seller the $10,000 shortfall on meeting the reserve. But even after paying the shortfall to the seller, the auction house would make about $120,000 on the sale.
Having seen Neal in action many times, I knew exactly what he would do: take the high bid.
“It went cheap,” Eric said. “We could have bought it for a few dollars more.”
I just made a listening response.
Weasel.
My father had a piece of advice for me when I got my first job: When the boss is right, he’s right; when the boss is wrong, he’s right. I didn’t think much of the advice at the time, but since I’ve had to zip my lip to stupid statements from bosses over the years, I’ve realized it was sage advice.
I was saved from having to alibi to Hiram, falling on the sword to save Eric, by our lot coming up, the piece I was bidding on.
“What do you read with Hamad?” Hiram asked.
Ahmad ibn Hamad was a Saudi billionaire. I never really understood the source of his wealth, only that he was immensely wealthy. Someone told me ibn Hamad made his fortune selling bottled water, and that didn’t sound too far-fetched for a country that I imagined to be a desert floating on a sea of oil.
He wore sunglasses for the indoor evening auction, probably because he didn’t want other bidders reading his body language. He saw me looking at him and gave me a smile and nod. I returned his smile and nod, secretly wishing he’d drop dead. He’d come off on me once, at a gallery, intimating that I would find an evening in bed with him a trip to paradise. I told him to save it for his camels. It was a rude remark on my part, but he hadn’t approached me as a man interested in a woman but as a superior willing to share his loins with an underling for a short time.
I hate guys who think their cock is an amusement park and every woman who rides it is going to get the thrill of a roller coaster.
“He’s wearing sunglasses,” I whispered into the mike draped down from my ear. “He wouldn’t hide behind them if he didn’t plan to bluff. He’s interested, but I’ve heard he lost a bundle when the Russian government seized a chemical factory he owned. I don’t think he’s buying to collect. The piece has a connection to the Muslim world even if it predates Islam. I’m reasonably certain he plans to resell it to Saudi royalty at a profit.”
“What about the Getty?”
That was our other serious competition. The J. Paul Getty Museum was the most richly endowed cultural institution on the planet. All reaped from oil. They could write a check for anything they wanted.
“I believe ibn Hamad will stick longer than the Getty. Getty’s own preference runs toward Renaissance and Baroque paintings and French furniture. Their collection of Roman and Greek antiquities is smaller. Their interest in the Babylonian piece is for its rarity. They’d want to trade it off someday for pieces that enhance their main collections.”
As any good curator would do, I had had someone staked out in front of Rutgers with a camera to record people coming and going in order to track who was really serious… and really counted. Only the Saudi and the Getty would be serious bidders. Unless some dot-com billionaire with bushels of Internet IPO dollars made a call-in bid.
I had tried to get Neal to do a little pillow talk about who would be making telephone bids, but he had been more reticent than usual when we got together two days ago.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Rutgers is pleased to offer you the next lot for bid.”
The attention in the room was intense. All eyes went to the mask that was brought in.
“Almost three thousand years old, the Mask of Semiramis is a great prize of Babylonian art. Just as the
Mona Lisa
defines the Renaissance painting and
Venus de Milo
defines the Hellenistic sculpture, this queen’s golden mask defines the ancient world of Babylon, when it was the richest and most powerful nation on earth.”
He looked at the audience and let the words sink in for
Having seen Neal in action many times, I knew exactly what he would do: take the high bid.
“It went cheap,” Eric said. “We could have bought it for a few dollars more.”
I just made a listening response.
Weasel.
My father had a piece of advice for me when I got my first job: When the boss is right, he’s right; when the boss is wrong, he’s right. I didn’t think much of the advice at the time, but since I’ve had to zip my lip to stupid statements from bosses over the years, I’ve realized it was sage advice.
I was saved from having to alibi to Hiram, falling on the sword to save Eric, by our lot coming up, the piece I was bidding on.
“What do you read with Hamad?” Hiram asked.
Ahmad ibn Hamad was a Saudi billionaire. I never really understood the source of his wealth, only that he was immensely wealthy. Someone told me ibn Hamad made his fortune selling bottled water, and that didn’t sound too far-fetched for a country that I imagined to be a desert floating on a sea of oil.
He wore sunglasses for the indoor evening auction, probably because he didn’t want other bidders reading his body language. He saw me looking at him and gave me a smile and nod. I returned his smile and nod, secretly wishing he’d drop dead. He’d come off on me once, at a gallery, intimating that I would find an evening in bed with him a trip to paradise. I told him to save it for his camels. It was a rude remark on my part, but he hadn’t approached me as a man interested in a woman but as a superior willing to share his loins with an underling for a short time.
I hate guys who think their cock is an amusement park and every woman who rides it is going to get the thrill of a roller coaster.
“He’s wearing sunglasses,” I whispered into the mike draped down from my ear. “He wouldn’t hide behind them if he didn’t plan to bluff. He’s interested, but I’ve heard he lost a bundle when the Russian government seized a chemical factory he owned. I don’t think he’s buying to collect. The piece has a connection to the Muslim world even if it predates Islam. I’m reasonably certain he plans to resell it to Saudi royalty at a profit.”
“What about the Getty?”
That was our other serious competition. The J. Paul Getty Museum was the most richly endowed cultural institution on the planet. All reaped from oil. They could write a check for anything they wanted.
“I believe ibn Hamad will stick longer than the Getty. Getty’s own preference runs toward Renaissance and Baroque paintings and French furniture. Their collection of Roman and Greek antiquities is smaller. Their interest in the Babylonian piece is for its rarity. They’d want to trade it off someday for pieces that enhance their main collections.”
As any good curator would do, I had had someone staked out in front of Rutgers with a camera to record people coming and going in order to track who was really serious… and really counted. Only the Saudi and the Getty would be serious bidders. Unless some dot-com billionaire with bushels of Internet IPO dollars made a call-in bid.
I had tried to get Neal to do a little pillow talk about who would be making telephone bids, but he had been more reticent than usual when we got together two days ago.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Rutgers is pleased to offer you the next lot for bid.”
The attention in the room was intense. All eyes went to the mask that was brought in.
“Almost three thousand years old, the Mask of Semiramis is a great prize of Babylonian art. Just as the
Mona Lisa
defines the Renaissance painting and
Venus de Milo
defines the Hellenistic sculpture, this queen’s golden mask defines the ancient world of Babylon, when it was the richest and most powerful nation on earth.”
He looked at the audience and let the words sink in for
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