Page 28 of A Long Con

“I wouldn’t know,” said O’Bell, his mouth overflowing with pieces of toast. “I’m not really up on these things. I’m just the taxi driver.”

“Well, right away I knew it was another study Duchamp had done. Number Four, I call it. Number Three is a forgery Duchamp made of his own Number Two when the original was lost for awhile.”

“So, you wouldn’t call it a forgery,” I posited.

Berkeley nodded. “I would. If you’re duplicating the original, even if you’re the original artist, it’s a forgery. Anyway, I knew this was an authentic Duchamp. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, you came to the right place,” said O’Bell. “My boss, Rodriguez Jimenez, is one of Mexico’s leading art collectors. When we’re done, I’ll give you my cell number, so you can tell me if you come into contact with any more.”

I said, “But you’re willing to sell back this Nude?”

O’Bell shrugged, looking at his plate. “Sure. Why not? Hey, so you had no idea I was participating in hunt club?”

I said, “No, and what’s that? What could that guy two hundred yards away possibly have done?”

O’Bell’s tone became conspiratorial, and he leaned on his forearms on the bar to tell us, “Hunt club is very cool. It’s actually very exclusive. Looks like something you guys might be into.”

I frowned. “Shooting humans?”

“Well, yes, but they’re criminals, see? We’re given a list of criminals, like I have to go pick off some drug dealer in the Olivares District after we leave here.”

I asked, “How can you be sure they’re really criminals? Whoever made you the list, why wouldn’t they pick random people?”

Berkeley added, “Or just give you some addresses and assume eventually, a Mexican male is going to come out that door?”

“Because!” shouted O’Bell, then became quiet again. “Because the people who run these things are very on top of it. On the dark web, see?”

I said, “Well yeah, they’d have to be.”

Melanie interrupted us. “Fugu is coming up.”

O’Bell rubbed his hands together. “Excellent!”

“What’s fugu?” I asked Melanie.

She said, “It’s a very rare blowfish. See the fish he’s unwrapping now? That’s a special sharp polished knife he only uses for fugu. You wouldn’t want to cross-contaminate your California roll.”

“Contaminate?” asked Berkeley, hand on stomach.

Melanie’s eyes were shining. “Yes. The toxin level of this puffer fish’s ovary has enough to kill twenty adults.”

Berkeley squeaked, “Then why do you do it?”

She said, “The thrill. It tingles in your mouth as you roll it around.”

Steve added, “It makes you feel light.”

O’Bell asked, “Are you backing down, Santos?”

“My name’s Berkeley,” said Berkeley, pushing his empty plate to the edge of the bar. “And yeah, I’m backing down.”

O’Bell pointed at us. “Listen! This is a challenge! I won’t give you back the painting unless you eat this fugu!”

I knew that guys like O’Bell were accustomed to living life on the edge, and the adrenaline rushes kept them moving. I’d been myself that way once, living my persona 24/7, even half-heartedly fucking girls while in makeup as the Samoan Slammer. I knew the rush that came from a life lived large. And I wanted to protect Berkeley from it, so I said, “O’Bell. I’ll join you in that challenge. Leave Berkeley out of it. My name’s Royal.”

We shook on it and watched the chef make tissue-thin slices of grayish-white flesh. He placed these feathery pieces like a leafy succulent on a platter so you could still see the plate’s design underneath. Meanwhile, a server gave us a drink of hot sake containing what Melanie said were fugu fins sticking up. The hipsters avidly watched the fugu chef, but all on our side held their breaths while we drank the soup.

It was savory and salty, and my head became light from what I hoped was the sake. It was a thrilling sensation but also made me uneasy. Was this poison? Was this my last meal? I told myself it was the sake making me giddy.