Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 14

  About half the hands went up. Lucifer looked at all of them incredulously.

  “Are you stupid bastards serious? You are making it so easy for me. We gave you a list of books to read before you come to class, and half of you haven’t even bothered to buy them? What is wrong with you? Did you geniuses think you could waltz in here and we would pay you huge sums of money because you’re pretty?”

  With a sigh, Lucifer composed himself. “All right, those of you who actually have the books can make photocopies of them or whatever. I don’t care. But by tomorrow morning, all of you must know the difference between a painting, lithograph, serigraph, cell, seri-cell, linoleum cut, etching, aquatint, mezzotint, and a giclée. I will test you in the first five minutes of class.”

  His voice softened to an intimate, lover’s level. “If you don’t think you can learn it by the morning, don’t bother. Just pack.”

  Chapter 9. The Embarrassment Gene

  1

  Two days in and I was already mentally exhausted. Lucifer’s teaching technique was abusive and by the end of a ten-hour day my brain was crammed. We were required to regurgitate entire lists of information learned merely minutes before to a large, highly critical audience. Once we endured that, we learned a second list and had to repeat the lesson with the new information, this time heckled and interrogated mercilessly. Then, mere minutes after that, we had to weave both lists together into yet a higher level. Those first two days were more concentrated and intense than anything in my entire four years at the University.

  Already four people had dropped out and I had no doubt that tomorrow the class would be even thinner from those who quit. There were also a fairly large number of students who would not make it through training because of poor performance.

  I lay back on my bed and loosed a long, relaxing sigh. Unlike the first two days, tonight I opted out of hitting the gym right away. I was just too tired. Usually the physical workout helped me sort my thoughts and compartmentalize lessons into the dusty shelves of my brain, but tonight I just wanted a bacon double cheeseburger. Tell me I’m not a patriot!

  The door opened and my roommate entered. Jimmy Stewart was the tall, handsome blonde who so vexed Gene on the first meeting. He was a nice guy, but I didn’t think he would last the week. He didn’t seem to think so, either.

  “We are being taught by Satan and Uncle Sam,” I lamented to the ceiling. “Doesn’t that unnerve anyone but me?”

  “I thought they were the same thing.” Jimmy said cynically, tugging at his tie. “What a day! Lucifer is such a bastard!”

  “I’m not religious,” I commented drily, “Yet I strangely concur.”

  Jimmy removed his suit and regarded it with a mix of affection and disgust. He brushed off a stray string, but soon his brushing grew from a pat to a rough scrub and up to a beating. He began swearing and finally threw everything forcefully onto his bed. Surely it was illegal somewhere to so mistreat an Armani.

  “I’m not going to make it!” he cried. “I’m not going to last this goddamn week!”

  “I agree.”

  He regarded me with surprise. “What?”

  “I agree,” I repeated, rising from the bed. “Look, man. You go to the bar every night and don’t come back until two in the morning. Have you picked up a book since you got here?”

  “How can I study after getting my brain squeezed all day long? I need a beer to relax!”

  “Well, sure, I understand that. But you aren’t taking any responsibility. No one here is. You didn’t buy any of the books you were told to. What, you thought buying a nice suit would get you the job?”

  “I have a nice gavel, too.”

  “A gavel does not an auctioneer make.”

  “Hey,” he defended. “I spent every penny I had for these suits. I borrowed money from my mom for the plane ticket here. I am risking everything in the world to come here!”

  “So what? Oh, you think that makes you brave? Maybe your friends think it’s ballsy, but I don’t. It just means you’re a gambler. You’re going all in, hoping the magic card will turn up. You have no plan, no goals, just reckless hope. You showed up and wanted some miracle to make your life work better.”

  “When did you get so holier than thou?” Jimmy retorted. “You are Lucifer’s bitch. He smacks you down every day. You think you’re so smart?”

