A Shameless Little Con Read online

  Alice has a rifle in her hands and it’s pointed right at the running man, who now has about eight agents in hot pursuit, all shouting, all with handguns drawn.

  One eye is closed as Alice sets the sight level and–

  CRACK!

  She shoots.

  She misses.

  The guy cries out as two agents tackle him. I am watching Alice with a morbid fascination. Her hair is loose, flowing halfway down her back, a shock of white against a patterned silk jacket that looks more like a warlock’s robe than anything else. Her eyes are narrowed, mouth pursed, and I swear she’s ready to–

  Another gunshot.

  “HALT!” Alice shouts, the voice confident, almost serene. I guess when you’re holding a gun in Texas on your own property, you can use that voice.

  And then I look to see Silas holding his gun, aimed straight for Alice Mogrett’s head.

  “Oh my GOD!” I scream. “Put down the gun!”

  “I’ll lower my weapon when she does,” he barks, hands steady, gun pointed right at her face, full on.

  “Then you’d better have a strong arm, young man, because I’ll lower mine when I’m dead,” Alice retorts, her hands a little shakier than Silas’s, but not much.

  “Don’t test me, ma’am. Lower your weapon. We have the trespasser situation under control.”

  “Clearly you don’t, or he’d have never gotten on my land in the first place! You Secret Service men have really gone downhill since the early 1980s. You used to be sharper.”

  “I wasn’t even born then, ma’am.”

  “See? Proving my point.”

  “Ma’am, you’re pointing your weapon at a member of a presidential candidate’s security detail.”

  “And you’re pointing your gun at the last remaining living daughter of a famous vice president. We’re even, young man.”

  I know Alice. She isn’t kidding, and she isn’t budging.

  I don’t know Silas as well, though. I know one thing: he doesn’t care about my opinion.

  I have to try anyhow.

  “Put down the gun, Silas. Once you do, Alice will drop hers,” I say in a determined voice.

  “That’s not how this works, Jane,” he answers, jaw tight, line of sight clear and focused. He has one eye shut, the other on his gun, the sight level. I’ve seen plenty of men holding guns over the last year, and I know the look of someone who is ready to fire.

  One step. I move closer to Silas, who glances at me, his eyes barely moving but darting left, then right.

  “Jane! Stay put!”

  “You love ordering women around, don’t you?” Alice cracks, giving me confidence to move suddenly until I am between them, blocking both of their shots.

  “Jesus, Jane!” Silas shouts. “Don’t do this!”

  “You’ve given me no choice!” I thunder, nerves bouncing like pennies on a trampoline.

  “Well played,” Alice says, lowering hers first with a long sigh. Her grin is electric. “Tea or lemonade this time?”

  “Lavender lemonade?” I ask, hopeful.

  “With fresh mint?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Silas is lowering his gun, watching us like we are insane.

  “You can’t do that!” he shouts, moving in, gun still in hand, safety off.

  “Now you want to tell me how to use my own homegrown mint?” Alice objects. “You can pull a gun on me on my own land, young man, but I draw the line at being told how to make refreshments for my guests.”

  He’s not playing our harmless little game. “I could have you arrested for what you just did.”

  “Try it.” Alice’s wrinkled face rises up as she smiles, her skin moving a half second later than the expression. “Arrest a ninety-two-year-old beloved American icon because you people couldn’t do your job and keep a wacko stalker off my land? Here in Texas you’d be rolled in barbecue sauce and thrown on the grill as a primer for the real beef, sweetums.”

  Silas stares her down.

  Alice stares back.

  “Here’s the difference between us, young man. You still give a fuck. I don’t. Jane, get in here and let’s add some vodka to those lavender mint lemonades you love so much. We have a lot of catching up to do, now that you’re Public Enemy Number One. Who the hell did you piss off so much that you got stuck with him on your security detail?”

  She points at Silas as we walk into her house.

