Dancing with Rembrandt: 10th Anniversary Special Edition

By Thomas Lance

   When Hannah Morgan discovers the entire collection of the most famous art theft in the world, she imagines a tranquil journey to Boston to return the collection.  What could go wrong?  Apparently a lot, as the sinister custodian of the stolen art, and a host of police agencies, feverishly track every step that Hannah takes.  What begins as an adventure on the open road soon develops into a test of Hannah's resolve and endurance as she maintains one strategic move ahead of her pursuers, and delivers the collection into an unexpected sanctuary.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781500209902

Book preview

Dancing With Rembrandt

A Novel

Thomas Lance

Dancing With Rembrandt is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Author Note

Please feel free to visit Facebook.com/DancingWithRembrandt for a gallery of the artwork mentioned in this novel.

Other Works :

The Confession of Alexander Trust

The Refuge

Interstitial

The Road of a Thousand Wonders : Where to Eat, What to See,

Where to Stop on the Road to the Correctional Institution

Journey Number One : The Southern Route to the Snake River Correctional

Institution

PART I

October 29, 2012

Astoria, Oregon

ONE

The grizzled seamen huddled together at the round table in the center of the room, protecting their drinks with weathered hands like the Club Dardanelles sheltered them from the raging storm outside. The club was a dark place, smelling like stale beer, fried food, body odor and broken promises, yet it offered these seasoned men a comforting place of sanctuary. Smoke hung heavy in the air. The music punctuated the room with horns and bass, keeping time for the rhythmic movement of a young woman dancing upon the small stage. Her body was illuminated by searing light, exposing a translucent veneer upon her toned flesh. Clothed only in fantasy, the young woman danced elegantly upon the stage. Black heels met the wooden floor in a hypnotizing cadence. A black bow tie adorned a slender neck, a black ribbon clung to her blonde locks. With each practiced step, the dancer intended to bring the audience tantalizingly close to an imaginary bond with her. An imperceptible movement, or a broad smile, or a seductive wink of the eye hinted a chimerical attachment, if only for a fleeting moment, for she mesmerized her audience into believing the possibility of more than an illusory connection.

No way anything moves out tonight, grunted an aging man, hypnotized by the dancer above. He held a pint of ale uneasily in front of his face, struggling to find his parched mouth without taking his eyes off the dancing woman.

Ain’t nothing leaving for awhile, said another, the Bar is just too dangerous with this storm.

Where did she learn to dance like that? inquired another man, enraptured by the twin illusion of unrequited desire and considerate reverence toward the dancer's exhibition of technical precision upon the stage.

Why would a girl like her ever come to a place like this? expressed another man, gazing at the young woman tease upon the stage.

Hannah’s the only reason I come to this dump, remarked another aging man, watching the dancer. None of the other gals comes anywhere close.

She don’t even use the pole, remarked the sixth man. She just glides along, like she’s dancing on the clouds.

The men occupied the best table in the club, on a platform elevated four inches from the floor, reserved solely for the Columbia River pilots.

The Columbia River Bar, just to the west of Astoria, where the Columbia River propels its current against the tumultuous tide of the Pacific Ocean, has been the graveyard of ships and seamen for well over a century. The sheer volume of the cold waters of the Columbia flowing into the Pacific creates a hellish vortex into which ships venture at their peril, especially during winter storms. The river pilots, whose orders to guide the ships into the river or out into the Pacific, rule the mouth of the Columbia, meeting unquestioned obedience from shippers who depend upon their expertise to guide cargo through the treacherous waters to safety upon the docks.

Turn that crap off! yelled a man at the bar, jolting the men clustered around the pilots’ table. I’m tired of hearing about Superstorm Sandy.

The man quaffed his drink, slammed his pint on the bar and pointed to the bartender. When is CNN going to tell the nation about our storm of the century?

