“They say no drinks. Maybe some later.”
“See that Mr. Kondo's boat is anchored and the proper lights are on. Then untie and move away.” He looked at his watch. “We are to return by 11:30.”
Nikos touched the peak of his cap and left the salon.
“Why so late?” Kondo asked. “We can complete our business in thirty minutes.”
“I have more than the Seurat to show you.”
“You said you would not have the other paintings in London.”
“Conditions have changed.”
“You have them here, on the boat?”
“Surprised? What safer place than an unsinkable tugboat?”
“Mr. Sawata thinks your Seurat is a very excellent painting. He also said you paid too much for it.”
“The price is fair,” Pinkster said irritably. “That's not Sawata's busi-ness.”
“Such information is my business,” Kondo said. “I may agree with Mr. Sawata.”
Kondo's head was large and perfectly round and seemed stuck on top of a short, thick neck that was covered by a white turtleneck sweater. His glasses had heavy black rims and rested on his nose like ocean divers' goggles. He wore a navy blazer with bright gold buttons
and a bold emblem sewn onto the breast pocket. His skin was dark and seemed more so in the faint light.
Pinkster said, “The French decided in their infinite wisdom to celebrate the anniversary of Seurat's death and pay him an overdue tribute. So after years of neglect the prices have gone sky-high. You are aware of that, Mr. Kondo?”
Kondo nodded. “I must stop prices from going higher.”
“But once you own a painting you want the price to start up again. Correct?”
“You know the business.”
“Who is your client?”
Kondo shook his head. “That is confidential.”
“Is he a collector or an investor?”
Kondo smiled. “Very successful at both.”
“Is he in the securities business?”
“His business is making money,” Kondo said with finality.
The main engines were turned on, followed by a slight motion. The boat was under way. “Where is the painting?” Kondo asked.
Pinkster pressed buttons on a slim box shaped like the remote controls for a television. A light came on high up in the salon and focused on a large painting mounted on the wall behind Pinkster's chair. The colors were bright, as if the sun had bleached even the blue-green from the water, and a young man standing in a boat was helping a girl take a long step down to join him. Mari Shimada went to the painting and inspected it with a magnifying glass.
“What are your thoughts, Mr. Kondo?”
Kondo adjusted his glasses. “It's good, from what I know of Seurat. But Ms. Shimada is the expert.”
Mari spoke animatedly, whether praising or finding a minor fault. On balance she liked it and gave her generous approval.
“How much?” Kondo asked.
“Eleven million dollars,” Pinkster replied.
Kondo's large head rolled from side to side. “I offer you eight and a half million, fair profit of a half million over what you paid.”
“It was a private sale. You don't know what I paid.”
“My friend in Chicago told me it was $8 million.”
“Your friend got bad information, Mr. Kondo.” He rubbed the cold towel over his cheeks and got to his feet. “Seurat's become popular, and there are precious few for sale. The price is eleven million.”
Kondo went to the painting, inspected it carefully.“My offer is nine.” “The price is fairâand firm.” Pinkster said each word slowly. Kondo motioned for Mari to join him in front of the Seurat. He spoke to her in an unintelligible stream of Japanese that was too fast for Pinkster to decipher. Perhaps it all meant something, or more likely it was part of Kondo's negotiating strategy.
“Show us the other paintings,” Kondo said. “There may be another painting that will allow us to make a fair bargain.”
Pinkster pressed more buttons on the remote controls. The light on the Seurat dimmed, and simultaneously another light splashed over a Picasso. “This is
Seated Nude
, painted in 1911. Small, I grant, but properly priced. I expect $2.5 million.”
The light dimmed on the Picasso, and a third bright light fell over a somber interior scene. “This is a rare Edouard Vuillard, painted in 1893 and called
The New Neighbor
. The price is $7 million.”
As the light on the Vuillard dimmed, another brightened and shone on an energetically expressive painting filled with printed messages and slogans. “This is by Jean Michel Basquiat, a New Yorker whose career as a Neo-Expressionist flashed briefly. He died of a drug overdose at twenty-seven. This is
Fish Market
. An excellent purchase for a million-two.”
