Page 10 of The Picasso Heist
NOW THE REAL work begins.
How an auction house gets the super-wealthy to massively overpay for paintings and the occasional sculpture is an art form in and of itself, a delicate balancing act.
The firm must radiate wealth and privilege while its staffers assure the clientele, the ones raising those pretentious little paddles, that they are the ones who enjoy the real wealth and privilege.
The House of Echelon manages the game to perfection.
Sucking up with a stiff upper lip, as Jacinda describes it.
And that is exactly why I’m sitting in her office at nine o’clock sharp on a Friday morning, my first day as a paid employee of Echelon: Because I asked her to hire me.
Moreover, I asked her to hire me for a job that no new graduate is ever hired for—an appraiser in Echelon’s valuations department.
Neophytes should have no say in determining what a van Gogh, Matisse, Rothko, or Rembrandt is valued at before coming to auction.
That goes for Picassos too. In fact, they shouldn’t even be involved in the research required to value a piece of art, no matter how pedantic or tedious that research might be.
Of course, that’s not my opinion. No, this is all according to Terrance Willinghoff, the guy who oversees the entire valuations department at Echelon. In other words, my new boss.
“He’s going to be an asshole to you,” says Jacinda from behind her large glass-topped desk as she gathers the various forms I need to sign on my first day. “But don’t take it too personally. Terrance is an asshole to almost everyone.”
“He really put up a fight on me, didn’t he?” I ask.
“No one likes being told what to do or, in this case, whom to hire, especially around here. Let’s just say that in the end, Terrance saw the wisdom of going along with my recommendation. But, yeah, don’t expect him to welcome you with open arms.”
“I won’t, and thank you again for going to bat for me.”
“Bullshit,” says Jacinda.
“What do you mean?”
“You graduated second in your class from Columbia, so playing clueless isn’t really your thing. I’m using you, Halston, and we both know it. You’re now my eyes and ears in the one department here that I don’t always know everything about.”
You’re right, Jacinda. We do both know it. You’re absolutely using me.
Terrance Willinghoff and the rest of the stuffy staff that make up the valuations department do indeed play things close to their tweed vests.
How they work, the methods they use, are akin to a secret family recipe, not to be shared with those outside the bloodline.
Such mystique pays dividends for Echelon’s exclusive reputation among art collectors worldwide, but in-house, such cliquishness can mess with company morale, which happens to be Jacinda’s domain.
The valuations department can’t have their own sandbox.
They need to share it with the auctioneers, the finance team, the PR people, and so on—and they all have to play nice.
“Regardless,” I say, “thank you for helping me. I really appreciate this opportunity.”
Jacinda stops shuffling her papers and stares at me. “What I just said doesn’t bother you?” she asks.
“Which part? That I owe you for this job and therefore you own me?” I say. “Do you mean that part?”
There it is. Jacinda’s stare is gone, replaced by the same approving smile she gave me that day last summer when I asked what her salary was. Cojones, yes. Clueless, no.
I’m Jacinda’s mole, and I’m okay with it.
“Here,” she says, handing me a half a dozen documents to sign, including a nondisclosure agreement.
She points to the NDA. “You’re going to see and hear some things that you’re not ever going to be able to talk about outside these walls.
And within these walls, as part of the valuations department, you’re going to have access to certain areas that not everyone else has.
Echelon requires your utmost discretion at all times, no exceptions. Understood?”
“Completely.”
“That’s good enough for me but apparently lawyers still aren’t cool with verbal commitments,” she deadpans, handing me a pen, “so start signing.”
I sign the NDA, turn my attention to the next document, then stop and oh so casually ask the all-important question: “When do I get my security card?”
“As soon as we complete your background check,” says Jacinda.
That’s not the answer I was expecting. “I thought that was done before my internship.”
“It was, but we’ve since had to update the parameters, as it were.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means last fall we hired an auctioneer whose sister, it turns out, was being investigated for financial fraud. Suffice it to say, that didn’t go over too well internally. So now we take a peek at family members.”
“A peek?”
“Nothing that isn’t out there in public records. Still, your signature on this page here,” she says, sliding another piece of paper in front of me, “acknowledges that you’re aware we’re doing it and have no objections.”
Shit.
“Oh,” I say. But it’s the way I say it. Uncomfortably. It’s pure reflex; I can’t help it. For the first time, I’ve gone off script.
“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” asks Jacinda.