Read Shooting Gallery for Free Online Page B

need me,” I said, thinking that a bubble bath and a hot rum toddy would really hit the spot. With the wolf no longer baying at my studio’s door, I could relax for the first time in months.
    â€œHow about now?” he asked, pushing away from the truck.
    Or not.
    â€œNow’s good,” I said cooperatively.
    We crossed the parking lot to one of DeBenton Secure Transport’s blue-and-silver armored cars emblazoned with the logo of a roaring lion, where Frank used a complicated series of keys and codes to open the rear doors. He climbed in and extended a hand to assist me, a chivalrous gesture I found both charming and annoying. I inched into the car, trying not to flash Frank in the process, which was not an easy task in heels and a short skirt. Switching on the overhead dome light, he locked the heavy doors behind us, hunkered down in front of a shallow wooden crate, lifted the lid, and took out a thick layer of foam packing material. Finally he removed a white silk cloth to reveal an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch painting.
    It was a Picasso, a colorful oil painting of a woman. At least I thought it was a woman.
    â€œAmazing, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone reverential.
    â€œYeah, sure. Amazing.”
    Frank looked surprised. “You don’t like Picasso?”
    â€œOf course I like Picasso!” I lied. “What’s not to like? It’s Picasso !”
    â€œI can’t believe you don’t like Picasso,” he said with a shake of his handsome head. “And to think you once called me a Philistine. Anyway, the question is: can you fix it?”
    Fix what? There were no slash marks, no ink blots, no greasy pizza stains. Just a bunch of lines, pattern, and color.
    I had to ask. “What’s wrong with it?”
    â€œThe bright red mark? In the middle of the woman’s breast?” He pointed to a red line in the center of an angular splotch that looked unlike any breast I had ever seen. “It wasn’t there when I took possession of the painting. I’m investigating how it happened, but I can’t surrender it to its owner in this condition.”
    â€œOh,” I said, squinting at the red squiggle. “How do you know it’s not supposed to be there?”
    â€œAnd here I thought you were the human art detector.”
    â€œModern art’s too cold and calculated,” I explained. “I need to feel the art. Now if it were from Picasso’s Blue Period . . .”
    â€œFeel, schmeel,” he scoffed. “The question is, can you fix it? I can’t turn over a defaced multimillion-dollar painting.”
    â€œOkay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Got a flashlight?”
    Frank pulled one out from under a jump seat and turned its bright beam on the painting. I touched the surface of the red line gingerly, then tilted the canvas and examined it from the side.
    By golly, it looked like a crayon mark.
    Last summer, during a visit to my hometown of Asco, my two young nephews had reintroduced me to the wonders of Crayolas. I’d immediately bought a sixty-four pack, and Mary and I had experimented with them on all kinds of surfaces, including canvas. If I was right, it should be a relatively simple matter to lift the colored wax from the Picasso.
    I glanced at Frank. Not only did I wish to bolster my reputation as “Annie Kincaid, Girl Wonder of the Art World,” but in view of our new business arrangement, I needed my landlord to believe that he was getting his money’s worth. So as he waited patiently, I cocked my head, frowned, and hmm’d. I squinted some more, sat back on my heels, and put my hands on my knees, bowing my head as if concentrating intently. Finally I shook my head and sucked air in through my teeth, making that reverse hissing sound that usually accompanies estimates for auto repairs.
    â€œWell, Frank, here’s the story,” I said crisply. “I can help you. Yes, I