A Credit to the Art

A CREDIT TO THE ART

Craig Conley

Copyright© Craig Conley 2012

Published by CeeCee Publishing at Smashwords

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Second Edition

ISBN: 9780983280156

About the author:

Craig Conley always had a love for astronomy and physics, soaking up everything he could find on these subjects. His stories reflect that passion. The science he employs is based on our current level of knowledge about the universe and its workings. He also incorporates his sense of humor and a touch of roguishness into his imaginary pirate gang, and the results are very entertaining. Much of his life was spent as a working musician and the time spent in that extraordinary late-night scenario often lends color to his characters.

Books by the same author

The Jewels of Heaven (2nd Edition – CeeCee Publishing) 2012 ISBN: 9780983280118

The CenterMint Caper (2nd Edition – CeeCee Publishing) 2012

ISBN: 9780983280132

The Policeman’s Ball (2nd Edition – CeeCee Publishing) 2012

ISBN: 9780983280149

Diamonds in the Rough (2nd Edition – CeeCee Publishing) 2012

ISBN: 9780983280163

X Marks the Spot (2nd Edition - CeeCee Publishing) 2012

ISBN: 9780983280170

Rockets Full of Rubies (2nd Edition – CeeCee Publishing) 2012

ISBN: 9780983280187

C O N T E N T S:

CHAPTER ONE: A Thief in the Night

CHAPTER TWO: To Catch a Thief

CHAPTER THREE: The Morning News

CHAPTER FOUR: The Evening News

CHAPTER FIVE: Picking up the Thread

CHAPTER SIX: The End of the Line

CHAPTER SEVEN: At the End of a Rope

CHAPTER EIGHT: Barbie’s Bang up Bomb

CHAPTER NINE: The Drop of a Name

CHAPTER TEN: To Take up the Sword

CHAPTER ONE

A Thief in the Night

The slender artist stepped back from the easel and studied his work. As he compared the painting resting there with the photograph he had been using as his subject, he realized that at last, every detail matched perfectly. He smiled and set down his palette and brushes on the table beside him. There was a carafe of wine resting over on the sideboard and he decided to have something of a celebration in honor of the completion of the work. He went over and poured himself a glassful and then returned to the easel.

His critical eye spotted an untidy smudge of light-brown paint down on one corner of the large sheet of clear plastic he was using as a canvas. Even though it was supposed to be simply an area of plain dirt in front of a building, it looked more like a smudge than any type of texture one might find in a field of soil. He frowned and picked up a clean brush and gently smoothed the offending blur into the background.

There, now it was perfect. He raised his wine glass and tipped it slightly toward the painting. It was a fruity wine and made his mouth pucker a bit when he took a sip, but after allowing a moment for the flavor to become familiar, he took another draught.

He stood lost in thought in front of his work, contemplating the many months of effort his creation had required. It felt great to finally have it finished.

A knock on the door brought him out of his reverie. He walked slowly over to answer it, knowing full well who it was.

It would be Mrs. Martingale, the wealthy art patroness who owned the building, standing smiling out in the passageway. As far as he knew, no one else was even aware he was here.

She had offered him the use of this loft in the fashionable district of Mira City on Capella III at no charge six months ago, and he had readily embraced the idea of free rent. He had not been having as much success selling his paintings as he would have liked, and his cash flow had become the merest of trickles. Her generosity had been welcome, but it was a little bit demeaning for him to have had to accept it.

Still, this situation wouldn’t last forever, he told himself consolingly. He had acquired something of a minor reputation in the art world and he was certain that the work which he had just finished would be properly recognized as genius; surely everything was going to turn around for him soon. Until then, he must endure.

With this painting, he would show them. He wasn’t washed-up - as so many critics had claimed in their mean reviews. True, he had had some bad patches recently. That fiasco of trying to paint the mural on the side of the commercial space-liner above Bellatrix V while suspended alongside it in a spacesuit had ended in ferocious ridicule. He hadn’t realized that the lack of an atmosphere wouldn’t allow the paint to dry, and when it all simply mixed together into one big glob of greenish-brown glop on the side of the ship, the critics had had a field day. If it hadn’t been for the comforting support of Mrs. Martingale, both emotional and financial, he might have given up his career right then.

Of course, as for the socially prominent patroness, he was aware that she had rather more on her agenda than the support of his talent. Several late-night appearances outside his door, dressed only in a flimsy nightgown and reeking of booze, explained her intentions all too plainly.

