Booker studied the painting with a critical eye. The colors were a mishmash of streaks and splatters, as if someone had tried to emulate Jackson Pollack. The effect was a bit off-putting.
"Unexpected, yet appealing," a voice observed.
Booker looked over. The man standing there was a few inches taller than him, a solid six feet high. He was young, clean-shaven, with piercing eyes the color of hazel. His body type was hidden beneath layers of embroidered silk, but he carried himself with ease.
"It's a bit striking," Booker relented. "Unusual for this gallery. But I suppose that just means the curator is branching out in taste."
"Or perhaps he always had this taste and is only now introducing it to his patrons." The man looked the painting up and down. "In any case, it is quite an unusual piece, isn't it? Not the piece itself," he amended. "But rather its place here. Given the history of the curator and his open mind, one should accept that he has chosen to have a piece like this among his collection. Don't you think?"
Booker ran through the conversation in his head again. "Uh, yeah. Yes. The gallery belongs to someone. He has the right to have whatever art he wants on display."
"True," the man said. "But even so, one who runs an art gallery must be wary of what he places on display. If his patrons are not satisfied, they may not come back. There are so many different galleries in the world. What does this one offer that the others don't? Does this piece fit that mold, even if it doesn't appear to match?"
"Sir, I think it's a beautiful picture. And if it doesn't fit here, or if no one but the curator likes it, then he should hang it in his home." Booker's head swam from the man's language. He got the sense they were talking about something besides a painting, but he couldn't figure out what. "Then he can appreciate it for its true beauty, and it will be treasured."
"Interesting."
He looked in silence at the painting, wishing he could have that skill. The reds blended with yellows and oranges to look like bronze. Contrasting them were deep blues and purples, dotted across the canvas in splotches like bruises.
"Do you know how much it costs?" the man asked.
Booker leaned in, over the rope and under the spotlight. He squinted at the yellow, handwritten tag on the bottom corner. "Twenty-six thousand euros." He whistled, but it came out mostly air. "Too rich for my blood."
"You're not buying?" the man looked surprised.
"Nope. I'm just sightseeing. I go to a college just down the street. All my money is tied up in education."
"But you are dressed like a wealthy American," the man protested. "Surely, you are not so poor as to not afford this piece?"
"Oh, I'm not dressed fancy," he smiled at the foreigner's confusion. "In this country, there are certain brands that a man wears to communicate great wealth. Like Gucci. Brands that produce clothing people can tell at a glance costs thousands of dollars. I don't wear those brands.
"Then there's the cheap clothing modeled on the expensive stuff, but uses cheap products, cheap manufacturing, and bad taste. H and M is an example. I wear brands that communicate modest wealth. They're nicer than the cheap stuff, and cost a bit of money, but the added investment is that I look more like a supervisor at my job than my supervisor does. I might go hungry for a couple of days to afford them, but the silk tie and fancy button-down have helped me out in job interviews. And I'm not dressed up for anything either. These are my normal clothes."
"Mmm."
Booker realized the man was studying him.
"Omar," the man extended a hand. "Omar Ibn-Mahmood Shahbaz."
"Booker," he accepted the handshake. "Just Booker."
"Pleasure." Omar held his gaze a second longer than necessary. "Are you busy this evening, Booker?"
"Well, not really. Spring semester just ended. I'm trying to decide if I want to pack up and head home or stay in the city and look for a job. That kind of thing."
"Would you be interested in joining me for dinner?" Omar smiled, showing off perfect white teeth. "I'm staying at a hotel downtown, but I'm interested in hearing about America from the perspective of an American."
"Sorry, sir. Money's a bit tight right now." Booker raised one corner of his mouth.
"Sounds like it would be a lot of fun, but I can't."
"Don't worry about the money," Omar assured him. "It'll be on me. Are you free at seven?"
"I'm always available for free food," Booker joked. "Where should I show up?"
"I'll have a car sent for you. May I have your telephone number? In case something comes up?"
"Sure," Booker shrugged. He thought nothing of it. Omar's information came on an expensive business card: black with gold lettering. Lots of people had cards like that. Booker gave it a cursory glance and entered the information in.