  “I, uh–”

  “I mean, he’s pretty on the eyes and all, but a few cows short of a herd on common sense.”

  Silas ignores her and climbs up the stairs, blowing past us, standing in the living room facing Alice, who pats her gun like it is an obedient dog.

  “I’m here to protect her,” he said, pointing to me. “You were a presumed threat. Put the rifle away for the duration of our visit.”

  “No.” Alice watches him with that professor’s gaze I knew well, the slightly amused twist of her lips below eyes that evaluate him.

  “Do it or I’ll tip off the local sheriff and the press that your antique guns aren’t registered.” He cocks an eyebrow as he eyes the rifle. “That’s a beautiful Winchester 94.”

  “Thank you. Been in the family for generations.”

  “Would be a shame to lose it.”

  “The only way I’d lose this gun, young man, is up your ass after shoving it there.”

  “Can’t shove what you don’t possess, ma’am. Kindly put the rifle away in a secured gun safe, unloaded, and we can just pretend this never happened.”

  “Or, I can keep it with me for protection. Who was that crazy photographer? How did he get on my land? Ask all these Secret Service agents I don’t want in the first place. Make them do their job.”

  “I don’t know the answers to your questions, ma’am. I just know Jane is here at your invitation and I cannot let her spend time in a room with someone holding a gun.”

  “You’re holding a gun,” I point out.

  “I’m your bodyguard,” he says slowly, as if I’m being belligerent.

  “And?”

  “I need a gun. It’s part of the job.”

  “I need my gun,” Alice says with a sniff. “Because people like you aren’t doing your job. That trespasser could have attacked me!”

  “He was looking for pictures.”

  “Of what? My saggy old ass?”

  Silas reddens. “Probably of Jane.”

  “Jane’s ass is a much better target for a photographer,” Alice concedes.

  “Stop talking about asses!” I interject.

  Alice thumbs toward Silas. “Bet his is nice.”

  “Alice!” I gasp.

  She pulls me in for a hug, her deep, open laugh so strong, it vibrates through my chest as she embraces me. “Oh, Jane. It’s good to see you again.”

  Silas pries the rifle out of her hands, carefully unloading it, shoving the ammo in his front right pocket. He sets the rifle against the wall next to Alice and wordlessly stands next to us, typing furiously on his phone.

  Alice wraps one silk-covered arm around my shoulders. “Come in! Sit. You must be exhausted from the trip.”

  “I am.”

  She pauses, peering at me. I have seen pictures of Alice when she was younger, with jet-black hair and big piercing eyes. She was a classic beauty back in the 1940s and 1950s, likened to Elizabeth Taylor.

  But wild.

  “You’re exhausted by much more than your trip, Jane,” she says with kindness, leading me up the stairs to the front door.

  “No kidding.” It’s no use trying to lie to Alice, or shave a little something off the truth to keep the peace. She’s a straight talker, no bullshit, and the sooner you just get to the truth with her, the better. In art classes, she was exactly the same. Never be pretentious with Alice, and never lie.

  Both end badly for anyone who tries.

  The studio is a large, lodge-like building with an enormous high-ceilinged great room, a small kitchen without walls along one side. Painti
ngs are everywhere, on easels large and small, most angled toward the large glass windows in specific locations.

  Some painters are more into composition, color, white space–but for Alice, it is all about the light. Sunlight and moonlight, dusk and dawn, the in between that changes faces without movement–that is her tool. It doesn’t matter the subject. If she can play with light, using the different saturations and shadows to explain anew, it is enough.

  Alice’s style is a combination of Georgia O’Keeffe and Maxfield Parrish, with a little Warhol thrown in. You never know what her vision will look like, but she paints exclusively women, most as nudes, and they are breathtaking. She sees into your soul and turns it into brushstrokes, deconstructing emotion and flesh, migrating it to canvas.

