Grayson Molinari

A Man and His Worth

Grayson Molinari

The painting was to be stolen tonight. It was only a matter of who took it, and who stood in its way. Spread throughout the room were people decorated in jewels, deprived of any responsibilities. The black-and-white checkered floors held rows of seats, all glazed over with the brown musk of cigars and suffocated with the sharp aroma of hazel spice whiskey. So sharp that Vince tasted it with each inhale of sickly-sweet smoke. There was something about this room that seemed so familiar to him. It was like the late-night bars back in the city of Rojoy. That heavy scent of cologne and the same song playing from one piano. The only difference being the way they held themselves, like they walked over clouds or something. Take the scrawny fella over by the couch. That slicked-back hair, wax skin, and striped suit. He reeked of new money, maybe a title of some rich family, but no income. They could pretend to have wealth, it just depended on how well they hid it. But tonight was different. Tonight was for those who needed to prove their wealth, to intimidate, to gain some sort of power other than an ego trip. And for the rest, who didn’t have enough money, who so desperately craved to keep what they haven’t earned, who feared reality in their own consistent daydreaming. Tonight was the night they became criminals. Vince picked up two drinks and headed toward his first suspect: a gentleman leaning against one of the pillars. The man’s hair was the same color as the white berry wine in Vince’s hands. He was sickly pale, contrasted to Vince’s deep olive skin and sharp nose. He was very much the opposite of Vince, appearance-wise at least: tall with a face that knew all too well what it was worth. When the man turned around, the back hairs of Vince’s neck stood straight.

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“Thank you,” the man said with such ease, taking the glass that Vince offered. Perhaps a response would be nice, but Vince was never very good at such things as conversation. “And your name is?” “Vince Emerson, Sir.” “Please, don’t call me Sir. My father was a Sir, but not a very respectable one.” “Then what should I call you?” “Edwin Baker,” he paused to take a sip of his wine, narrowing his eyes at the glass, as if to spot a speck of poison. “Interesting,” Vince continued. “Baker is a fairly common name, yet out of all the extravagant company I’ve met here in Dimbridge, the name Baker has never come across.” “Well, now it has. Funny how I’ve never met anyone by the last name Emerson either. Say, which part of Dimbridge is your family from?” “Out of Dimbridge, across the Ivory Sea in Rojoy. And you?” “My address is in Dimbridge, but I barely visit here anymore. I travel a lot, I guess.” “A traveler. I see, I see, and what business does a traveler like yourself have at an auction?” Vince questioned. Edwin pondered about the room, his eyes leading in every sort of direction except for Vince.

“To bid? Why else go to an auction if there’s nothing you plan to bid on,” Edwin huffed at the idea. “And yet that is where we disagree,” “You’re not bidding?” Vince shook his head. “I enjoy the rush of everything,” that direction was fully on Vince now-a bit intimidating with how the bruising under his eyes seemed to make it look like he had no eyes at all.

“C’mon now, I think we both know the reason why you’re here, other than your so-called rush,” those purple bags sunk deeper and deeper as Edwin’s voice twisted into a raspy, unsettling tone.

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“And what reason is that?” Vince said, taking a sip out of his own glass to avoid the stammer in his own voice. “Stop pretending.” Spit flew between Edwin’s porcelain teeth. “I know who you are, and I know enough not to trust you.” “Fine. You don’t have to trust me, but you must answer me this. About the painting I-” “I think you’ve said enough,” Edwin cut him off, taking a few steps back into a crowd of people. “Then explain how you plan on paying for it, and I’ll leave

you be.”

