Daily Archives: December 14, 2024

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 A Charlie Glass Thriller Series Two weeks later, Charlie still hadn’t managed to extract herself from New York. Mercifully, she had been able to shed the Yankees hat.  Pop read a nearby graphic. “What’s Synchronism?” “It’s a form of abstract art that creates effects through rhythmic color forms. Why do you ask?” “This fella here.” “Thomas Hart Benton?” “The very same, says he was one of those Synchronism chaps.”  “Well, it must be true if it says it there. This is, after all, the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” The pair looked around in unison. “It’s quite the place.”  “It certainly is. Of course, it’s not the Smithsonian.” “Of course, Pop, nothing ever is.” “So, why are we here again?” “I wanted to show you this painting.” “This synchronist painting?” “Very good. This Synchronist painting.” “What about it?” “Recognize anyone?” The epic painting depicted a host of steelworkers carrying out various functions. Molten ore poured across scenes covered with steam and fire. Almost art nouveau in style, the bottom right section of the collage gathered Charlie’s interest. She pointed to a man in a sleeveless t-shirt, stoking a fire in the sweltering heat. “Recognize him?” “No. Should I?” “Well, you bought one of his paintings.” “What that’s Pollock?” “Allegedly. It is said he posed as a model for this very painting.” “Ha! No way. You’re a constant source of surprises.” “As are you Pop. You did well on the sting.” “Ah, it was nothing. I did as I was told. Be yourself and buy a painting. It’s a good job the checkbook was fake. I don’t have anything like that kind of money.” “Well, we got her and her forgery ring, so thanks a million.” “She looked so innocent.” “Looks are almost always deceiving.” “Learn that from your FBI training?” “No. I learned that from you. Don’t you remember?” “I can barely remember what I had for breakfast.” “Really? It was an overblown pastrami bagel!” “Oh yeah. How can I forget?” The pair bumped shoulders, never losing eye contact with the massive painting in front of them. Pop kicked off the inquiry. “So, how can you be so sure? “About?” “The lady’s guilt.” We had a tip that she was selling fakes. Well, not fakes as such. She was just selling too many of them in too short a time frame.”  “Is that a thing?” “It is, if you’re uncovering once-in-a-lifetime pieces every other month.” “She could be lucky or well connected.” “She’d have to be both to get just one of the paintings she was moving on. And the frequency was off.” “In what way? Instead of the supply drying up, it was opening up.” “So, she got greedy?” “That’s what got her on our radar. That’s not what sealed her fate.” “Was there one thing? A silver bullet?” “No, just a host of self-inflicted wounds.” Charlie turned to face her father, leaned in, and lifted his hand. “Speaking of self-inflicted wounds, I have some news.” Concern etched Pop’s brow as Charlie brought his worst fears to life. “They have asked me to go to Iraq.” Charlie stood beside the massive painting of steelworkers, the conversation with her father lingering in the air like a storm cloud. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was bustling with visitors, the sound of hushed conversations and echoing footsteps filling the grand halls. She turned her attention back to her father, who wore a mixture of concern and pride on his face. “Iraq?” Pop’s voice quivered slightly as he processed the news. “What for?” Charlie took a deep breath and began explaining. “The Bureau has been tasked with investigating a series of art thefts in Iraq, and they want me to lead the team. It’s a delicate situation. With the instability in the region, there’s been a surge in looting of historical artifacts and art from museums and archaeological sites.” Pop furrowed his brow, concern etching lines on his face. “That sounds dangerous, Charlie.” Charlie nodded through her solemn expression. “It is, but it’s also important work. We’re trying to recover Iraq’s cultural heritage and prevent these stolen artifacts from ending up on the black market. It’s not just about art; it’s about preserving history.” Her father’s eyes softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I understand, Charlie. You’ve always been determined to make a difference. Just promise me you’ll be careful over there.” “I promise, Pop,” Charlie replied with a grateful smile. “And I’ll make sure to keep you updated. We’ll video chat whenever we can.” As they continued to discuss her upcoming mission, the ambience of the museum surrounded them. Visitors from around the world marveled at the art and history displayed on the walls, the echoes of admiration blending with the emotions in the air. Meanwhile, back in New York City, the autumnal weather persisted. The crisp air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from street vendors mingling with the aroma of freshly baked pretzels. The city’s vibrancy flowed through the streets. At the Manheim Gallery of Fine Art, the Jackson Pollock painting remained safely displayed under the dim, carefully positioned lights. The gallery owner, Geraldine Plummer, was nowhere to be seen, her criminal endeavors now exposed. In the heart of Manhattan, life moved on.