George looked at his cards, looked up across the table, and back at the cards. He bit his lip. Finally he asked, "Does a straight beat a flush?"

Edison tried not to smile. His partner looked like a twenty-something hipster, but sometimes acted a lot younger. Point one: George had blown off his friends, who were going to a club to pretend to listen to droning electronica, to hang out and play cards. Point two: He wanted to play poker, just like his father. Point three: They did this almost every month, and George still couldn't remember how to play.

"A flush beats a straight," said Courtney. She seemed to realize her annoyance was plain, and it only made her more annoyed. She reached across the folding table for a takeout container. "Anyone want the last spring roll?" she asked.

"Go ahead," Ed said. Get fat, he thought. George and Courtney had a tortured, on-again off-again relationship, and Ed had little patience for the drama. Actually neither Ed nor Courtney had much patience for poker, either; but somehow whenever the relationship was on again, so was the card game.

A long silence stretched as George studied his hand.

"Is that your latest, Ed?" Courtney asked frostily. She jerked her head towards the front of the gallery.

They had spent the afternoon packing up the last show, cleaning and painting, and generally getting the space ready tomorrow. An installation artist was coming to build some postmodern monstrosity. Ed hadn't even bothered to lock the door, since the bare walls and cozy card table clearly indicated the gallery was not open for business.

But a figure was framed in the doorway. She had paused for a moment to check her reflection. Ed only needed half a moment to size her up. Brunette, with a sort of Jennifer Anniston cut. Probably late twenty-something or early thirty-something. Dressed in a charcoal A frame skirt, red heels, and a white mans oxford shirt with the sleeves turned back a couple times. Good figure. A diamond solitaire at her throat with matching small studs for earrings. Black sleek leather briefcase in the hand that wasn't brushing back an errant strand of hair.

"Not yet," Ed replied with a lazy grin.

Face check done, she continued on into the studio, taking in her surroundings with one raised eyebrow, heels clicking lightly on the floor as she moved. Behind her, two men in black suits and shades were manhandling (with great care) a wrapped picture or portrait through the door.

She caught sight of the group playing cards, smiled, and headed in their direction.

The trio rose from the card table. "We're cl--" George began, but Ed elbowed him in the ribs as he stepped forward.

"Welcome to the Palmer-Melville Gallery," he said smoothly. "I'm afraid we don't have anything to show you at the moment."

"That's fine," she said, in a voice like Jack Daniels Black, neat. "I've got something I'd like to show you, actually." She extended a hand to Palmer, a single silver bangle on her well-tanned wrist glinted in the studio's lights. "I'm Lola Granato. Would you be Mr. Palmer?" She smelled of oranges and sandalwood, and her eyes were impossibly blue and clear. Like a lake on a hot Savannah summers day.

Ed took her hand and just held it a moment, as if he thought it were a very precious object. Which wasn't too far from what he really thought. The stranger was exactly his type: husky voice, sexy without trying too hard, and smelling of money. She was Lauren Bacall, after figuring out how to marry a millionaire.

"Please call me Ed," he said, releasing her hand. "This is my partner, George Melville, and our friend Courtney Gill, a promising multimedia artist."

George pumped the woman's hand and greeted her enthusiastically. Courtney waved a hello and began clearing the takeout, making more noise than was strictly necessary. She was always jealous, that one.

"Why thank you, Ed." she replied. "Mr. Melville," she acknowledged George with warmth. "If this isn't a good time, I can come back?" She asked, eying Courtney's clean-up questioningly.

"A good time for what?" Ed asked. His tone and dancing eyes suggested he was hoping for an answer that didn't involve art.

"Well," she said, gesturing towards the remains of the trio's dinner. "It appears I might be interrupting a social occasion? I can always come back at a more convenient time." 

"You're saving me," Ed replied graciously. "I always lose at poker."

The two goons, (And that's what they were - goons. Palmer suspected that if he were to check the backs of their shirts he'd read "hired" on one, and "muscle" on the other, printed in black sharpie), had carefully brought the rectangular object in and leaned it against a wall carefully.

"I recently inherited some art from a relative overseas, and would like to utilize your gallery to showcase and sell it." She placed her briefcase on a nearby crate and opened it, withdrawing a large manila folder. She closed the briefcase, the clasps clicking into place with well-oiled precision, and handed Palmer the folder.

"Inside you'll find some snapshots of the pieces, estimated values from Lloyd's of London, certificates of authenticity," she continued, crossing tanned arms under her breasts. Her posture spoke volumes, and what it said was "Money." Or perhaps "Power." Either would do.

"There are ten in all, estimated value is 27 million US." She smiled as she saw George freeze like a deer in the headlights. "What do you think?"

Ed opened the folder, took in the first photo, and narrowed his eyes. He handed the stack of photos to George, who began oohing and aahing, and leafed through the certificates of authenticity.  Famous names flipped through his fingers: Warhol, Raushchenberg, de Lempicka, Pissarro, Rembrandt. Sotheby's would wet themselves.

Ed let George rattle on about chiaroscuro and composition, and not just because George was supposed to be the art expert. The scent of Lola's perfume was being overpowered by something fishy. A collection like this belonged at a major auction house, not an upstart little gallery in Jersey. Ed rubbed his chin and considered the angles.

George's commentary stumbled to a halt. He seemed to have run out of synonyms for "luminous." Ed looked at the woman carefully. "This is quite a pitch," he said.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled, just a little. "No, no pitch. Neither of us are the people who have time for that sort of thing." She laughed, a low, rich sound: dark chocolate over smooth caramel. "Or are we?" Her gaze met his with just a hint of challenge.