It wasn’t that she looked all that bad, actually. She had light-brown hair worn in a pageboy cut and warm, dark eyes. Extra pounds on her short frame leant a kind of portly impression to her, but she really just had a full, well-rounded figure. He imagined that bedding her would probably be rather enjoyable.

Nevertheless, the idea of prostituting himself for rent repulsed him, so he had managed to discourage her without having to resort to obvious or rude rejection. It was important to be able to maintain her support so he could continue his work.

Alonzo Jackson was not necessarily a handsome man himself; he was in his late thirties and stood a little less than six feet tall and weighed a shade over 150 pounds. He had thinning brown hair and light grey-blue eyes set wide apart on a narrow, angular face. His body wasn’t muscular at all; rather lean and slender with thin arms and delicate long fingers on very fragile-looking hands. His voice was high and squeaky and he had suffered a constant struggle against being labeled a homosexual ever since childhood. He wasn’t actually, he had a healthy appreciation for the ladies, but he seldom had the opportunity to exercise it since few women found him attractive.

Mrs. Martingale, however, didn’t set very high standards. As she was 25 years his senior, 6 inches shorter, and outweighed him by 20 pounds, she was willing to disregard his masculine shortcomings in favor of simple, practical, availability. She paid the rent and that gave her an accessibility which she had made use of on several occasions.

His rejection of her advances hadn’t yet, to her mind, been absolutely decisive, so she was biding her time and waiting. Their relationship was still friendly and she genuinely believed in his talent. Although she would have loved to have him share her bed, she would do nothing to jeopardize the completion of this latest creation of his. It meant way too much to her.

The artist opened the door to the loft and it was, as he expected, Amanda Martingale.

Good evening, Alonzo, she greeted him pleasantly. May I come in?

Jackson was actually rather glad to see her. Finishing the painting represented a landmark for him and he wanted to share it with someone.

Please, do come in, Mrs. Martingale. I have done it, he gushed. Come and see. He pointed towards the painting.

She lifted the hem of her long dress and entered. The artist wasn’t a stickler for cleanliness and the loft floor hadn’t been swept in weeks. Besides, the dress she wore tonight was a Denoir original and it cost more than the rent the loft would have brought in for the whole six months he had been there. She stepped delicately over to the easel and studied the painting.

It was a little more than a meter on a side. But instead of a cloth canvas, it was a sheet of clear plastic. There were places you could see right through it, some places with just the merest hint of paint, and some where there was no paint at all. A lot of the picture was unidentifiable as any kind of object, simply shades and swaths of color.

There were several obvious designs to be made out however; one large building with a row of vehicles parked in front of it was apparent. There were also indistinct impressions of people walking among various trees and shrubs, although none of them seemed to be complete figures.

If you didn’t know what the painting was supposed to represent, it would have been bizarre.

But Mrs. Martingale knew that it was as it should be. She prided herself on being avant-garde in the art world, and Alonzo Jackson had come up with a brilliant idea.

This particular painting was the final one of six. When they were placed together to form the faces of a cube, a three-dimensional effect was created. The seemingly irregular patches and swaths of color on the clear plastic canvas all came together into one.

Jackson had been working from a group of photographs for the last six months. He had produced all the other five sides, and they were hanging suspended in Mrs. Martingale’s gallery at the moment. This was the final piece. She perused it carefully…and with considerable excitement. It looked right.

The subject of this unique painting had been chosen by her, and for a very specific reason. It was the Command Headquarters building of the Galactic Police Force, located on the planet Policia. At the moment, it was the seat of power and wealth in the galaxy. The political figureheads in the government were simply that, vacuous figureheads. Mrs. Martingale was wealthy and had every intention of staying that way, so she courted the powers-that-be. That meant the highest-ranking officers of the Galactic Police Force. She provided them with everything from lavish dinners to discreet private contributions into their bank accounts. She knew how to curry favor. This project would solidify her privileged position. She leaned in to improve her view and continued her detailed examination of the painting.

Amanda Martingale had had a long, hard struggle to social prominence. She had been a pretty young girl who had married beneath her station at an early age. Her father had been the well-established owner of a manufacturing company on one of the central galactic worlds, and he had given his daughter every possible benefit as she was growing up. A fine education at one of the best schools and a guaranteed position in the upper echelons of society had been hers from birth. She had never even questioned how they had arrived on her doorstep; she just took them for granted.

