The Perfect Marriage(25)
When he had asked James to help, Reid had expected a little pushback. There was something too holier-than-thou about James for his taste. Then again, being a Boy Scout in the art world was akin to being the world’s tallest little person. Even the most scrupulous art dealers cut corners when real money was on the line. Which was why Reid was taken aback when James initially turned the deal down. Then when James called him back to change his mind later that day, Reid wondered whether his original disinclination was all for show, although that seemed a bit over-the-top for even James to demonstrate his scruples.
Reid might have let that go without a second thought if it hadn’t been for the fact that immediately after James said he was in, he suddenly had a buyer. Like some guy was just waiting to buy an unsigned Pollock, and all James had to do was add water.
Reid wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seemed a little too good to be true that, in less than twenty-four hours, James had not only changed his mind about doing the deal but also found an all-cash buyer. Could James be setting him up somehow?
Reid shook the thought away. James wasn’t that way. Besides, what would his angle be?
No matter how much he tried to assuage his fears, Reid couldn’t completely dispel them, however. It all seemed a bit hinky. Even for a semiclandestine art deal.
“His name is Noah Reiss,” James said. “I sold him a Miró a year or two ago.”
“And what’s his business?”
“Not clear. He’s a No Footprint Guy.”
A No Footprint Guy meant that the client had no internet footprint. Google his name, nothing would come up. No Footprint Guys kept their business interests under the radar.
No website. No social media presence. No press about them at all.
It made sense that a No Footprint Guy would buy a Pollock of dubious provenance in an all-cash deal. But Reid still thought it was hinky.
“Why not sell him all four?”
“That’ll scare him off. You want every buyer to think they’re getting the only one.”
Though Reid talked a good game about art, that’s all it was—talk. He didn’t know much about actually selling it.
The buzzer to James’s office was too loud, startling Reid. As soon as it went off, James walked over to the intercom to tell Mr. No Footprint Guy to come up.
“It’s showtime,” he said to Reid.
To James’s surprise, two people entered his studio. One was his expected buyer, Noah Reiss. Beside him was a woman James might have thought was Noah’s wife except for the fact that she was a ten and Noah Reiss was a three, tops. He was a lump of a man, practically the same size around as he was vertical, and his face was largely hidden by a scraggly beard under a pair of beady eyes. By contrast, Reiss’s companion was James’s height, with the slender figure of a ballerina; she carried off a pixie cut as only an exceptionally beautiful woman could. Still, money made for strange partners, so maybe the woman was Mrs. Reiss.
“Noah, good to see you again,” James said heartily while shaking Noah’s hand. “This is my partner on this deal, Reid Warwick. Reid, meet Noah Reiss.”
While gripping Reid’s hand, Noah said, “This is Allison Longley. Allison’s an expert in midcentury modern American art. I asked her to come along to give me some comfort that everything is kosher. No offense, James. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you know how it is. Trust, but verify.”
“Of course,” James said with a big smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, come in. Have a seat on the sofa, and I’ll bring the guest of honor over. Normally I would offer you something to drink, but I’m sure you understand that I don’t want an irreplaceable piece of art to be ruined by a knocked-over cup of coffee.”
The viewing area was four leather armchairs around a four-foot-square table made of glass and steel. James put on a pair of paper gloves and retrieved a sheet of paper from his credenza, placing it in the center of the table.
“As you can see, this is truly an extraordinary piece,” James said. “It shows Jackson Pollock’s thought process in crafting his larger canvases. The owner of this work, who would like to remain anonymous, was a very close friend of Lee Krasner’s, Pollock’s widow. She provided this piece to him more than thirty years ago as a gift.”
Noah couldn’t hide a Cheshire cat grin. No doubt he was already mentally composing the tale he’d tell his friends about how he’d acquired this bit of art history. For collectors, the story was sometimes more important than the art itself.
Allison, however, looked far from sold. She examined the work closely, her eyes within a few inches of the paper. “No signature, right?”
“As I have already explained to Noah, it is an unfinished piece, which is why Jackson Pollock didn’t sign or number it.”
“That’s also why provenance is going to be difficult to establish,” Allison said. “And that reduces the piece’s value considerably.”
James caught Reid’s pained expression out of his peripheral vision. He tried to show the opposite to Allison.
“I’m not a hard-sell kind of guy, Allison. As you know, if the piece had Jackson Pollock’s John Hancock on the reverse, it would be up a few blocks at the Met. This is a preliminary work, which undoubtedly formed the basis for one of the master’s larger canvases. If that’s not what you’re interested in purchasing, then this isn’t for you. But this is an extremely rare opportunity to own something that Jackson Pollock actually put his hands on, without shelling out eight or nine figures for the privilege.”