Ed returned the smile precisely. No, he didn't have time for "that sort of thing" anymore, but...he was feeling the old thrill. It seemed a roper with balls of steel, who happened to be a gorgeous brunette, was throwing down a challenge in his own gallery. There must be a deeper play behind the clumsy tale, a regular Kansas City shuffle.

"And what have we here," he asked, pointing to the wrapped canvas.

"Gentleman, if you'd be so kind," she asked the goons as she moved her briefcase. The two men placed the wrapped parcel gently on the crate, then the darker and smaller of the two deftly slit open the twine with a small knife that appeared out of nowhere. He carefully unwrapped it, revealing...

"Monet was such a gifted man, but a little too..." she searched for the words. "Sparkly for my tastes." She smiled warmly. "You'll find all the SEM scans and certifications in the folder for this piece. I assure you, Ed. It's quite authentic." 

"I prefer the Symbolists, myself," Ed replied. But there was no denying the beauty of the painting. George actually held his breath, and Courtney crowded in behind them to gape. All the light and air of summer seemed captured on the canvas. After a long moment George slowly exhaled. He shook his head and gave Ed a troubled look.

"It's beautiful," Ed said finally. "But we're booked up for the next six months." He gently took the photos back from George, put them in the folder, and handed it to Ms. Granato. She accepted the folder, her chin lifting just slightly as she met his gaze.

"I've got time, Ed." 

"And whatever Lola wants, Lola gets?"

"Not everything," Lola replied. "Startlingly original one-liner there though," she added, brushing her hair back behind an ear. She knelt fluidly, placed her briefcase on the floor and popped it open. She slipped the folder back inside, then snapped it shut and rose. "It's unfortunate we couldn't do business Ed," she said, her smoky voice shot through with tones of regret. "I would have liked that." Her eyes met his as she extended her hand, and he saw disappointment there.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Ed replied. He took her hand and held it. "Can I make it up to you? Maybe we could get a drink and talk it over."

She gave him a look of surprise then laughed softly, a husky feminine purr. "Mr. Edison. If you can't find the time to do business with me, I should hardly think you could fit a drink into your no doubt busy schedule." She gave him a little half-smile that went straight to his nether regions, gently retrieved her hand, then turned and gestured at the goons. "Gentleman, it appears we'll have to look elsewhere. Please take the piece back to the car." 

George started to protest, then thought better of it. Ed just stood there, arms folded, every so faintly amused, and watched the goons carefully rewrap the painting and proceed to the exit. "I do apologize for interrupting your meal," Lola said to George and Courtney warmly, and bid both of them farewell. She gave Palmer one more appraising look, seemed about to say something, then just shrugged. She turned, then left the studio. 

"What the hell just happened?" George said.

"Got me," Ed replied. He was genuinely surprised that Granato had given up so easily. He felt certain she had another move up her sleeve.

As she climbed into the backseat of the silver Jag outside, Lola shook her head and laughed. "So much for the hard way." 

****

It had been a long day. They'd finally gotten the remains of "Blue Finity" packed and shipped, and handed the keys to a twitchy installation artist. He was transforming the space, with silly putty and plaster, into an organic representation of the internet  Something like that anyways. The crazy shit that people would spend money for never ceased to amaze Palmer. 

Never.

He let the pounding hot water wash over him, eyes closed, face upturned to the shower head. It felt wonderful, and he'd earned the extra time. After all, the hot water heater in this condo was powered by a nuclear reactor - or at least it seemed that way - it just never ran out. He often wondered if they had some old Soviet politico down there in maintenance, tending the rods and smoking a fat stogie while he swore in Russian at all the stray cats and stray kids that wondered onto the grounds, a half-empty bottle of Vodka stuck in the back pocket of his greasy overalls. The thought made him laugh.

Shower done, he shut off the water and opened the door, stepping out onto a plush chocolate-colored bath mat. His towel had slipped of its rack, so he bent to retrieve it. The Universe exploded behind his eyes as he did so and he tumbled, naked and dripping, onto the floor. The blow had been calculated well, and Edison Palmer was deeply unconscious. There was a ripple in the air and Lola seemed to coalesce out of the steam, dressed in the same clothes he's seen her in at the gallery two days earlier. She shook her head as she looked down at him, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "Nice ass," she said approvingly, then lifted him easily and took him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where she deposited him upon the bed. 

It was lying there on the nightstand where he'd placed it when he took it off. Such a little thing, but it meant everything to Lola. It would offer her the protection she needed when she had her little chat with Ophilia. At least, she sincerely hoped it would. Otherwise... well, best not to consider the otherwise in this case.

"Sorry Palmer," she said as she pocketed his amulet and pulled a syringe out of the other pocket. She removed the cap from the needle, jetted out a bit of the clear liquid inside, then expertly administered the drug into Palmer's well-shaped left buttock, giving it a little slap after she was done. "Very nice,"  she laughed as she tucked him under the sheets, then ran slim fingers through his still wet hair. "I'll be back tomorrow to give you some more medicine. We should have this whole thing taken care of by Sunday, and then you can have it back. Just a short-term loan, you understand."  

Her impossibly blue eyes twinkled merrily as she leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, the stubble of the day rough against her lips. 

And then she was gone, and Palmer knew only a dreamless black sleep. He would awaken two days later, body craving the thing that had been taken, mouth dry, ass sore from where she'd injected him. As the room swam into focus, he would see it propped up against the wall atop his dresser.

La Promenade.

And hanging across the top left corner of the frame was his amulet.