But when she was sixteen, a carnival had come to town. Her mother absolutely forbade her to have any contact with the people associated with it, and Amanda became curious. One evening she and a girlfriend secretly entered the acres of glittering lights. A handsome rogue recognized the young, naive beauty at once and set about charming her heart straightaway. Within weeks, she had run off with him and they were married by a ship’s captain as the carnival traveled between star systems.

Her new husband was a cunning and ruthless man, and great wealth came their way from the beginning of the marriage, although little of it could be said to have been honestly come by.

However, as the years progressed, Amanda began to find that her life as the spouse of a criminal carried too high a price attached to it - what with being constantly on the run and so forth. At first, the excitement of the outlaw lifestyle had thrilled her, but over time the alienation from respectable society became tedious. She longed for a return to the comfort and acceptance her parents had provided her with as a child, and she began to loathe the man who had robbed her of it for his own selfish pleasures.

So, one day she decided to divorce her hooligan husband. By this time he had become a central figure in gambling and carnivals and circuses on several worlds and headed a company of ruffians and ne’er-do-wells which numbered in the thousands. He had become very wealthy, but he was still coarse in his ways, and the social life he forced upon Amanda was nothing more than vulgar and boorish gatherings of thugs and hoodlums.

Amanda hired a good lawyer and took her nefarious spouse for most of his wealth - due largely to the fact that she had damning papers concerning his escapades over the years. He had no choice but to give her whatever she asked for. She stipulated in the settlement that she intended to start her life anew and that she wished never to see him again. He reluctantly accepted her terms and sulked off to continue along his criminal path the day after signing the huge check awarded her in the divorce agreement.

Amanda began the arduous climb back to social acceptance with a will and gradually, over time, the notoriety from her tainted history faded. She gratefully left it behind and concentrated on cultivating her ascent into high society.

Even with her dubious past, her impressive prosperity guaranteed that she was welcomed in all the right quarters. She was a rising star, and found that the grace and style she had learned early on as a child served her well in her climb back up the ladder. She was proficient in all the skills, and it didn’t take long.

She also realized that once she crested that hill, her acquired familiarity with the outlaw world would ensure that she’d never be dethroned. A discreet call to a past acquaintance would eliminate troublesome competitors. She’d have no qualms about employing whatever techniques might be necessary to remain as the grande dame. She aspired to the position and adored the perks that came with it.

This painting which now stood before her was to be the crown jewel in her ascent. She had spent a great deal of time and money to have Jackson’s unique painting installed as the centerpiece in the Headquarters building on Policia. A solid gold plaque had been cast listing her as the benefactress. It would be displayed for all to see in the lobby. Her name would stay in view of the rich and powerful. They would be constantly reminded of it as they went about their routines.

She had had to go to considerable trouble to woo Galactic Police Force Commissioner Herbert Dawkins into her camp. His wife, Belinda Barrington-Dawkins, had done her level best to torpedo Amanda. Belinda wanted her pitiful snit of a husband to choose her disgustingly untalented protégée, Jacob Weinstein, to occupy pride of place in the Headquarters building exhibit. It had cost Amanda a small fortune to get him to deny his shrew of a wife.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time that Amanda and Belinda had crossed swords. There had been a running feud for years between the two women. It had become so dramatic at times that it was almost the stuff of legends. Belinda’s privileged position as wife of the Galactic Police Force Commissioner gave her immunity from Amanda’s unique persuasions from the past. She also believed that her husband’s situation implied that she be the acknowledged darling of high society.

Amanda felt otherwise, and possessing the wherewithal to back her claim, stepped up to the challenge. The battle for queen of the society pages raged furiously.

But now, victory was finally at hand for Amanda Martingale’s court. This work by Alonzo Jackson had done it. The painting resting before her was a brilliant idea, brilliantly done, and Mrs. Martingale almost shivered with delight at the thought of the frustration and disappointment which would smother Belinda at the formal unveiling four days from now. She carefully masked her triumph and composed herself, then turned to face the artist.

It’s marvelous, Alonzo. I can’t wait to see it with the rest. Will you take it over to the gallery tonight and fit them together? Then maybe we’ll have a private showing and a bit of a celebration. How does that sound?

I’m quite anxious to see all the sides together myself, replied the artist. I’m sure this one will interface with the other five, but one can’t be certain simply working from a photograph. The real test will be if the subtle hues and brush strokes contribute their depth properly. I’m just going to clean my brushes and then I’ll pack the painting and go. Will you accompany me?

No, I have to go and change first, Alonzo. Mrs. Martingale had hopes she might be able to bend their