Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Delic?” Clay asked.
Cal smiled as if it was a fond memory. “He was our guide on that street art tour Lyssa and I did back in London.”
Clay suddenly understood why the man was smiling. He’d heard the tale from the Mavericks, how the two had known each other for years, Cal twenty years her senior. On that trip to London to see Dane, Cal and Lyssa had fallen for each other. The rest was history. Now the two families were inextricably entwined.
“It was only a couple of months later,” Cal explained, “that San Holo did the London mural on Brick Lane—” A famous spot for street art. “—and suddenly the guy’s art went viral.” He pointed. “After seeing this latest piece, I think he’s going to be almost bigger than Banksy. He’ll certainly be bigger than Lynx.”
Clay had researched all the big street artists, Banksy being the most famous. Lynx, whose real name was Hugo Lewis, had also been an amazing street artist a few years back, although his work over the last five years wasn’t anywhere near as good as his early stuff. Lynx had lost his edge. Unlike San Holo, whose work showed more brilliance with every new piece.
Cal’s canvases and first edition prints would rise in value after this latest piece. San Holo’s work might even start to rival Banksy’s, some of which went for as much as fifty thousand pounds for just a print. There were even Banksy museums in New York City and London. Street art wasn’t just tagging anymore; it had become one of the most lucrative art forms.
Now San Holo’s street art had solidified him as an uber artist.
Cal was saying, “I’ve already tripled my investment. I really appreciate the art.” He turned to Clay. “I’ve got to have this one too.”
Clay searched for clues as to the artist’s real identity. “You think the guy’s British? Since he got his start over there?”
Cal shrugged. “Probably. But his stuff pops up all over the world. He could be from anywhere.”
The whispers rose in volume all around them.
“San Holo has made a new one.”
“There’s no one like him.”
“It’s amazing.”
Still staring at the mural, Clay asked, “Do you know who his agent is?”
Cal snorted. “Got her on speed-dial.”
“I want to commission a mural for the warehouse,” Clay told him.
Cal was already scrolling through his phone contacts. “I’m sending her info.”
A moment later, Clay’s phone pinged. Then Cal elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “But don’t you try buying the canvas of this work out from under me.”
Clay laughed. “I want something that’s specifically for my warehouse. Something no one else has seen.”
And he would have it. Along with the artist’s true identity.
Chapter Two
Clay had set up the meeting with Adrian Fielding, San Holo’s agent, for the afternoon. Her downtown office in a Market Street high-rise had no waiting room and no receptionist. When he knocked, the door opened to reveal a pretty woman, thirty, maybe a little older, blond hair curling over her shoulders.
Her curvy figure made him think of Gareth, because this woman was exactly his friend’s type.
She held out her hand, shaking with a strong grip, her voice smooth and very British. “You must be Clay Harrington. I’m Adrian Fielding.” They exchanged business cards.
So, the agent was British. Another clue to the artist’s origins?
She beckoned him into the large office overlooking the bay, with an oversized desk holding a computer and two monitors, a conference table, a couch with two wing chairs, and a sideboard holding a coffeemaker, fridge, and microwave. Nice digs, but it was the view of the bay that made the space impressive.
“Please, have a seat,” she said. “Then we’ll discuss how I can help you.” He’d given her no idea over the phone. “Can I get you some coffee? Or water?”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
She poured him a cup from a water cooler next to the sideboard.
Instead of getting directly to his mission, he made small talk. “Where are you from in England?”
She smiled. “London.”
“I enjoy London,” he told her. “The city has a marvelous art culture. I’m surprised you could leave it. How long have you been in San Francisco?”
She shrugged nonchalantly, as if she didn’t suspect he was fishing for information. “About five years.”
San Holo had come on the scene big-time about eighteen months ago, from what Cal had told him. His first works showed up in London, and he had a British agent. Had he come from London to San Francisco and searched out Adrian Fielding, a woman who was probably the only British agent in town? Like sought like. It made sense. He’d be willing to bet that San Holo was British.
He eased into what he wanted. “I’ve been watching San Holo’s work, and it’s brilliant.”
She smiled like the cat that ate the cream. “I totally agree. San is brilliant.”