Max and Ellis flew back into New York that morning. Rather than return home, Max got his car out of airport parking and drove directly to the lab of Stan Allenby. There, he hung around nearly an hour outside the service entrance, complaining on the phone to some clueless manager for Vasco’s choice of courier, until finally two burly men in rent-a-cop outfits, guns holstered, brought the masterpieces in.

Stan Allenby himself resembled a stockier Jerry Lewis a la the Nutty Professor—thick glasses, unkempt hair, shirt buttons awry, relentless overbite. But he had a state-of-the-art laboratory: stainless steel surfaces, x-ray machine, mass spectrometer, multiple computers.

The couriers deposited the paintings on a table and then stepped out. Max stayed, observing. Stan removed some paint along the edge of the Monet with a razor. He bisected that, treated one half with chemicals and checked it under the microscope. “Looking good,” he said. He rolled his chair over to the computer, brought the image up onscreen of textured blue grains. “Cobalt blue, or Thénard’s blue,” Stan muttered to himself, “first prepared in the early 1800s by Jacques Thénard, and later used by Monet, Renoir, and so on, and so on . . .”

Next, he powdered the rest of the scraping, put it beneath the arm of his digital x-ray. He took Max behind a barrier, and jammed a button. “Shazam,” he said. There was a short beep. “Stay, Max.” He positioned the painting beneath the x-ray, came back, and Shazam-ed again.

He returned to the computer, and pulled up the paint scrapings x-ray on one monitor, zooming in to examine the patterns, striations in the material. “Looking very good, buckaroo.” He brought up the second x-ray, of the painting. He squinted, turning it at various angles, magnifying different sections. He ran his tongue across his protruding teeth. “A gift from God, the man had,” Stan said. “All in his mind, before the first stroke.”

“That’s a ‘yes’ on the Monet?” Max asked.

“You can make it official,” Stan said.

                                                   *           *          *          *          *  

After Stan confirmed all the paintings, the couriers carried them away. Max looked after them with undisguised longing. He thanked Stan, and then stepped outside to call his uncle.

Carl picked up on the first ring. “Reynolds,” he answered, as usual.

“How’s Shelter Island?”

“Went fishing this morning,” Carl replied. “Caught a bunch of mosquito bites. Something on your mind, Maxie? Or you decided to bother me with small talk?”

Max related the story of the paintings. “Ellis and Stan checked off on them,” he told Carl. “The art’s legit. No claims anywhere, no inquiries, nothing.

“Oh sure, you know best, kid,” Carl said. “I’d guess what, thirty mill?”

“Thirty-five,” Max said. “I was thinking Mr. Vandeveer might want to get involved . . .”

“Need more rope to hang yourself?” Carl asked. “How you planning to cover a note on thirty-five mill, plus the rest of what you owe?”

“I won’t hold the paintings long,” Max said. “I’ll grab the PR, then flip them for a nice profit. Please, Uncle Carl. I just need you to vouch for me. A little help, that’s all I ask.”

“I’ve helped too much already,” Carl said. “I have to learn to say no.”

“Learn after this time,” Max replied.

Carl sighed. “If you fuck this up, it’s on you,” he said. “Thank God I never had any kids. I’ll call him later.” He hung up.

                                                   *           *          *          *          *  

A few days later Max was in with Vandeveer’s lawyer, Oliver Kenilworth, Esq., another dinosaur of Carl’s epoch. “We’ll have assurances, up, down, and sideways,” Kenilworth said. “You’ll be protected so long as all parties respect the law.”

“Meaning what?” Max said.

The lawyer smiled magnanimously, like a sage aiding some poor imbecile. He cast a hand at his book-filled shelves. “All these writings, theories, case laws mean nothing unless we all agree to abide by them. We’ll file the necessary documents both here and in Argentina, but in an international deal between private parties, there will always be some degree of exposure.”

“They could screw me, I get it,” Max said. “But I’ll have the paintings.”

“What if they bring a lawsuit?” Kenilworth asked.

“That’s your job,” Max said. “It’s got to be hard to prove ownership after so much time.”

“True, but there’s still a risk,” the lawyer said.

“I’m willing to take it.”

Kenilworth wheezed a laugh, which reminded Max of a story his father told of an army colonel who laughed so hard, he popped a vessel in his head and died. “Max, Max,” the lawyer said. “You’re willing to take the risk? Forrie Vandeveer’s footing this bill, as I recall.”

“It’s a loan,” Max hedged.

“It’s a throwaway,” Kenilworth countered. “Do you read Forbes’ list of the richest? Forrie is up there with Buffett and Zuckerberg. The risk is his, Max. And to him, it’s the same as betting on a horse race. A diversion. Harmless fun. Pocket change.”

“A loan,” Max repeated. “It’s my risk.” He sounded juvenile, even to himself.

“We’ll draw up all the papers,” the lawyer said, “neat and tidy, with a bow.”

                                                   *           *          *          *          *  

That night, in his office, Max got a call after eight o’clock. Caller ID: Graciella Vasco. He’d just finished arranging the paintings’ coming-out gala, the staff gone home, only a few lights on in the hall. The rest of the place was dark, save Midtown Manhattan aglow through the windows.

“Ms. Vasco,” he answered. “How can I help you?”

“Mr. Reynolds,” she purred. “Care to join me for dinner?”

“I thought you weren’t getting in until tomorrow,” he said.

“I decided I ought to stay close to the paintings,” she said. “For my client’s sake. But in the meantime we should review a few details. In the interest of expedience.”

“Where are you staying?” Max asked.

“The Marriott Marquis,” she said. “Room 704.” Click.

Afterward, he called Hailey. She answered on the fifth ring. “Hey,” he said, “listen, I was about to head home, but I just got a call from the lawyer for the paintings . . .”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Actually, I have plans with a new friend I made. From class.”

“Oh,” Max said. “Hey, that’s great. Say, um . . . The unveiling’s going to be Wednesday. Will you be there with me?”

“Oh, Max,” she said. “Of course I will.”

Several minutes later, he locked up, and headed downstairs. The air was cool, more like fall than spring—more like Argentina—as Max walked the twelve blocks up Seventh Avenue. Times Square bustled, billboards flashing, people packing the sidewalks, buses growling. Max entered the hotel, took the glass-walled elevator upstairs. He found Graciella’s room, knocked.

Footsteps sounded. A second later, she opened the door, wrapped only in a towel. “Max, hello,” she said. She pulled him inside. “I’m never on time.” She laughed as she closed the door, her blonde hair damp, fragrant from shampoo.

“I can wait downstairs if you like,” Max said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

Max went to the window, looked out at the skyline, hands in his pockets. But then Graciella circled her arms around him from behind. “Hey,” he said, “I’m married.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she said. “You’re American, aren’t you? A celebrity. Shouldn’t you be more hedonistic?” She turned him around, naked, her towel in a pile on the floor. She adjusted his tie, her nipples brushing his lapel.

“I’m hardly a celebrity, I mean . . .”

“Let’s celebrate our arrangement,” she said. She kissed him, while cupping him below with one hand. “You like me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, pulling away, “but I’d still rather we didn’t.”

“You are adorable, Max,” she whispered, nipping his earlobe. “But uptight. Too bad.” She walked to the closet, retrieved a slinky red dress, and stepped into the bathroom. “I won’t be long,” she called. “You can wait out there, or downstairs. Either way.”

“If it’s all the same,” Max said, “I’ll meet you at the hotel bar. I could use a drink.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 8: Hailey