  “Come in! I can’t believe you’ve never been here. I’ve hosted a few students over the years,” she says, turning to the left, where there is an open-plan kitchen with counters covered in old Formica, filled with appliances that look like they are out of a 1980s sitcom. Big spider plants hang from enormous exposed beams, the tendrils of the plants woven like nature planned it all.

  “I wasn’t one of your protégés, Alice.”

  “You were my best subject, though.”

  Silas came into the house uninvited, but is unobtrusive. Alice casts an amused glance his way. “You want some lavender lemonade?”

  “Yes, ma’am, as long as there’s no alcohol.”

  “You like it virgin, do you?” Her eyes twinkle as she asks him the question.

  He doesn’t take the bait. “Can’t drink on the job. Besides, I get the impression I need to keep every wit about me and on standby when I’m around you, Ms. Mogrett.”

  “Alice! Call me Alice.”

  “Will do, Ms. Mogrett.”

  Alice rolls her eyes and says to me, “He’s a fun one, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He rescued me today in an embarrassing bathroom incident on the plane.”

  “Got sick?”

  “Got stuck.” Too late, I realize I’ve brought up the awkward moment, my mouth moving faster than my brain. In a way, I can’t help myself, loosening up the longer we’re here, in spite of the gun moment.

  “Stuck in a bathroom?” She looks behind me. “Your ass isn’t that big!”

  “Now we’re back to asses again?” I joke as she opens the fridge and takes out a pitcher of lemonade. From the freezer she retrieves a bottle of vodka, putting the two on the counter next to each other.

  “You can never talk about asses too much, Jane. Get used to it. When you’re my age, all people want to talk about is what comes out of them.”

  I’m speechless as Alice laughs, pouring liberal amounts of vodka into two tall iced tea glasses, then adding lemonade. She reaches for a small pile of greens in a little clear glass. As she crushes some leaves between her fingers and tosses them on top, the cool scent of mint tickles my nose.

  “Voilà!” she declares, handing me mine. Then she pulls out another glass, fills it with lemonade and mint, and offers it to Silas. He takes it.

  “Thank you, Ms. Mogrett.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Formal.”

  He turns away, admiring the paintings, his back to me and Alice.

  “See? Asses. Can’t stop, can we?” she says with a laugh.

  I watch his face in profile. He’s really paying attention, taking in all the canvases, looking at the exits and entrances, observing.

  Silas is an aware person. Nothing gets past him, and while it’s his job, there’s more to it.

  He is just this way.

  Some people are dull. Boring. Uninteresting. They’re dry and bland because they lack curiosity. You can see it in their faces. Alice talked about that a lot in the art classes I took with her, and at the time I thought she was exaggerating.

  Time has shown me she was right.

  Silas, though, is someone who is constantly aware, constantly learning, always interested. I get the sense that the job hasn’t made him this way–if anything, maybe the reverse.

  He chose a job that requires constantly paying attention because he was already always paying attention.

  A ray of sunlight catches a small prism hanging from a hook off one of the main support beams, the blue and green light distracting me. Silas turns, and as he does, we both see the wall to the right of the kitchen. The painting.

  Oh, boy.

  It’s me.

  Naked.

  Chapter 12

  Ever see a spit take in real life? I never have.

  Until now.

  Silas pulls the glass away from his mouth and sprays the small table in the kitchen, his eyes going big as he looks at the enormous canvas, life-sized, about seven feet tall and four feet wide. I remember the painting, the pose one of me standing, drying off from a bath with a terrycloth towel, the side view the focus, my breasts dipping down, gravity making them look like grapes waiting to be plucked.

  “Excuse me,” he says in a tight voice, grabbing a kitchen towel from a small towel rack next to the sink before Alice or I can react. As he cleans, he can’t help himself, staring at the painting. “Is that–is the model–”

  “That’s Jane, all right,” Alice says, reading his mind.

  He lets out a low whistle.

  Now I blush.

  “Pardon me,” he immediately says, regret filling his voice. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

  “What way? Like a straight human male who sees a beautiful, artistic rendition of a woman?” Alice asks.