  “Of course I do,” I replied with a grin. “Unfortunately, no one else ever thinks so. But I’m going to pass this week and I’m going to get a ship of my own. I’m going to get it because I listen and do what I’m told. I mean, come on, man! They put it all down on paper and handed it out to us: buy this, learn this, say that. We have written instructions on how to make six figures a year. That’s the miracle! All you have to do is follow it, but you won’t.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “I have to make this happen. You think not drinking will help?”

  “Whoa!” I protested. “Now I would never say that! You don’t think I hit the booze after Lucifer shoves his horns up my… well, you know what I mean.”

  “What did you do to him, anyway? He seems to hate you most of all.”

  “I have that effect on assholes,” I commented. “They gravitate towards me.”

  “Birds of feather, perhaps?” Jimmy asked, with surprising eloquence.

  2

  The next evening I sat at a round table beside my group member Alanis Morrisette. The third trainee in our group, Elvis, was nowhere to be found. He ignored our assignment in order to follow our assigned veteran auctioneer around like a groupie. So he and Bill Shatner ogled and jeered at everyone unfortunate enough to be nearby and have two X chromosomes.

  Our assignment was to discover the commonalities of three disparate artists and find a way of using the credentials of one to sell the other. For example, one of our best selling artists, Marcel Mouly, had connections to Picasso himself. By selling Picasso’s credentials, we could educate and excite people about Mouly. Though we were on our ‘free time’, we wore auction attire because of the rumor of a Frederick sighting. Such visits by the gallery owner were rare and cause for great speculation and more than a little fear. Frederick was famous for a raging, unpredictable temper. As sole owner, he could, and had, fired many for no apparent reason, including even his highest earners.

  Alanis fidgeted nervously, chomping her fingernails with huge, perfect teeth. The only thing more generous than her smile and sheer talent was, unfortunately, her self-induced frustration. She continually stressed that her best was not enough.

  “Well,” I eventually said with a sigh and rising from the table, “I think that’s pretty good. We have several pages of material approaching it from three different angles.”

  “What?” Alanis squawked. “What are you doing? Are you leaving me? You’re giving up! Oh my God!”

  “Whoa, slow down there, tiger,” I soothed. “I’m just getting a beer.”

  Alanis nearly trembled with nerves whenever I even set my book down. I gently took up her hand to calm her. Though her mouth was so large and pretty, watching it tear human flesh freaked me out. Her obsessive nature and fears of abandonment did have one immediate, practical benefit however: Bill gave her a wide berth.

  “Relax, we’re doing well,” I said, intentionally interrupting her cuticle dinner. “May I buy you a drink?”

  “How can you drink now? What about Frederick? Frederick is coming!”

  “Look, we are technically on our own time. I am having one beer because we are all but finished. Chill, baby doll.”

  “Pardon me,” a young lady beside me interrupted, “Did I overhear that Frederick is coming? Do you mean the owner of the Sundance Gallery of Fine Art?”

  I looked in surprise at the stunningly attractive woman who had been sitting beside us at a computer. Because we sat in the business center, two banks of computers competed for limited space with our table such that we all overheard each others’ business.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “How
did you guess that?”

  “You have a big voice, you know,” the brunette chided. “I love art and am watching the Picasso auction even now. Everyone in town knows of the owner of the Sundance Gallery. I have not yet met him and would delight in doing so.”

  “Well, if he’s pointed out to me, I’ll let you know. I’m Brian, by the way.”

  “Lisa,” she replied, taking my hand.

  “Brian?” Alanis chirped. “Your name is Brian? I’m still calling you Buzz.”

  Lisa frowned. “Buzz? What, are you a soldier or something?”

  “It’s a long story,” I explained. “I have been accused of looking like the character from Toy Story.”

  Lisa laughed. “Buzz Lightyear! Now that is funny! You do raise the one eyebrow like him a lot and seem to think everything you say is worthy of melodramatic oration.”

  “And you’re so animated,” Alanis added, laughing uproariously at her own joke.

  “Ha ha,” I replied drily. If I was going to be teased, I preferred what had happened in the gym!