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 A Charlie Glass Thriller Series A few days later, Charlie arrived at the gallery a little over an hour before closing. The old school bell above the door rattled as she entered. The older owner could not have been less pleased to see Charlie. Although serving another elderly couple, the woman’s tut seemed to drown out the bell. Charlie took no heed. Instead, she eased through the gallery on a beeline for her Pollock. The crisp lighting cast a sheen across the polished limestone floor. Wandering through, Charlie’s clunky boots made quite the impression. As if disturbed by her arrival, the old couple severed negotiations and shuffled for the door. This was Charlie’s fifth visit. In that time, the elderly couple had been the only other patrons she had noticed. Quality, not quantity. And there it was, the Pollock. Wire spotlights hung above the painting, mounted against a charcoal felt backboard. At three feet by two feet, the piece was far removed from the massive specimens Pollock had become famous for producing. Trademark multi-colored splashes and sloshes coated a cream canvas that had soured over time. Faded Crimson Flashes did battle with ochre and yellow dashes. In a break from the norm, sporadic strokes from an angled brush had thrown strips of convoluted charcoal around the chaos. Charlie recognized the style prevalent toward the end of Pollock’s short life. In a bid to throw out more pieces, he had downsized and economized. It was the perfect example of his work. Charlie stalked the piece like a hunting lion.  The owner lurked in the wings, like a vulture. The owner’s tall, angular, high-structured façade matched the nearby building sitting at the intersection of 5th Avenue and Broadway. Charlie leaned in close to inspect the signature. Scribbled and barely legible, the frenetic scroll was perfectly placed toward the bottom right but still embedded in the bedlam. Leaning in further, she set her nose close to the piece. Filling her lungs, she categorized the painting’s mystical aromas.  “So, you’re back.” Condescension coated every syllable. A tight, garish, multi-patterned dress was pulled in at the waist by an oversized patent leather belt. The woman’s dress code matched her age, late sixties. “Please step away from the piece.” The old owner had seen enough. Charlie tucked her hands inside the pockets of her oversized combat jacket. “I wasn’t going to touch-“ “That’s from the man himself, Jackson Pollock.” “Paul.” “I beg your pardon?” “Jackson was his middle name. His name was Paul.”  “So, you know a little about Mister Pollock. You ought to. What is this, your tenth time in here?” “Fifth.” “Hmm. Feels like tenth.” The owner awarded herself with a chuckle.  Charlie couldn’t be baulked. “It’s quite the piece, though.” “He’s not always been popular, you know. The New Yorker once derogatively described him as Jack the Dripper.” “Time.” “Pardon?” “It wasn’t the New Yorker, it was Time Magazine.” Charlie enjoyed that one. “My, you are informed.” “Informed and interested.” “Interested in?” “Buying this. It is for sale, isn’t it?” The old owner’s face almost straightened. “I’m sorry, but I’d respectfully suggest that-“ “I’m not after respect. I’m after a price.” “Eight hundred and seventy-five thousand.” “That’s the asking price?” “That’s the ticketed price, yes.” “And that’s negotiable?” “We don’t horse trade.” “But it’s negotiable.” “It’s malleable.” The old lady refused to buy Charlie’s buying signals. “Well, I will leave you to ruminate.” “Oh, I’ve done all the rumination I need. It’s my father you need to convince.” “Your father?” “You don’t think I could afford this on my own?” The old owner’s face told Charlie that for once, they were in agreement. “Hang on, I’ll call him; he’s supposed to be here any minute.”  The phone rang out. Suddenly, the gallery door clanged open. “Pop!” “Hello, Charlotte.” “I was just calling you.” “Sorry, I was a little distracted. There’s a lovely dog park across the street and there’s was this cute little French bulldog just-“ “Oh, we can hear about that later Pop, I’m sure this lady doesn’t want to hear your stories about-“ “Geraldine Plummer. Pleased to meet you.” “Oh, is that your name? In the ten times I’ve been coming here, you’ve not said.” Pop returned the greeting. “Professor Glass of the Smithsonian.” “The Smithsonian? How interesting.” Charlie bristled inwardly. Lady, you’re interested, but not in Pop’s position. “Your daughter, Charlotte, is it? Has a keen eye on our Pollock.” “Well, she has known what she wanted her entire life.” “And what she wants, she gets?” enquired the owner. Pop smiled. “Well, we’ll see about that.” “Can I introduce you to the piece?” Pop slithered. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not really my thing. The more I look at it, the less likely a sale will be.” “Come on, Pop, don’t be like that. It’s an investment.” “I’m not really here to see the canvas. I’m here to see the paperwork.” “You want to check the supporting documentation.” “Province, I think you call it?” “Provenance.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “Sorry girlie, we can’t all be graduates of the Sorbonne.” “The Sorbonne? In Paris?” “Is there another one?”  It appeared Pop couldn’t help himself. “Faculty of Arts and Humanities.”  Geraldine looked a little too impressed by the recent disclosures. “Well, you’ll appreciate the supporting documentation. We’ve never had a piece so well supported and so thoroughly authenticated.” “Well, who am I to stand in the way of my daughter’s dreams? Lead on.” “Wow, well OK. Please come this way.” Geraldine led the pair through a well-appointed back alcove. The choice of still or sparkling waters was offered and courteously declined. The allure of freshly prepared espresso proved too enticing for Charlie. “May I?”  “Of course.” “Anyone else?” After receiving two shakes of the head, Charlie set to work, and Geraldine moved off into a back office. By the time Charlie had prepared her drink, Geraldine was back, fully loaded with the pertinent documentation.  Inside the…