Edwin stopped, flipping back around on his polished shoes. “How I plan on paying for it?” Edwin said, or rather pushed out from his clenched jaw that was sure to break if Vince pressed onward. “Is that really any of your business?” “Yes, of course it’s my business! And how come every auction you’ve attended, one of the artifacts disappears? Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Baker,” Vince blurted out before his brain could fully comprehend what he’d said. “You’re already a fool, need I say more?” “Just so you know, if you ever go near that painting, I’ll have your head under my foot. Do I make myself clear?” There was a silence between them. “Mr. Emerson, I’m only here for the same reason you are.” And with that, Edwin walked off until he reached his seat by the front row. Vince trailed behind a group of people dressed in golds and ruby pinned dragonflies, taking a seat in the row behind Edwin that was most certainly not his. Once everyone was settled, the lights began to dim, and the discussions withered off into whispers. A single spotlight led the attention to the podium up front. An elderly man with flushed cheeks and a mole right at the tip of his nose, cleared his throat next to the speaker’s horn. “Good evening, I’d like to offer a warm welcome to the Bellow Gallery for hosting us tonight, and an even greater welcome to

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all of you for being here.” Vince couldn’t catch onto what the man said next; he was too distracted by the obvious grin spread across Edwin’s face-a nasty grin. Paddles started going up before the blink of an eye. An emerald embedded necklace was brought to the center, carried on a velvet pillow. “Twenty for number eleven, forty-five for number thirty-six, topped by sixty-seven for number eight!” Vince searched amongst the crowd of stern expressions and hesitant movements. “And sold! To the lady over by the left corner for sixty-seven thousand!” There was an eruption of applause, but that moment didn’t last very long. A draped canvas was carried out with the care of white gloves. Vince leaned on the edge of his chair, just like the rest did in his row. Edwin didn’t move a muscle. And when that drape withdrew, it revealed the still-life painting of a dead bird and a curious mouse on top of a red cloth table. “Butcher the Birds and Silence the mouse by Carry Finch, going for one hundred thousand tins. Your time starts now.” Arms shot into the air. “One hundred for number seventeen!” The number raised again, and again, and again, until it was at a million tins. Edwin hadn’t bid once. “Going a whole million, take your time ladies and gentlemen, but we don’t have all night.” Slowly, Edwin held up his paddle. “One million for number ten, going to a million and a half! Anyone want to top that?” “Give me that,” Vince said, snatching the paddle out of the struggling grip of the man next to him. He held it above his head, all while pushing away the man now grabbing for it. “Some competition! With number thirty-nine leading!” Ed-

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win looked over his shoulder, glaring at Vince, but still, he raised his paddle again. “And sold! For the highest price of two million tins!” Edwin stood up, giving a bow to the cheering crowd before walking off. Vince followed after him, as Edwin quickened his pace. “You can’t possibly-” Before Vince could get a full sentence out, the exit door slammed in his face. He opened it to reveal a room that led to a staircase with three guards surrounding both Vince and Edwin. One of the guards pressed his finger to his temple, where a symbol was placed. The guard then stepped out of the way for the door near the back of the room. “Right this way, Mr. Baker,” “Thank you,” Edwin replied. “Please! You can’t let him in there!” Vince begged the second guard, who remained stone cold. “You need to let me through!” He fumbled about his blazer pockets, pulling out an I.D. “I'm an investigator for the National Museum of Hemlock! Our land! I have permission to view the painting whenever I so please!”

“I don’t care who you are, you must wait here, or else I’ll have you removed.” Before Vince could get another plea out, there was a very faint smell slipping from under the door-nothing burning, but a mixture of grass, swamp water, and kelp. The guard’s shoes soon became covered with the coppery fog. “Henry, watch this guy for me alright?” He twisted the knob to an alarm bell screaming and flashes of white blinding light. Vince practically threw himself into the other room when the guard opened the door. He smothered his mouth with his sleeve, which didn’t do much for blocking out the blanket of smoke. “Edwin!” he yelled, but no one answered. The countless

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footsteps were everywhere, running about, chasing after who knows who. “Edwin, show yourself now!” Vince said, and with that, he was knocked to the ground with a punch to his stomach. Suddenly aware of his own breathing, he curled up in pain, struggling to stand up again. The trim plates went off, sprinkling water over the smoke and eventually clearing it up to reveal the figures in the room. To Vince’s surprise, Edwin was on the floor too, hair drenched along with his black suit. And yet Edwin didn’t have the painting. He had another painting instead. It was the painting of a man walking down a snowy road, surrounded by buildings, and under an abundance of stars. Stolen straight off the wall and into Edwin’s arms.

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