Shut the hell up, Raymond! barked one of the river pilots. The longshoremen and the river pilots formed an uneasy alliance on the docks of Astoria. The pilots occupied the superior position, entitling them to deference.

Raymond Tigness, the disgruntled man, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and nodded with his head toward the bartender, calling for another draught. A dockworker since his youth, he had seen many storms strike the Pacific Coast, but nothing like this one. Now retired, widowed, and increasingly lonely, he hauled his withered body nightly to the Club Dardanelles, seeking some measure of comfort for the emptiness within his aching soul.

Raymond the Regular will never get it, whispered one of the pilots to the group. We don’t matter. The men smiled at each other, recognizing the truth of both statements.

A man dressed in a fashionable suit, with a red tie pulled askew, wore dark eyeglasses to conceal his presence. He smirked from a corner table. Sitting alone, with a tumbler of seltzer water positioned between an iPhone and a tablet, he had an unobstructed view of the room cluttered with men and women seated at wooden tables arranged so that each patron had a view of the stage. The mysterious man inhaled deeply on his cigarette, watching the young woman dance. He observed the dancer’s unique performance with an eye trained for discipline. ‘Demi-plié,…soutenu en tournant,…piqué turn,…demi-plié,…chaîné turn,’ narrated the man as he watched the young woman effortlessly perform. ‘Toes perfectly pointed, porte-a-bras across the chest, fingers rigid in position,’ he critiqued dispassionately. The elegant synchronicity of the woman’s dance clashed with the stark surroundings of the club. ‘Classical dancer,’ he mused, alone with his thoughts. ‘What kind of tragedy brought her to this place?’

Explosions of laughter and errant chatter burst the imaginings of the mysterious man. At a table to his right sat four young men, dressed in a contemporary urban style who engaged in unrestrained talking. They sent sleazy comments toward the dancer on the stage, accompanied with frenetic, obscene gestures. The men were singular opposites of the river pilots, seated quietly on the elevated position of reverence, silently watching the young woman perform. The younger men pointed in a frenzy, fueled by intoxication, toward the dancer in a manner that signaled to the mysterious observer that these younger men, accustomed to entitlement from the club, were regulars, too.

Suddenly, the iPhone vibrated upon the wooden table in front of the secretive man. He clutched the phone as he arose from his seat. The mysterious man stepped gingerly past the elevated table, evading the younger men, and made his way to quieter surroundings outside.

"As-salaam-alaikum," he whispered into the device.

The dancer finished her performance to an acknowledgment of polite applause from the pilots at the elevated table, and an eruption of raucous approval from the cadre of young men swarming the corner table. The dancer smiled at the men at the elevated table, avoiding the catcalls of the younger men as she reached for her dressing robe. She glided off-stage, as if she were still in her performance, relieved that her last dance of the night had come to a close. Soon she would cleanse the filth of the Club Dardanelles from her physically and emotionally exhausted body.

Hannah, barked a heavy-set woman in her fifties. I booked you in a VIP room for Mr. Ischii.

Hannah Morgan caught her breath. Blonde, in her early twenties, with blue eye shadow and powdered face, masking her self-identity with cosmetic artistry, she paraded in the hallway with a robe she quickly pulled around her nakedness. Not tonight, she said to the woman, almost begging.

Virginia Hamilton, the capricious owner of the club for nearly three decades, had seen a fair number of dancers of varying degree of ability, and hundreds of dancers with a measure of inability. But Hannah was unique. Hannah quickly became the franchise performer of her establishment, filling the tables on her scheduled performance nights. Virginia recognized from Hannah’s audition that she was a very different performer. Perhaps it was her technical dance training, or her limitless eye contact combined with a seductive smile. Exotic dancers carried wounds and painful experiences, submerging their hurts beneath the flesh they exhibited to paying customers. Somewhere in her past, Hannah had experienced profound anguish, but unlike the other dancers, Hannah subsumed her host of hurts to a distant place where Virginia could not reach. The other dancers had no relationship with Hannah, considering her aloof, superior, or snobbish. And Virginia exploited that detachment to distinguish her reluctant star, Hannah, from the other dancers for pure marketing strategy. Chief among her capitalistic practices were invitations to a VIP Room, a place limited only by imagination.

