“What?”
They got into the truck. “Clint, I was just explaining to my friend that you saw a lot of Westerns when you were a kid.”
“And grew up to earn the bucks to live ’em.” Braddock smiled. “See a movie, be a movie.”
3
Bucks is right, Sienna thought, watching the grassland stretch away. Every mile or so, a shade tree punctuated the view, but otherwise, there was only sky and land. And cattle, plenty of cattle. And then an oil pump, then another, and another, until hundreds cluttered the landscape, their armatures bobbing up and down. Braddock had been driving for a half hour before they got to a sprawling two-and-a-half-story white house. With a porch that went along almost the entire front, it made Sienna think she’d seen it before.
Then she realized she had.
“Recognize it?” Braddock asked.
“Wasn’t this in that James Dean movie, Giant?” she asked in amazement.
“Sort of,” Braddock said. “The real house is south of here on somebody else’s spread. It’s not even a real house. It’s just a shell they built for exteriors and then let fall apart when they were done with the movie. So I had this replica built.”
They drove through an arched entrance that had the word RIATA written across it, the same name as the ranch in Giant.
“With all your interest in the West,” Malone said, “I never understood why you collected me instead of Remington or another western painter.”
“Variety.”
“And all the time I thought it was my genius.”
“I didn’t want you to get a swelled head.” Braddock chuckled. “The truth is, little lady, the first time I saw Chase’s work, I knew I had to own it.”
Sienna understood after they parked on the curved driveway in front of the house, then crossed the lawn and the echoing porch to go inside. Braddock stayed outside to give instructions to one of his ranch hands, then joined them, enjoying the way Sienna admired the paintings on the walls.
There were at least twenty, all landscapes, all vibrant with color. She saw Chase’s signature on the bottom of several and turned toward him in surprise. “How many of these are yours?”
Braddock answered for him. “All of them. I’ve got some in the dining room, too. How come you’re surprised?”
“It’s just… well, the only work of Chase’s I’ve seen was a portrait of me. And some sketches of me and…” She looked at him in amazement. “I had no idea what your real work was like.”
“The portrait of you was the best thing I’ve ever done,” Chase said.
Braddock straightened. “Is it for sale?”
“I’m afraid that can’t be arranged.”
“Money’s no object.”
“It isn’t with the man who owns it, either. Plus, there are” – Malone hesitated – “personal reasons for him to want to keep it.”
“I’ve never seen paintings that make me feel so many other senses. I can almost smell the dew on the grass,” Sienna said.
“You should have been an art critic.”
“Don’t joke.”
“He’s not,” Braddock said. “You got the point right off. Chase’s paintings celebrate life. You’d be a better art critic than those SOBs who don’t know pretension from piss.”
Sienna laughed.
“The two of you had breakfast?” Braddock asked.
“No.”
“Why don’t I tell the cook to fix you somethin’.” Sienna’s stomach rumbled. She laughed again.
“But I warn you,” Braddock said. “My cook’s not one of those namby-pambies who worries all day about how much cholesterol’s in his menus. He’ll give you good honest bacon and eggs, hash browns and pancakes, or a breakfast burrito with salsa and refried beans.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Sienna said.
“Meantime, the biggest guest bedroom’s to the left at the top of the stairs. The two of you go get yourselves cleaned up. The closet has extra clothes in various sizes. I like to keep spares for my guests. I’m bettin’ you’ll find this or that to fit you.”
“Thanks,” Sienna said.
“Then we’ll get down to business” – Braddock directed his gaze firmly at Chase – “and find out what kind of trouble you’re in.”
4
Sienna bit into a chunk of burrito stuffed with eggs, rice, beans, and sausage. “Great. Especially the sausage. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“Chorizo. It’s Mexican,” Braddock said. “Not too hot for you?”
“I can’t get enough of it.” She spooned more green chili over the burrito.
“Yeah, you’ve got fiery skin. A lady after my own heart.”
Malone raised his spoon from a bowl of refried beans topped with red chili and melted cheese. “What I need,” he said, “is a patron.”
Braddock set down his coffee and waited for him to continue.
“Somebody to subsidize me.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Somebody to buy my paintings in advance.”
Braddock narrowed his grizzled eyebrows. “You need cash that bad?”
“Things are a little tight.”
“After everything I bought from you?” Braddock pointed toward the dining room wall across from him, where there were three other of Malone’s paintings. “Over the years, I must’ve paid – what, six million? What on God’s earth did you do with the money?”
“I still have it, but I can’t get to it. As soon as I try, someone who’s looking for us will know where we are.”
Braddock squinted at Sienna, then back at Malone. “Somebody like a husband?”
Malone spread his hands.
Braddock’s bushy eyebrows narrowed more severely. Then his head started to bob. He laughed. “Shoot, boy, why didn’t you just say so? Twenty years ago, I had a situation along husband lines myself. I always had a suspicion you and I were alike. You want some travelin’-around money while he cools off, is that what you’re askin’?”
“Maybe more than just traveling-around money. He’s not going to cool off for quite a while. In fact, I don’t think he’s ever going to cool off.”
Braddock studied Sienna for several seconds, then nodded pensively. “Yeah, I can see why. This husband – you can’t use offshore accounts to dodge him?”
“I wouldn’t dare try,” Malone said, “and I’d never risk getting a friend to do it for me.”
“But isn’t that what you’re doin’ right now, askin’ a friend?”
“To pay me in advance for paintings I’ll deliver.”
“Assumin’ you live to complete ’em,” Braddock said.
Sienna felt the color drain from her face.
“It’s that serious, right?” Braddock asked. “Your husband’s a player.”
“Yes.”
“Who doesn’t believe in rules.”
“Yes.”
Braddock thought a moment, then whistled to himself, low and pensively. “How much do you need?”
“A million dollars.”
Braddock didn’t even blink.
“In cash. Hundreds,” Malone said.
“Exactly what am I gonna get for this lavish amount?” “Ten paintings.”
“Ten.”
“That’s a hundred thousand apiece.”
“I never paid less than two hundred thousand for any of your work.”
“Call it a fire sale.”
“If word gets around, if you do this with any of your other collectors, you’ll drive down the market.”
“You’re the only one I approached,” Malone said. “The only one I’ll ever approach.”
“Where do you figure to hide?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Braddock thought about it. “You’re right. And you don’t want me to know, either. In case somebody comes around.”