  Mercifully the business center abutted the bar which, of course, was packed with auctioneers. Free from the pummeling of Lucifer that squeezed the trainees into all sorts of funny shapes, the auctioneers were apparently only here to drink. As I ordered I listened to Lucifer entertain Bill Shatner and Don Rickles. Hovering nearby, but obviously not part of the conversation, was Elvis.

  “And so the bitch left!” Lucifer was saying. “Can you believe she said, ‘money isn’t everything?’ Ha! What a stupid bint.”

  They all chortled arrogantly, like a cluster of corpulent masters of industry dangling society by the strings on their fingertips.

  “Money isn’t everything,” I instigated, eager to rile Lucifer outside of class. “Who said art dealers cannot appreciate beauty?”

  “I did,” Lucifer retorted cockily.

  “The only people who say money isn’t everything,” Rickles added while stroking his pink tie, “Are people who don’t have any.”

  “You and your goddamn art loving,” Lucifer added condescendingly. “I hate that. We aren’t museum curators, we are dealers. It’s about the money. When you learn that, maybe I’ll start to like you.”

  “Perish the thought,” I retorted drily.

  “Just like my associate,” Shatner chimed in. “You love art. You pay attention to composition and shit like that. Who cares?”

  “You mean like the proper use of color?”

  I had noticed that like Don Rickles, both Lucifer and Bill were wearing a pink tie. In fact, all three men before me wore pink ties over pink shirts. They looked ludicrous. “Oh, I get it. GQ just had that article on pink being the new ‘power color’. Yeah, really hip, guys. Trend setters you are. I hope Frederick likes pink.”

  I left, and surprisingly Shatner followed. Elvis trailed behind like a fallen leaf swirling after a passing car. Catching up, Bill said, “You’re right. Frederick only likes the green we make him. That’s why we walk on water.”

  “Funny thing to say near Lucifer,” I taunted, emphasizing the name.

  “I like you,” Bill said. “I like you because Lucifer hates you. You don’t take his shit without a fight.”

  “Yet I still lose every time.”

  “Who cares? Once you make the money, you’ll be king for a day, too. You look familiar. On ships already?”

  “Yes. I was a restaurant manager on Carnival Conquest last year.”

  “That’s my ship! No wonder, we probably met in the crew bar. Man, I wish you were my associate. My current guy is horrible.”

  “Doesn’t do his job, eh?”

  “It’s not that. He’s good looking and dresses sharp, but he never drinks and never helps me get laid. What kind of a wingman is that? I don’t need help getting money, only getting pussy!”

  “You are truly a gentleman. But really, even on ships?” I asked incredulously. “I’ve had to beat them off with a stick and I’m nothing special.”

  “Bah, you’re still young. At least here I’ve got Elvis as my wingman!”

  Elvis was a beefy California surfer dude. His thick build was larger than that of his namesake and he was not nearly as handsome, but there was something distinctly Elvis-like about his sideburns and hair. Though a mere 20 years old, the pull from his auctioneer parents had gained him entry into the training. It obviously explained why he had not already been cut from class, as well. His efforts were devoted to following Bill around like a puppy, awed by the man’s insistence of success with money and women. Naively Elvis needed no proof of either, and fairly humped Shatner’s leg in his effort to get attention.

  At the table Alanis waited impatiently, munching on fingertips fairly ruined from such behavior. Before any of us returned to work, Elvis leapt forward to take my chair. He pulled it away from the table and up to Lisa’s computer. His excitement melted when he realized she was not watching sports.

  “You are watching Sotheby’s online?” he asked her, disappointed.

  “What, you thought she was looking up porn in the hotel lobby?” I said to him. Then I added as if he were a child, “Leave the nice lady alone.”

  I couldn’t blame Elvis for being intrigued by Lisa. Her ice blue eyes were accented by a lustrous ebony ponytail that curled lovingly around her shoulder. Her snug dress matched her hair and was obviously of a designer cut. She was clearly well off.

  “A Picasso painting is being auctioned,” Lisa replied honestly before giving a feigned pout, “Oh, you aren’t familiar with his work? What a shame.”