  “Uh, yes,” he replies, flustered. It’s adorable and hot at the same time. Silas is the only man I’ve ever met who can manage both.

  Or maybe he’s the only man I’ve ever noticed being both.

  He finishes cleaning and Alice takes the towel from him, grinning.

  “I was offered seven figures for that painting,” she tells him, watching his reaction as he looks at it, spellbound.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he says, not breaking away, his face fixed on looking.

  “I refused.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” I say.

  “Money? I don’t need any more money. What I need is more beauty.”

  “You have quite the talent, Ms. Mogrett.”

  “I don’t need validation from you, Mr. Formal, but thank you.”

  We take our drinks and move into the center of the studio. Painters have a way of creating a unique scene with their art. I didn’t understand that until I took my first painting class.

  “Have you considered posing again?” Alice asks. Oh, she’s direct, all right.

  “What?”

  “Posing.” Alice sweeps her arm around the room, her hand resting in a position pointed straight at the wall of paintings featuring me. “You’re an exceptional subject, Jane. Always have been.”

  “I just know how to sit still.” Silas remains standing, looking at his phone in one hand, holding the lemonade in the other. His eyes dance between his phone screen and my portrait, the painting winning.

  “No. You know far more than that. If just sitting still were the sole criterion for being a subject, then door jambs and stones would be painted by the millions.”

  I give a half shrug.

  “You have the ability to turn stillness into emotion.”

  “No, Alice–you have that ability.”

  “I translate that emotion into a visual trigger. But I cannot paint what is not there.”

  I can feel Silas listening.

  I don’t care.

  “You came to college an open, curious child. Yes, child–all eighteen-year-olds are children when you are my age. Hell, fifty-year-olds are, too.”

  I laugh.

  “And your sophomore year you changed.”

  I stop laughing.

  “It was like someone had taken all the light in you and dimmed it. You came back timid. Unsure. Fearful. You had a shadow following you everywhere that wasn’t yours. It co-opted you. That is why I reached out t
o you at school.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you are a painter, you see things no one else sees. It’s a gift and a curse. It’s like being the child of a politician,” she adds, her laugh bitter. “You spend every waking second trying to understand all the connections between people, events, and ideas so that you can see the whole picture, and then beyond.”

  “Beyond?”

  “Nothing in life is ever what appears on the surface. Shallow people like to pretend that the first layer is all that matters, but it’s only pretend. Child’s play. Very few people are that dim. They know deep inside that their obsession with the surface is a falsehood, a story they tell themselves to avoid the depth. In the deep, we have no control. In the deep, we’re at the whim and mercy of forces beyond our understanding.”

  “Now you sound like you’re talking about religion.”

  “Is religion really different from politics? No,” she says, answering her own rhetorical question. “Everything converges given enough time, Jane. Make it to ninety-two and you’ll understand.”

  “I’m just trying to make it to twenty-five.”

  Her sharp gaze unnerves me. “Which is why you’re here.”

  “I’m here because you invited me. And thank you.” I down my drink. The vodka burns, but the mint soothes.

  “You’re also here because you insisted. I know how controlling those bastards in Washington can be. You had to make this happen. Your persistence shows.” Clear eyes catch mine.

  “I guess?” My uncertainty tears me to shreds.

  “Embrace it, Jane. You’re stronger than you think. Look at what they’ve put you through.”

  I just sigh.

  “Now,” she says, walking to the kitchen and pouring me another glass of lemonade. The first one has loosened me up, the tension in my hunched shoulders and neck receding as the minutes pass. My muscles still burn, but I can feel the shoulders lowering.

  I’m finally safe.

  Alice pours a generous shot of vodka into my lemonade and hands it to me, smiling. Her eyes are curious, her look piercingly clear.

  “Talk. I have all day. And tomorrow. The entire weekend for you, Jane. I want to hear everything, from the start.”

  “You–but you already know it.”