Virginia spoke harshly to the young woman. You get in there and entertain Mr. Ischii and his associates!

But the storm…

The older woman grasped the younger one by the arm. I don’t care about no storm, Hannah. She squeezed tightly around the arm of the young dancer. Mr. Ischii and his associates don’t care about no fucking storm, either, Hannah.

But…, Hannah implored

Virginia Hamilton interrupted her dancer. Stepping chest to chest with Hannah, she shouted, Mr. Ischii is a regular patron, Hannah, and he specifically requested you to entertain him and his associates.

Hannah bit her lip nervously while twisting out of the firm grip of her supervisor. She reached up to pull a bobby pin attaching the black ribbon in her blonde hair, and pleaded, I have to go now. Allie is waiting for me. The storm outside…

Virginia Hamilton approached her, menacingly. You get one thing straight right now, Hannah Morgan. You work for me!

I know, pleaded Hannah. The storm…

The other dancers crowded close to their boss and the reluctant star as the older woman snarled toward her dancer. You have two choices, honey. You can get in that room and entertain Mr. Ischii, or you can get the hell out of my bar and don’t ever think about coming back!

Hannah Morgan sighed, resigning herself to the demeaning tasks that awaited her behind the red door. With a trembling lip, she reached for the handle and stepped inside.

Her life was never supposed to be this way. She was born into a solidly middle-class family in Portland. Her father, George, handled the railroad schedules and shipping dockets at Swan Island. Her mother, Helen, taught art and composition at the local high school. Her brother, Tim, seven years older, mostly ignored her, even before departing the stable family home for college. Hannah was a prodigy. She possessed an insatiable appetite for learning. She advanced through school rapidly, owing to a tenacious work ethic and exceptional scholastic abilities. She had advanced several grades due to superior language, comprehension and composition. However, the shy girl had difficulty relating to classroom peers who were a bit older than she.

Hannah studied ballet from the time she was three until a fractured ankle performing the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy ended a promising dance career in her senior year of high school. While recuperating from her injury, Hannah delved into her advanced placement classes with vigor. Under her mother’s guidance, Hannah submitted her senior honors thesis detailing the works of the Dutch painters Johannes Vermeer and Rembrandt van Rijn, which earned her a scholarship to Reed College. For her graduation present, her mother planned a trip to Boston, to a gallery where Helen had once seen a Vermeer and several pieces from Rembrandt. A diagnosis of advanced uterine cancer robbed Helen of the joy she anticipated in sharing the remaining pieces of Rembrandt with her daughter.

Hannah went across town to college beneath the tall oaks at Reed, grateful that only a few miles separated her from Helen. Her youth, relative to the students in her classes, combined with her uneasiness with her mother’s delicate condition, caused Hannah to question her decision to attend college during the first weeks of school. Her measure of uncertainty took a turn for the worse when her parents died in a car accident on Cornelius Pass Road in October. While mired deeply within her profound grief, Hannah watched helplessly as her brother faced disbarment from a prestigious law firm. Those proceedings became a contentious public spectacle, culminating before Christmas Break.

A professor whom she admired for his intelligence, demeanor, and charming disposition, comforted her during the tumultuous period; but he tossed her aside when circumstances changed. While her peers enjoyed themselves in Cabo San Lucas during Spring Break, Hannah slipped away from Reed, searching for a way to make peace in her world. Almost alone, broken in spirit, her esteem shattered despite a significant impersonal negotiable instrument, she went as far west as she could on a tank of gas before reaching Astoria, a community on a peninsula bracketed by the Pacific Ocean, Young’s Bay and the Columbia River. She settled in to the rough town born on the banks of the uncompromising river. She identified with the juxtaposing mixture of grit, beauty, tenacity, splendor, ruggedness, and calm. It was a place where Hannah could make some peace with herself and her choice.

