Operation Bamboozle Read Online Free Page B

expressions and good pectorals, of half-naked Mexican girls with nothing to do but smolder. And one painting of two small commercial fishing boats in a bright, choppy sea.
    Small boats, much sea. The water bounced and glistened and frothed; it was alive. The picture was no bigger than a place mat. “Now where the hell did
that
come from?” she asked.
    â€œOh …” The owner squinted at it. “She lives over in Mexico, some no-account two-bit village. Can’t paint worth a damn. See? All spots and speckles. Never sells.” He turned the picture over. “Princess Chuckling Stream. Pureblood Comanche, she says.”
    â€œGot any more?”
    He found a box on a shelf with six more, all place-mat size. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. He leaned them against the wall. Three seascapes, a mountain stream with snow, a blurred face seen through a rainy window, city kids dancing in the wild spray from a fire hydrant.
    â€œThese six and the fishing boats,” she said. “Two hundred dollars.”
    The owner was in no hurry to agree. He stood, knees slightly bent or maybe the legs were straight and the pants were bent, and he picked flakes of dead skin off his finger ends. That took all his attention.
    â€œSay what,” he said. “Here’s a better deal. Four hundred, an’ I throw in the John Wesley Hardin, a Pancho Villa, and a General Black Jack Pershing who chased Villa all over New Mexico, never caught him.”
    Julie badly wanted the seven Chuckling Streams, and just as badly she hated the rest. She looked at Luis for help. But Luis had wandered off and was peering into the back room. It was half-full of motorbikes and bits of bikes. Scramblers, racers, even a sidecar model. Faded posters on the walls. Yellowed newspaper cuttings hung from thumbtacks. “Isn’t that a Triumph?” he asked, confidently. The machine certainly wore the Triumph logo. “Do you still race?”
    â€œAny chance I get. You only live once.”
    â€œHow very true. My guess is …” Luis stood very still and spoke softly. “Art is not your first love, sir.”
    â€œBrother died. Left me this place. Still got a year on the lease. Don’t like to see it wasted.”
    â€œI’ll give you eight hundred dollars for your stock and what’s left on the lease,” Julie said. “And you can keep your motorcycles in back, if you want.”
    â€œYes, ma’m.” They shook hands on the deal.
    There was no typewriter. Julie wrote out two brief Statements of Sale in longhand and they all signed both copies. “Hot damn!” she said. “We own an art gallery! Ain’t that somethin’?”
    â€œI’m too full to speak,” Luis said. “Paralysis caused by shock. We came in for a pint of milk and we bought the dairy.”
    â€œChuckling Stream, kid. She’ll chuckle us to the bank.”
    Frankie Blanco saw them come out carrying a small box. They drove away. He waited thirty seconds and then went into the store.
    â€œAll sold,” said the owner. Ex-owner. “Nothin’ left.”
    â€œSure, no problem. Gonna meet my friends here, got held up, kinda late, so … Was that them just left? I saw a couple drive off.”
    â€œWhat can I tell you?” He picked up the Statement of Sale. “Julie Conroy, Luis Cabrillo. Mean anything?”
    â€œYeah, sure. Conroy, Cabrillo, that’s them. Just my luck. How’s your luck? They buy anythin’?”
    â€œLook around you, pal. They bought the store.”
    Frankie went and sat in his car, found a ballpen, wrote their names on his arm before he forgot them. Worrying made him light a Pall Mall. See here. A car with New Jersey plates drives two thousand miles to hassle him in Truth or Consequences, a nowhere place nobody in Jersey ever even heard of. Cabrillo sounds Italian. Cuban, maybe. Damn Cuban hoods were all crazies,