In truth, Irene couldn’t care less about the investigator. It was a betrayal, sure, but in her line of work that was the gold standard. It would have been somehow more offensive if she hadn’t tried to set them up. The poor girl was on barely a banker’s wage, and they weren’t exactly close. In truth Irene would have done the same.
She picked up an unassuming vehicle. Something beaten up and sunbleached, a workman’s van. She tried not to think so hard about her husband, her soon-to-be-self-employed boyfriend - that was, if he survived all this. She doubted he’d stay in their employment once his freedom had been insured - and the woman she discarded at a diner further up the road. Trying not to think about something, as we all know, is the worst way to keep thinking about it.
Instead she hummed. No tapes, no radio, to the song that played on the night when she tipped from petty drug mule to master criminal. The day of the fire. Wondering if she could dare admit to herself what she did.
She was never a big Cher fan, no one ever really is. But at the end of the day, history has a habit of forcing songs on the radio into becoming parts of a personal narrative. Latching onto memories and big events, leeching them dry until you can’t separate the song from the act. She knew what she did, and now was the time to deal with it. Not to the interviewer, not to her husband or her boyfriend or the victim of her selfish acts. To herself.
If I could turn back time…
Lily’s gallery. 1988. months before the big inferno.
Irene and Lily had become solid friends over the year. Its easy to make friends when you’re providing someone $2000 for $50 paintings, a perfect smoke screen for a metric shit tonne of cocaine money. The government probably worked it out ages ago, but if they did, they didn’t dare say anything.
Outside of large, showy events, Lily dressed down in shapeless, paint splattered jumpsuits and a selection of neat headscarves and hats. Today she sat in nothing but a bath robe and a set of white pearl jewellery, surrounded by artists and students eager to sketch a lifelike nude.
She perched on a stark white chaise lounge, bottle of wine in hand as the robe was swiftly discarded. The eager students gawked at the scandalous young woman, and watched as she poured an entire bottle of pinot noir down her silky skin, letting it pool at her bellybutton and drip off her cleavage. The final drizzle was used on her legs and feet, starting up at her knee and marinading the poor woman in a glaze of alcohol.
She tried to lay there motionless, until a masculine figure caught her eye. He stood there, broad shoulders and a businesslike haircut, like a lighthouse among the insecure and blushing artists. In an hour or two the shock would wear off, and by the end of the course these early 20s yuppies would view the naked form as nothing more than another object with lights and shadows to sketch.
Lily perched up, observing the man walking towards her. It was entirely possible from her body language that she’d forgotten she was naked at all.
“Hello trouble” she said, watching him as she pulled up the second bottle of wine from beside her, and poured out a little glass of for herself. He pulled up a chair and Lily watched as her designated assistant twitched up ready to escort him away if trouble arose. She dismissed him with a flick of the hand and he stood down, but watched the conversation like a hawk.
Ken was taken back by her cool demeanor, aware that he was in the sphinx’s den this time. She watched him like she was appraising a portrait. “Hello Gorgeous” she whispered. He sat there, quietly aware that he was being added to the background of at least 30 different sketches. He adjusted his position ever so slightly on the spot.
“My wife says you’re helping us with our art problem” Ken interrupted, trying to frost her over before she took the spotlight.
She stared harder, searching for the sketch-lines in his hands and the crows feet at his eyes, trying to get a good read at his visage.
“would that be the barmaid? The twee little redhead who visited my personal office a few days a week?” lily asked.
Ken nodded, “that's the one, quite the firecracker” he replied.
Lily took a finger of wine off her chest and put it to her mouth. Rubbing the drink between her fingers as she talked to get the consistency. “She’s been coming here a while now, she told me you knew.”
Ken nodded again. “Yeah she mentioned it, but I’m beginning to think with the favors you’re doing her, that you’re not just a weekly fling.”
Lily licked her lips and sat up straighter at that.
“I’m just providing her with a little excitement” Lily gasped, throwing in a demure tap of her pearls as she did. “I don’t mean any trouble.”
Ken shrugged “a long time ago she asked me to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t get any trouble.” The words lingered in the air, the veil of euphemism draped over the conversation like a nun’s winkle disguising a vicious crocodile. “… I’m just doing my due diligence.”
Lily held his gaze, “If you want to see what favors I’m providing her, I’d be happy to show you.”
Ken considered the offer, unsure if he should say yes, but it was worth knowing. If nothing else, it was bound to get her attention.
“Okay, meet me at 2pm – and I expect you to be clothed” Ken offered.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Two thirty” she challenged.
“Its a date” Ken concluded.
***
The time ticked along, as Ken lingered, floating through portraits and abstracts and unusual statues of animals. Irene was fully clothed this time, for once not in chiffon or suspiciously large coats. She’d traded her head scarf out for a feathery 80s bob cut that seemed to ruffle out in a mountain of hairspray and back-combing, the tight curls shortening it to about ear length. Her nudity was replaced by a slinky blouse and high waist-ed office trousers. The effect was like that of a more technicolor Sigourney Weaver on the red carpet.
She gave a glance that could have cut glass. “You wanted to know how I got so close to dear Irene?” she asked, guiding him down a flight of stairs into a basement landing full of little storage room doors.
