies it for a moment. Yes, it certainly is a strange little beast. As inherently ridiculous, as silly, as the sight of a naked man, or the concept of organized religion. Plus it combines the advantages of being totally impractical, utterly useless, and most likely illegal as well. All the major food-groups in one quixotic gesture. What’s not to love?

Once out of bed, he visits the shower, and spends so long in its steamy embrace the water finally threatens to run cold. He then wastes a good half-hour preparing the world’s fluffiest omelet, only to discover it’s determined to be scrambled eggs instead. Coffee is ferried out to the small balcony, where the sunlight is almost warm, and the sound of snarled traffic and the stench of exhaust only adds to his buoyant mood.

He takes a sip. Then another. Picks up his phone off the small teak table and punches in the speed dial.

Amblin Associates.

Ruthie? It’s James. What are you doing in there on a Saturday?

Suffering, what else.

Peter had found her four years back, languishing away at some mid-town PR firm. A major in Art History at Bryn Mawr. Two years running the student gallery. An internship at the Guggenheim where, chances were, she probably worked Saturdays too.

So is Peter around? Suffering like you?

Maybe a little. But at least it sounds like you’re not. Meaning maybe he should be. Meaning maybe her and the boss have been talking about last night’s turnout. Hold on a sec. I’ll get him.

He uses that second to snag another sip of coffee. Watches as a pigeon flutters on by, scoping a place to light.

Morning, James. His voice sounds tired, scratchy. A late night catching up. Shouldn’t you still be in bed?

Probably, he admits. Look, I’ve got kind of an off-the-wall question—promise me you won’t laugh. Do you happen to know any fences?

The pause lasts so long, he checks his connection. Wonders if the call got cut. Either that or something even less likely, Peter Amblin is at a loss for words.

The kind with pickets? he finally asks back.

No, the other kind. If that’s what they still call them.

Yes.

Yes? Yes as in…

Yes, as in that’s what they call them, and yes, as in I happen to know a few.

If he’d still needed proof how absurd his scheme was, hearing Peter’s voice—his surprise, his trepidation—provides it free of charge.

Do I want to know why you’re asking? Peter continues.

Most likely. But the thing is 1 can’t tell you. At least not yet. But I can tell you this. It has nothing to do with anything stolen if that’s what’s making you nervous. And besides, how bad can it be? It was your idea to begin with.

By this point, he’s having entirely too much fun. Should probably tone it down.

Anyway, if you have any clue as to how I could get in touch with…

Lange.

Is that supposed to mean something?

Harold Lange, he continues. And that’s Lange with an ‘e’ on the end. Ruthie can give you his number.

Like everyone else, Peter’s an actor, and his character now sounds annoyed. But beneath that performance, the thin parody, James can hear something else. Genuine concern. Not for the first time, he ponders his fortunes. Having two fathers, not one.

Thanks, Peter. As always, 1 owe you one.

Don’t mention it. And James…

The line goes quiet for a second or two. Or was that the sound of a sigh?

Don’t do anything stupid.

*****

Peter is right, as always. Ruthie has the number at hand. But it’s obvious the name is not familiar, and it takes longer than her customary two seconds to track it down. Which makes it equally obvious that Mr. Lange with an ‘e’ is not one of Peter’s regular contacts, not an inhabitant of his safe, well-mannered and gentrified world. And on this particular morning, this pleases James to no end.

He finishes his coffee. Cleans up the breakfast mess. Maybe it’s just the caffeine kicking in, but he feels amped, restless, way more alive than he should on just four or five hours of fitful sleep. He contemplates going for a run or breaking out the Dyson, but it’s not just his body that needs to cut loose, it’s that other thing, his spirit. There’s a still life he’s been working the last few weeks. A couple of bigger NR pieces. But all of that feels too small, too constricted. Just another reminder of last night, last night with its sour aftertaste.

And then he has it. About a year back he’d gotten wind of a paint store out in Jersey, one of the big commercial outfits, that was on the verge of going belly up. He’d made a few phone calls, tossed out some numbers, and then decided to buy up all their stock, sight unseen. Why? Why not? They’d had it delivered the following week, four or five shrink-wrapped palettes, leaving him thankful that when he’d refurbished the loft, they’d left the freight elevator. Still, ever since that morning it had just been sitting around forgotten, gathering dust in the back forty, making him feel rash, or stupid, or something. Most of it was house paint, and most of that was latex, a haphazard mix of one- and five-gallon buckets, all of them a neutral white, awaiting future tinting. Except, of course, for the returns. Random, crazy, hell-for- bent colors that their customers had decided to bring back in, once the drugs wore off.

Maybe the same drugs he’s on now. Before he knows it, he’s in the back corner, yanking off the tarp. Hunting through can after can of paint, eyeing each splotch on the lid. A killer turquoise. Baby shit green. A purple that would do Barney proud. There’s enough on-hand to paint a rainbow, or work up a Bennington ad, with so many unused pans and rollers lying around he assigns each one its own can. But what about a canvas? His eyes scan the room, hungry now, only there’s nothing big enough. No, wait. The ROOM is the canvas. He’d always loved that big blank north wall, the fact that it was so plain. The fact that it made everything else—his paintings, his furniture, his life—seem puny in comparison. So, of course, he couldn’t touch it. That would be sacrilege.

Moving the bookshelves, the sofa, the lamp, that takes all of two minutes. Then it’s time for the tarp, now a drop-cloth, because, despite all the rumors, he’s not a total slob. Popping cans one by one, he’s awash in liquid rubber, a smell that’s not