Suitable for Framing

SUITABLE

FOR

FRAMING

A Novella

ROBERT S.

LEVINSON

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2012 by Robert S. Levinson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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NOVELS BY ROBERT S. LEVINSON

A Rhumba in Waltz Time

The Ending We Deserve*

The Traitor in Us All

In the Key of Death

Where the Lies Begin

Ask a Dead Man

Hot Paint

(The Andy Warhol Affair)

The John Lennon Affair

The James Dean Affair

The Elvis and Marilyn Affair

*Ebook

FOR SANDRA

Herself a work of art.

CHAPTER 1

Superstar Buddy Swinehart, the world’s number one action hero, was gushing crocodile tears he could never dare shed on the silver screen or in public, but there was nothing to hold him back now in the subterranean gallery of his Long Island mansion, whose walls held an array of ornately framed and beautifully lit paintings by some of history’s great artists, masterworks that more properly belonged in museum collections.

The object of his emotional outburst was the overpowering Madonna by Raphael basking in the glory of a key light that revealed the magnificence of the artist’s every brushstroke.

No, no, never, not ever gonna sell her, Charlie, he said, struggling to share his decision with Charlie Collier, seated alongside Buddy on the antique viewing bench that once had served the pampered bottoms of royalty at Versailles during the reign of Louis XIV.

Charlie nodded sympathetically and patted Buddy’s shoulder, like a father might console a distraught son who’d been bullied on the playground. Sure you are, Hero, he said.

Fuck you, Charlie, and fuck the Jap who thinks he’s taking it away from me.

Not Japanese, Buddy. Aleutian.

It was a lie, but Buddy apparently had some problems with the Japanese dating back to a monster film he made over there, where the monster got more close-ups and better reviews than him.

Buddy said, So, fuck you and fuck the Aleutian, too.

Sure. And fuck the twenty million peanuts he’s shelling out?

Buddy let out a scream that rivaled his memorable shout from Charge of the Fight Brigade, unleashing a fresh army of tears that raced down his chiseled features and into the brush of a Van Dyke beard he was cultivating for his next film, Warriors at War Again.

Charlie said, C’mon, Buddy. It’s not losing your virginity.

Worse. I’m just getting out-and-out fucked.

Charlie blew out a sigh, pushed up from the bench and padded across to the Raphael Madonna, gave it an admiring glance and launched the kind of sincere sales pitch that never failed to woo his movie star client.

I found her for you for how much, Hero? Ten mil? When you had ten mil to spend like pocket change. Now, two years later, it’s putting twenty mil into your off-shore bank accounts. Cash, Hero. Certified green.

The Raphael is my favorite of all the stuff you ever found for me, Charlie. I love her more than any of my exes. Okay, maybe only tied with Number Three. He broke into a fresh spate of heavy-duty wailing.

Charlie gave it a minute before drawing Buddy back to the present. You phoned me and you said, ‘Charlie, find somebody who can bail me out of my money troubles. I don’t care what you have to sell.’ Isn’t that what you said, Hero?

Suppose.

Charlie stalked the room, using his index finger as a pointer while moving from painting to painting.

Which one, if not her? he said. Your Da Vinci? … How about your fragment from Michelangelo’s Battle of Casina, something any museum in the world would kill for? … That Picasso? …This one? He indicated a Matisse. Or this one? A Rembrandt. Makes not one wit of difference, whichever you’d pick, Hero. I mentioned them all to the man, but he has this thing for Madonnas. It’s either the Raphael or no sale.

Fucking Jap.

"Fucking Aleutian is good for all the peanuts you need—roasted, toasted, salted, shelled, unshelled—

Fucking ex-wives, fucking bookies, fucking loan sharks. Fuck ‘em all.

—and you’ll still have enough left over for a certain something I’m finally this close to picking up for you. Charlie put an inch between his thumb and forefinger.

Buddy’s wet, heavy-lidded eyes sprang wide. The light bulb in a thought balloon above his head popped on. Tell me you mean it, he said, bouncing onto his feet. It is. It’s the Bosch, isn’t it, Charlie?

I already have the Aleutian’s ten mil good faith money banked for you, Hero. He gives me the other ten mil when I make personal delivery of the Madonna. Very clean, our deal. Very sanitary.

Buddy approached the Madonna and stared at the painting with reverence. The Bosch, Charlie?

All cash and no questions, Hero, just the way we always want it. And you never have to worry about the Aleutian playing show-and-tell, any more than you could afford to play show-and-tell.

"I’m asking point blank straight out—how long now have you been promising to score me that fucking study for the Garden of fucking Earthly Delights by Hieronymus fucking Bosch, Charlie?"

What governments and tax collectors don’t know can’t hurt them or us, eh, Hero?

Buddy balled his fists and rattled them at Charlie. Stop with the ducking, already. I want a straight answer and I want it now.

Charlie answered with the crème de la crème of smiles.

Buddy marched to the Raphael Madonna, unhinged it from the wall, swung around, and pushed it at Charlie.

Take the bitch! he said.

CHAPTER 2

Three hours later, Charlie was relaxing over a domestic pino blanc and a plate of hot hors d’oeuvres in the first class compartment of a jumbo jet aiming for Los Angeles. He retrieved his attaché case from the overhead bin, parked it in the empty window seat beside him, worked the combination lock, and fetched a modest collection of art magazines and an 8x10 photograph of the Raphael Madonna.

He took to studying the photograph, a giant smile locked in place while he made a mental game of deciding what his six-figure commission would buy him this time.

A new Rolls or, maybe, something sportier?

A Masarati, perhaps?

A Porsche?

Another Lamborghini?

Or, perhaps, a down payment that hillside villa in the south of France he’d had his eye on for years?

A buxom flight attendant he’d been mentally undressing since before take-off, who had inspired thoughts in him beyond cars and villas, stopped to offer a wine refill—accepted—and tease him about the photo.

The little woman? she said.

You should have seen her before she lost all the weight.

Kind-a attractive—in an old-fashioned way.

Pretty as a picture. You, too.

I bet you say that to all the girls.

I don’t know all the girls, but it’s a safe bet with the ones I do know.

You have any special plans for L.A.?

It wasn’t his imagination. She was hitting on him. Everything about her, the way she held her body, the come-hither arch of her perfectly tweaked eyebrow, and now the way she posed the question, said so.

Not this trip. Continuing on to Hawaii.

Shame, she said, and sashayed back up the aisle.

#

He’d gotten as far as a full-page, full-color reproduction of a fantastic nude by Renoir in one of the art magazines before the wine put him to sleep, for how long he wasn’t sure. A sense of someone hovering over him startled Charlie awake.

It was a young boy, ten or eleven years old, red-haired, gap-toothed, and overrun with freckles. He seemed intent on memorizing the Renoir.

Tell me, kid. You interested in art?

Tits is what. The lady in the painting, she’s got major muffins.

More major muffins in here, Charlie said, handing him three of the art magazines.

I mean the whole bakery, the kid said, and scampered off, past a passenger who’d been eyeing Charlie over his New York Times crossword puzzle. He was in his sixties. The parts of his face that weren’t lived-in had been leased to lousy tenants. White hair, whiter teeth; neither real. He answered Charlie’s nod with his own, tipped his ballpoint to his tongue, and returned to the crossword puzzle.

Charlie found a comfortable position, shut his eyes, and fell back to sleep over visions of the flight attendant introducing him to the mysteries of the Mile High Club, a fantasy that ended too soon, Charlie awakened this time by thunder and lightening, the jet dancing to the inclement weather, followed by the captain’s apologetic baritone breaking news over the intercom:

"…and the storm has seriously affected the air