Exactly sixty-two minutes later, Hannah emerged from the VIP room. Her tears competed with the sweat on her cheek and brow.

Why are you out so soon? bellowed Virginia.

An hour, stated Hannah. They paid for an hour.

Virginia Hamilton stalked toward the young woman. They paid for two. She pointed her pudgy finger toward the red door. You get back in there and make me some money!

But, the storm…

Damn it! shouted the mercurial owner of the club. How many times do I have to tell you, honey, I don’t care about no damned storm. Mr. Ischii and his associates don’t care about no storm!

Customers seated at the tables in the club turned toward the yelling, obese woman. Conversations ceased as the patrons focused their attention toward Virginia and Hannah.

I told you, Hannah, that my customers have paid for you to entertain them. Now you take your tits and your sweet ass in there and make me some money in that room that Mr. Ischii has paid for!

I can’t, Virginia, pleaded the young woman, clutching her robe tight to her body.

If you refuse me, Hannah Morgan, don’t bother coming to work tomorrow.

Hannah pulled her robe more tight around her, steeling the nerve to respond. So be it, she stated as she brushed past the woman, making her way to the dressing room.

Wait! snapped Virginia, in a tone reserved for intemperate dancers who discounted her orders.

Hannah stopped abruptly in the narrow hallway. Her back faced her employer.

Where’s my house fee, Hannah! bellowed Virginia.

Hannah stopped in her tracks.

You’re not leaving here until I get my cut!

I know, Virginia. Hannah turned to face the older woman, wiping away sweat that concealed her tears.

Give me my due now! snarled the woman. You’re not leaving here until you give me what’s mine! she snapped.

Embarrassed as much by the one-sided conversation as she was at the means with which she had earned the money, Hannah pulled a wad of green bills from a purse she secreted within the pocket of her robe. She began counting the money as the other dancers milled about, watching with glee.

Very good, Hannah, replied the woman, as she showed the young dancer an emerging smile, rewarding her for a hefty commission. The smile soon turned sinister as Virginia snarled, now you get the hell get out of my club!

Hannah returned the purse to her robe. She trudged toward the dressing room, ignoring the commotion of ridicule as the other dancers formed a gauntlet along the narrow corridor. Each of the other dancers hurled insults at her. Toward the end of the line, a large dancer blocked her path, making an immovable obstacle to the dressing room. The jeering competitors presented a jealous front at the young woman who was never one of them. They resented her for her charm, her talent, her appearance, and especially her rejection of them and their lifestyle. The other dancers resented the respect paid to her by the men and women who patronized the club. Hannah jostled with the large dancer, under the taunts of the others in the gauntlet. Once inside the dingy room, Hannah steeled her composure, ignoring the continuing insults. She glanced at the clock mounted upon the cobwebbed wall. She was late. She recognized that a shower would just have to wait. Hannah chose instead to concentrate upon a minimum of dressing. She frantically gathered the rest of her clothing and personal items. She stuffed them deep into a bag she hefted over her shoulder. The competitor dancers jeered at her as she pushed her way out of the narrow hallway toward the front of the establishment.

As Hannah raced out into the club, Raymond beckoned her from his stool at the bar.

I am really late, Raymond, politely whispered Hannah. I don’t have time to talk right now.

Just a moment, returned Raymond.

Hannah yielded for the older man out of courtesy. I really need to leave, she said, placing her hand upon his shoulder.

Raymond Tigness reached inside his coat pocket, fumbling for something, before withdrawing an envelope and a tootsie pop. One is for you, Hannah, and the other for Allie.

Hannah smiled.

Raymond the Regular was a genuinely nice man who seemed to have a polite appreciation of her. Someday, Hannah, I guarantee you, that you and Allie will live in a place worthy of your beauty and your spirit. This town and this job ain't for you. He reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips.