"See you tonight," Omar winked.
Chapter 2:
Booker decided to wear what he was already wearing. He didn't bring a jacket because it wasn't a business meeting. But he did put on a nice sweater vest and tucked his shirt in. And he combed his hair. He should have gotten it cut. Barbers in the city were so expensive; he'd rather wait and pay a cheaper one in the suburbs.
The limousine came early. The driver was a middle-aged man in a black suit. Booker got in the back and made himself comfortable. The driver either did not speak English or did not care. Booker stared out the window, enjoying the quiet.
The car pulled up outside a nondescript office building in the downtown area. The lobby was visible through a wall of glass: plain furniture in the style that said, "I'm rich but not flamboyant." A security desk sat in the middle of the room. Seated behind it was a man and a woman, both security officers pretending to be busy on their computers. Outside, a police cruiser was parked on the corner.
"So," Booker stuck his head in through the car's open door. "I just go in?"
The driver nodded and opened his newspaper.
Well, that was that, then. Booker shut the door and turned around. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to the turning glass door and pushed it open. The security officers looked up at his entrance.
"Name?" the man called.
"Booker," Booker replied, walking over. "I'm supposed to be meeting Omar here." He dropped his driver's license on the counter. The officer checked it against a database and handed it back.
"Elevator three. Press the button for floor forty-six. He's waiting for you upstairs."
"Thank you, sir." Booker nodded his appreciation and walked toward the elevators. He noted that both guards stared at him as he left. Whatever. He knew he looked a little out of place. But why would Omar want to have dinner in an office building? There were plenty of nice restaurants within walking distance.
There were twelve elevators. Booker got in the one with a huge '3' emblazoned on it. It had only a handful of buttons, and none of them were in the proper order of their floors. That bothered him. They should be in order. Which one was he supposed to press again? Oh, right. Forty-six.
While the elevator rose, he considered what he knew about Omar. Absolutely nothing. He'd accepted the dinner invitation of a rich Arab man because of free food. The subject was art. He knew Omar was wealthy just by looking at him. No man wore silk head to toe unless he was wealthy or came from a certain country. How wealthy, Booker didn't care to guess.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Outside was a short hallway that ended at a pair of security officers in front of a red velvet rope before a pair of plated double doors. Deep bass music was thrumming through the floor, as if rap or party music was playing.
The guards checked his ID again before allowing him through. Booker noted no less than six black domes in the ceiling: the tell-tale sign of security cameras. Once cleared, the guards pushed open the doors and waved him through.
He was immediately assaulted by a wall of light and sound. The sudden noise made him stumble and clap his hands over his ears. Before he could flee, the doors closed behind him. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him through an open door to a walled off area.
The floor here was covered in thick carpet. The walls were made of something soundproof because the noise was muffled. There were two more private security officers at the entrance.
"ID?" one demanded. Booker handed it over. The guard checked it, then rechecked it. He checked it once more against his guest list, conferred with his colleague, and handed back Booker's ID with a huff. "You may pass," he said in heavily accented English.
Omar sat at a table in the otherwise deserted dining hall. Five more security officers surrounded him. They insisted on giving Booker a pat down before allowing him to sit.
Once seated, Omar waved them away and slid over a menu.
"Nice place you have here," Booker commented.
"It belongs to my father," Omar shrugged. "When he passes, it will be mine. As will the rest of his estate."
Booker looked out the window. He did a double take. The restaurant was on the second floor of a nightclub. Men and women were dancing on the floor, and there was a stage off to one side with dancers and a live band. The most interesting part was the costumes.
Everyone was naked.
Or close to it. All the dancers on-stage were nude, and most of them--he now realized--were draping themselves around poles. The patrons on the floor wore anything from an expensive three-piece suit to a latex catsuit. Several were even nude and knelt on the floor, wearing only a collar and leash held by their master or mistress.
Those were dressed similarly. Dominants, Masters, and Mistresses alike wore fetish costumes. Male and female waitresses wove among them wearing the tiniest g-strings or jock straps.
"It's a fetish club," Booker said.