  Elvis brightened, taking the bait. “Oh, do I know Picasso! He’s just the greatest artist who ever lived!”

  She gave us a wink. The hunted had chosen to become the hunter.

  “Oh, I quite agree. But why do you think so?”

  I stifled a groan as Elvis launched into the most amateurish explanation of modern art I could possibly imagine. Because we had just studied Picasso this morning, Elvis regurgitated every bit of miscellaneous information he could recall—incorrectly. He blathered without rhyme or reason, mixing his inaccurate history with plenty of pipe dreams about his future wealth as a soon-to-be auctioneer.

  Lisa pretended to listen carefully, while actually focusing on the monitor. With each imaginary point he believed he scored, Elvis leaned in closer. He didn’t give her a chance to respond at all for a whopping thirty minutes straight. I had never seen such a sonnet before. Even Hamlet had less to say upon debating his very mortality.

  “My father-in-law has a Picasso,” Lisa finally mentioned after Elvis finally exhausted his brain. At long last, the youth seemed speechless. “Two, actually. One is a painting he bought decades ago, but we recently purchased an original etching from Sundance.”

  “Wow, what’s it worth?”

  Lisa smiled kindly. “That’s none of your business.”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “Oh, he owns a few steel mills. Well, more than a few, actually.”

  “Cool. Well, you wanna Bud or somethin’?” He eyed her trim figure appreciatively. “I guess you want Bud Light, yeah?”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” she gushed overtly. “I have a bottle of wine decanting. Would you be a dear and ask the bartender to serve us? It should be ideal by now.”

  “Uh, OK,” Elvis said. He was evidently unsure of how to handle a woman who chose wine over beer. He trudged off, leaving Bill and I to hide our amusement. Alanis, however, was completely unimpressed.

  “Doesn’t anyone here ever work?” she lamented. “My God, time is ticking away! Ticking away and so much to do! And what if Frederick comes? He’s going to come, they said he would come!”

  A moment later Elvis and the bartender arrived. An expensive bottle of vintage Opus One was soon expertly serviced. Lisa offered her young suitor a glass, who reluctantly accepted. Within moments he was expounding upon Californian wines, a subject about which he knew far less than he did Picasso.

  Eventually Lucifer informed us that Fr
ederick cancelled and we were all dismissed. Just in time, I thought, eyeing Alanis’s heaving chest. She was nearly hyperventilating from self-induced stress. As I departed, I wondered what kind of stories Elvis would have to tell in the morning.

  3

  Over coffee Elvis boasted to me that he had returned to his room at 3 a.m. Though his roommate, Antonio Banderas, sat beside us quietly shaking his head at the fallacy, the surfer just bounded along enthusiastically about his scoring with Lisa. On the drive to the gallery I overheard him bragging to Bill that he got home at 3:30. By the time we walked into the gallery, his return had been at 5 a.m.

  For class this day, Uncle Sam had us begin with our seats in a circle. As always, Hot Cocoa sat to my left. She had learned that here, in the lee of Buzz, was protection from the storm of Lucifer. To my right was an auctioneer, John Goodman.

  “So!” Gene boomed to start us off, “Today we are going to do a lot. Much more than usual.”

  A groan swept the room.

  “Are we all here?” He counted the chairs and frowned. “Someone is missing. Well, we can’t hold up the class. We are doing two things today. This morning we will teach you Sundance’s custom auctioneering program. You’ll even have a chance to meet the programmers who designed it. They will be taking questions and comments from the returning auctioneers, so this will give you trainees an excellent opportunity to hear some of the real issues.

  “This afternoon we will learn how to drip. Dripping, you see, is the constant dripping of little bits of artist information, like a leaky faucet. Through the viewing before the auction you’ll be talking and dripping a few lines here and there, then moving on. By the start of the auction the guests will have learned a lot about the artist without having slogged through a tiring sales pitch.

  “But before we begin I want everyone to list, in order from best to worst, their ranking for all the trainees, including yourselves in the list. Auctioneers, you don’t have to, just the trainees.”