Hannah blushed, feeling the warm lips of an innocent kiss from an admirer who appreciated her for more than what she did on the wooden stage.

Suddenly, she felt an anxious electricity that made her hair tingle on the back of her neck. She turned toward the tables to her right, and observed the mysterious man with the olive complexion peering through the dark eyeglasses at her. His riveting gaze made her feel uneasy.

Hannah bent toward Raymond. Have you ever seen that guy with the eyeshades in here before? she whispered.

Raymond peeked over the dancer’s shoulder toward the mysterious man.

Can’t say as I have, Hannah.

Neither have I.

Raymond took the hand of the young woman. I can walk you out to your car, if you like.

Hannah smiled. No, thanks. I’m a big girl now. She winked at the man as she started to walk away.

Take care driving home, Hannah, interrupted Raymond. The storm of the century is pounding Astoria tonight.

An immediate sense of dread entered Hannah as she remembered that she no longer had a home.

Raymond read her face, noticing that he had upset her. Is something wrong?

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. My bank accounts were garnished this morning, and Mr. Coombs wouldn’t work with me while I cleared it all up.

Raymond banged his empty pint on the bar in a fit of disagreement. That bastard should have never evicted you and Allie, continued Raymond.

Startled, Hannah emerged from her feeling of disappointment. How did you know?

My little cousin couldn’t handle a man’s job like mine, Raymond responded. He had to get his jollies using paper instead of using his hands.

Hannah nodded, clutching the envelope.

Evictions are easier than working a real job.

I wouldn’t know, said Hannah. She started to pull away.

I wondered when that worthless piece of shit would finally pull the trigger on you. Raymond pointed at the envelope in her hand. "That’s a little something I’ve been saving for a rainy day.

I can’t accept this, Raymond.

The man gently took the soft, alluring hand grasping the envelope, and delicately wrapped her fingers around it with his calloused, worn hands. I insist. He winked at the young woman. Just pay me back someday.

Hannah opened the envelope to find a few green bills secreted within. She smiled at Raymond, as she carefully folded the envelope, and placed it inside her jeans pocket. Thank-you for thinking about us.

Raymond pulled her close. Just get out of here now before Virginia takes her cut. He winked at the young woman.

Hannah rushed out of the club, peering over her shoulder at the sinister man in dark eyeglasses at the table. As hurried as she was, she nevertheless sensed something evil in his presence.

The wind whipped her 1995 Tempo across Second Street, toward the hills on the south side of town. Rain fell like stones onto the windshield. The wipers furiously attempted to shove aside the remnant. Hannah plied Eighth Street, turning into the teeth of the wind on Franklin, destined for a house just on the corner of Skyline, high atop the hill. The car groaned as it climbed the hill, warring against the awesome wind and the unrelenting rain. At last she reached the house. She silently rejoiced that the porch light still illuminated safety from the storm.

Hannah sprinted across the soaked yard toward the door, hoping that Mrs. Nunez would be reasonable. Before she reached the porch, the door opened to a woman holding a small child by the hand. You’re late, again, Hannah.

I’m really sorry, Mrs. Nunez. I was late at work.

Mrs. Nunez frowned. Your work is so demanding, isn’t it? she asked arrogantly.

I know I’m late, pleaded the young woman. It won’t happen again.

Mrs. Nunez laughed. How many times have I heard that line?

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. Please, Mrs. Nunez. Just another chance?

Don’t bring her back, interjected the woman, cutting off any effort to reconcile.

The little child standing next to Mrs. Nunez wiped her eyes. Her sleepiness obscured any awareness of the situation.