Again a light dimmed, and another burned brightly. This time it was Monet's
Woman with a Blue Parasol
. Pinkster praised the sundrenched garden, then added, “You may recall that this painting was originally quite wide, too wide for the taste of an early owner who cut away ten inchesâbut to some critics it was an improvement. It's an important painting, and I expect $12 million.”
The next was by Marc Chagall. It was a wildly colorful circus scene, highly spirited and amusing. “I have not put a price on this painting, but will not let it go for under five million.”
Pinkster stood in the circle of subdued light that illuminated the Monet, his face as red as the roses in the garden in the painting. “I have one more painting to show you. It was offered to me this past winter, and I took a chance on it. It is not to everyone's taste, but it will be of interest to someone who maintains a private collection.”
Six paintings were now in subdued light, and then as he had done before, Pinkster turned on another light. This one seemed brighter than the others and was focused on a painting of three jockeys atop their mounts; behind them were crowds of horse racing enthusiasts. “This is
Before The Race
by Edgar Degas.”
Kondo rushed toward the painting. “Where did you get it?”
“It came through Switzerland, and that's all I will say about it.”
“Stolen from the Burroughs Collection in Boston,” Kondo said excitedly.
“Quite right,” Pinkster said calmly. “One of twelve paintings, and now they're all coming to the surface. All but the Vermeer. They say that one's worth sixty million.”
“I know where it is,” Kondo said; “not exactly, of course, but it's in Japan.”
“In a normal market this painting would be worth $20 million. But as I've never traded in stolen art, I'll ask you to tell me what it's worth.”
Kondo stared at the three jockeys. “It varies from buyer to buyer, painting to painting. You bought it for resale, and you must put a price on it. Whoever buys it will decide how much it's worth to own a famous painting only he can enjoy.”
Pinkster manipulated the remote switcher, and all the lights glowed at full intensity. “What do you think, Mr. Kondo?”
“That you're brave or crazy to show us the Degas.”
“I choose my audience very carefully,” Pinkster smiled. “I believe you have one client who would like to own the Degas.”
“More than one would like to own it, but only one who would dare.”
“Show it to him.”
“You will let me do that?”
“We'll divide everything over the two and a half million dollars I paid for it.”
A lopsided smile spread across Kondo's round face. “I might get five million, an outside chance for six.”
“Six will do nicely,” Pinkster said, smiling authentically for the first time. “They cut the canvas from the frame when it was stolen, but a small loss. It must be remounted, of course.” Pinkster took the painting from its temporary frame and placed it between sheets of clear vinyl, then handed it to Mari, who slid it into the zippered case.
It had all moved smoothly from Pinkster's perspective, even to showing the Degas. He had excited Kondo into taking it to Japan where he was certain to show it to the top brass of the Yakuza and encourage them to bid among themselves. Pinkster was amused by the thought of the heads of Japan's organized crime competing for a painting that the eventual owner could show only to those few who had bid against him. It had also gone well because Kondo's famous
temper hadn't flashed even briefly. He was known to bully dealers, even private collectors. He could easily do it, as he was tall for a Japanese and thick-shouldered. Some knew of his close connection with Isorai Tumbari, acknowledged to be the senior leader of Yakuza... Tumbari, who had started with a collection of oriental art, which he gave to museums as a show of civic generosity ... Tumbari, who relied on intermediaries like Kondo for advice and reciprocated by assigning a few of his men to enforce arrangements Kondo wished to make.
Pinkster knew that Tumbari was not Kondo's only patron. He also associated with a marginal element in Japan's affluent society where, as Kondo had said, “there's no taste, but an endless stream of money.” Kondo had himself become a wealthy man but was highly secretive and frequently paranoiac. He always carried large amounts of money and also a snub-nosed Semmerling pistol, which he had used on two occasions. Once when he had been unable to strike a deal on his terms he fired the gun into the ceiling in sheer frustration. One day, thought Pinkster, the gun might be aimed at a lower target.
“About the Seurat?” Pinkster said. “Will you buy it?”
“We're two million apart.”