He turned the handle of an enamel white door, the only door that hadn’t been painted. As he stepped in, he was met with Irene and the intern that was standing guard on Lily’s modeling session. They both sat at a velvet table, two seats left to be claimed. About ten paces away from her table was a leather bed with a camera connected to it.
“Irene’s idea” Lily claimed, a suggestion that got a look of vinegar from Irene. These particular poker chips were already engraved, each with an incredibly specific set of instructions.
“Your wife told me about your games, so I’ve taken it upon myself to raise the stakes” Lily smirked. Ken, never a coward in the face of luxury, took a seat forward. “what are we playing for?” he asked the art mistress.
She didn’t answer with words, but she did hold up the casino chip towards the light so he could clearly see the writing on it. He didn’t react, He didn’t typically play those games, not since boarding school.
There was the sound of shuffling, and the silhouettes of his friends in the low light. Ken couldn’t even see his own cards particularly well. He had to stare through the dark and wait for his eyes to adjust. He felt the imprints of the cards, trying to make out if that was a three or an eight.
He looked across at the intern. The figure had to be about twenty five, a tall, hairy, mediterranean man with hair glued back with product. The intern watched the cards carefully and let his glance drift until he was staring back at Ken with a hunger in his eyes.
The cards were dealt, and the cards were revealed. Irene lost the first round to Lily, and on the token that was gambled, was the words passionate kiss. Irene breathed and sat up, locking lips with her sometime-rival and letting a smooth, clean kiss linger on her tongue. It tasted like orange liquor and red wine, and took Irene all her self control not to ruffle the back comb with her hands mid-kiss.
“You said this was performance art” Ken stated.
“What is a better performance than human sexuality? Its all games and challenges.” Lily pointed out.
“Performance art requires an audience” Ken pointed out.
“My medium for this piece is video. Isn’t that right darling?” Lily asked Irene, stroking her cheek gently.
“Then what separates you from the common pornographer?” Ken probed. Lily soured at the question, but still provided a clean answer.
“The common pornographer doesn’t take the time to record the truth. They edit around the awkward moments, they contour the human sexuality so that its only beauty or filth. Catching none of the emotional nuances of the piece” she told him.
Now it was Ken’s turn to bristle. “So … money then?” he disagreed, “Getting it framed.”
While this fencing match was beginning to happen, Lily was drifting back towards her cards, trying to notice what had already been played and what was left on the table. “My family have ties to some more … controversial … New York figures. My willingness to perform was what kept me from trouble” she said, dishing out the cards again.
“That and my brother, who taught me to count cards, to talk business, and to carry myself in a room full of staggeringly sinister colleagues” she said, tapping down on the cards one by one.
“There are 52 cards in a standard pack, 32 of which are above seven. In the last round we played six of the 32 high cards. There are 26 cards left in the back above a seven” she observed.
Irene arched an eyebrow and turned to watch her. Her stomach and heart not settled from the kiss. “Considering my cards that means the odds of you having a higher card than me isn’t worth any big risks” Lily explained aloud.
Irene wouldn’t discuss this conversation when asked about Lily in future articles, but she remembered it well, it was the start of a long few months of practice. The kind of practice that paid the bills quite well.
“Long story short, I fold. I’m out of the game, and I don’t want to waste my chips” she explained, flicking her cards face up and clawing her poker chips like a dragon hoarding gold. She lost, as predicted, but no money was spent.
“So, any more schemes” Ken asked. Irene grabbing his arm affectionately.
Lily fidgeted with her earring, Trying to loosen it before it disrupted the blood flow to her ear. “I’ll be honest, I need a holiday” she told him frankly.
“I would take a residency in Europe somewhere, or maybe a small Japanese town. Somewhere without the drama of New York” she told the table, zshuzshing up her hair and powdering her neck.
Ken looked at her, smelling an idea on the air. “How much is the gallery worth?” he asked candidly.
She told him a number. A very large number.
“And how much of that art is actually meaningful?” he followed up.
She lunged into a lecture about the value of art and beauty, and how each person would view the art differently. She seemed to genuinely believe it. Even for the nonsense abstract paintings.
“If one of these paintings we’ve given you say … caught fire, would the insurance companies be generous? You’re a woman with a colourful history and I’m sure a lot of potential targets on your back” Irene said, cottoning onto the offer.
She thought about it for a second. “We have a pop up gallery full of the lesser known work, but that wouldn’t be enough for the insurance to pay out” she glared.
Irene looked at her, a bitter chill hitting her at that point.
“Any art pieces you despise? Money laundering pieces in cheap frames at the back of the exhibit. Ugly, pretentious works the world could do without?” Irene asked.
A grimace hit Lily’s face as she thought back to her collection.
“We have a Barnett Newman painting we were donated for the tax evasion. If you can promise me most of the gallery will stay untouched, I’ll make sure the cameras are turned off when you need them off” she leant forward.
Ken’s eyes lit up at that promise.
“I’ll do it for you, but you have to do something for me” she said putting down her cards for the next round.
Ken tilted his head like a startled chicken at that caveat. She was a hard taskmaster.
She tossed him a poker chip. Bondage and blindfolds.