Mrs. Nunez pushed the sleeping child to Hannah. I really hope you get yourself together someday Hannah, if only for Allie’s sake. She pulled a bag from the doorway and tossed it on the porch in front of the young mother before slamming the door and shutting off the porch light. The door closing in her face gave Hannah yet another reason with yet another person to reject her, all serving to make her feel as worthless and rotten as the salmon carcasses littering Young’s Bay with a smell of putrid failure. She clasped the little child tightly against her, and whispered in her ear, we’re going be alright, Allie. It’s just me and you again.

Alexandra Grace Morgan was almost five years of age. Tall, slender with auburn locks curling around her ears and brow, she had her mother’s delicate features, calm disposition, and prodigious intellectual attributes. She was extremely shy, talkative only when feeling a sense of comfort in her surroundings, or incipient hunger. She used language sprinkled with proper grammar and syntax, coaxed by her mother. She loved to draw and to make pictures, which Hannah had eagerly conveyed to Raymond, the child’s most ardent admirer.

Come on, Allie, we have to make a run for it. Hannah grabbed the bag in one hand, and pulled her coat over her daughter with the other, with the skill and dexterity that only a mother could muster. She raced through the pelting raindrops to her car that idled roughly in the driveway. With the raindrops soaking her skin as she placed her daughter in the car seat, Hannah ignored the howling wind whipping the trees along the roadway as she fastened the clips. She hastened into the driver seat.

My bed is gonna be warm and comfy tonight.

Hannah bit her lip, grateful that negotiating a turn produced a spontaneous distraction from responding to her child.

"Will you finish showing me A Ball for Daisy?"

Holding the Ford in the lane as the wind furiously buffeted it produced another spontaneous reason to not respond.

"I like the pictures in A Ball for Daisy."

Me, too.

Will you show me the pictures when we get home, mommy?

No, Allie, she replied softly. Hannah decided that tonight was not the night to let her daughter know that they no longer had a home. We’re not going home tonight.

Why?

We are going stay in a new place, out by the river, so we can watch the storm.

Good, piped Allie. I like storms.

Me, too, honey, agreed Hannah. She pulled out the tootsie pop. Raymond says hi. She handed the tootsie pop into her daughter's eager hands.

As Hannah reached a narrow turn, she bit her lip anxiously, piloting the old Ford down the hill, toward the vast river stretching below. Buffeted by howling wind and blinding rain, Hannah drove slowly toward an old hotel she remembered near Tongue Point. She had stayed there for her first week in Astoria, sketching out a plan for how she would spend her new life caring for herself and another. She recalled that the hotel was old and dingy, but it now promised a comforting refuge that she and Allie needed to ride out the storm, as well as a repeat opportunity to sketch out another life plan. "Plus ça change," she whispered.

You’re talking funny again, mommy.

Someday I’ll teach you French, and you’ll understand me.

I will never understand you, mommy.

Why?

Because then I will talk funny.

The young mother smiled, grateful for the conversation, for it took her mind off of the impending homelessness that competed with other negative consequences torturing her and Allie in their immediate futures.

Hannah reached Lawrence Avenue, a shortcut to the hotel along warehouses and wharves interconnected with dense forests. The rain and wind seemed to diminish to a point that Hannah started to relax. We’re going to be fine, she muttered, giving herself courage to surmount the storm.

Are we there yet? sprang a voice from the back seat.

Hannah smiled. Almost.

Suddenly, Hannah heard a cracking noise, and a rush of wind unlike any of the sounds that the storm had produced. From the headlights shining forward from the old Ford, she saw branches of a gigantic tree rushing toward her in an unavoidable burst of speed. Hannah shrieked as she pounded on the brakes to avert the tree. She watched in horror as a branch fell in slow motion, landing upon the hood of her car. She screamed when the branch impacted the vehicle, watching helplessly as the agonizing slow motion tumult of the branch crushed the hood, bringing the car to a bone-shattering stop. Her head marched forward in an inalterable course toward the steering wheel.

Hannah awoke, not knowing if moments or hours had passed. She rubbed her head from the impact with the steering wheel.