“Make an offer.”
Kondo returned to the row of paintings and once more walked slowly past each one. He crooked his finger at Mari, who joined him. They stopped in front of each painting, talking fast and shaking their heads vigorously. Then Kondo returned to his chair and said he wanted some cold beer. Pinkster went to the bar and returned with a glass and three bottles of beer on a tray. Kondo drained one bottle in a single gulp.
“I want the Seurat, and I want the Basquiat. But more than either one, I want a Cézanne.”
“I don't have a Cézanne. My self-portrait was destroyed. You know that.”
Kondo smiled. His eyes closed and seemed to disappear behind the glasses. “There are some things about the destruction of all the Cézannes that is most puzzling.”
“Merely puzzling?” Pinkster pressed the cold towel against his forehead. “It's an utter obscenity. There have been terrible losses. Millions gone up in an acid spray.”
“All the more reason I want a Cézanne. If his still lifes can auction for twenty million, a self-portrait will bring forty.” Kondo got to his feet, loomed over Pinkster, and said, his voice rising, “I want one, and I want you to get it for me.”
“After losing one, so do I!” Pinkster said angrily. “There are only two in private hands, and neither one's for sale.”
Kondo patted the big zippered case. “The Degas is for sale.” He grinned. “I could sell the same painting several times and take a higher commission with every sale.” He shook his head gleefully. “There are a few men with great amounts of money and the same quantity of greed and ego. They would each want to own such a painting for a year perhaps, then after they're tired of it, sell it.” He glanced toward Mari for her smiling approbation. “Who owns the Cézannes?”
“A middle-aged American with a fondness for beautiful women and a recently widowed French woman who may sell her painting for half its worth to a museum in Aix-en-Provence.”
“Do you know these people?”
“I have met the American, but only briefly. I know the French woman's name and know that she lives in the south of France.”
Kondo rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I repeat. I want a Cézanne self-portrait.”
They could feel the boat turn, then stop. The big diesels shut down. Pinkster checked the time. It was 11:35.
“You came for the Seurat. What's your offer?”
Kondo replied without hesitation. “Eleven and a half million for the Seurat and the Basquiat, and I will take the Degas and we split the profits.”
Pinkster patted his cheeks with the cold towel. “Certified bank drafts and cash.”
“The same as before.” Kondo took an envelope from inside his jacket. “Here are eleven drafts, each for $1 million, plus two each for $250,000.” He smiled as he put several of the drafts back in the envelope. “I was prepared to pay more.”
Pinkster returned a weak smile. “I was prepared to accept less.” He extended his hand. “We each think it was a good deal.”
They filed up the steep ladder to the main deck of the tug. Before stepping across to his boat, Kondo put himself squarely in front of Pinkster. “Someone is behind the destruction of the Cézannes, and I believe you know something about it.” He took hold of Pinkster's
shoulders with strong hands. “If you do know and don't bring me into your confidenceâ” Kondo intensified his grip on Pinkster's arms, then ever so slightly pushed him away before letting his hands fall to his side.
Pinkster replied, “That's foolish talk. Positive rubbish.”
Kondo said, “Is it rubbish that you have no insurance on your Cézanne? Perhaps in the interest of research, you will permit Mari Shimada to inspect the remains of your painting. She will perform ... an autopsy.”
Before turning away, Kondo said, “Expect a phone call, and we will make arrangements.”
A
n invitation to the opening of the American Artists in New England Exhibition was a highly prized piece of paper. Perhaps it was a case of nationalistic pride or the promise that it would be an evening more noted for who would be there than for all the art on the walls. The “who” was to include a former president and his wife, a once-upon-a-time governor attempting a political comeback, two ex-Celtic basketball players, and James Wyeth, who was the only celebrity still gainfully employed. Chauncey Eaton was the director of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and he had planned an exhibition that would be the first major showing of American artists who had lived and painted in a New England state. Four Winslow Homer paintings were the centerpiece; other works ranged from primitive portraits by Rufus Hathaway to the abstractions of the Dutch-born yet thoroughly Americanized Willem de Kooning.