Free Fall from Grace by Charles Benoit

to a wobbly-looking mountain. “But it’s at the Met in New York City.”
    â€œFigures. You find a painting you want to steal and it’s in the wrong town.”
    â€œYou’re not being very supportive.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said, checking his phone. Still no texts. That wasn’t unusual, but if Zoë had texted he wanted to text back right away. Better that than dealing with all the questions later. Grace kept all the books on her side of the table, so he glanced around the room as they talked. “What kind of painting are you looking for?”
    â€œNot sure yet. I like the Impressionists, but who doesn’t, right?”
    â€œRight…”
    â€œI used to be big into Surrealism. Melting clocks, people with apples for heads. But it got kinda predictable—”
    â€œApples for heads. Definitely predictable.”
    â€œI love Duchamp, but I’m not going to steal a urinal.”
    â€œOkay, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    â€œI guess what I’m looking for is a painting with lots of color, not realistic but nothing too out there—”
    Sawyer scanned the walls. “Uh-huh.”
    â€œNot a still life. No bowls of fruit.”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œAnd something different , you know? Exotic.”
    â€œExotic. Sure.” The small one by the fire alarm.
    â€œLike a tropical island or a Chinese temple or a bullfight—”
    â€œHow do you feel about camels?”
    â€œCute animal, awful cigarette.”
    â€œHow about paintings with camels? Say, camels in an oasis with Arabs and a tent and a couple dogs.”
    She looked up from the book. “Where’s it at? The Louvre?”
    He pointed with his chin. “The wall.”
    She spun around in her chair and as soon as she saw the painting she gave a little gasp.
    â€œIt’s no Cézanne, but it’s not Surrealist, either,” he said, wondering if he was close to being right.
    â€œOh, it’s beautiful ,” she said, and there was something soft in her voice he hadn’t heard before. Eyes locked on the painting, she crossed the small room, head tilted back so she could see it. She stood there for a minute, mouth open, not saying anything, then, almost too quiet to hear, she said, “See if the coast is clear.”
    â€œWhoa, you’re not going to—”
    â€œ Shhhhh . I just wanna check something. You see anybody?”
    He slid his chair back and stood, careful not to make a sound, then leaned out into the hall. An old librarian was showing an even older man how to create an online account.
    â€œGo ahead. You’ve got time.”
    Using the tips of her pinkie fingers, Grace angled the bottom of the painting away from the wall and waited. “No alarms yet, that’s good.” On her toes, she looked underneath. “No wires, no contacts. Geez, it’s not even bolted down.” As she lifted the painting off the hook, Sawyer felt a cold, electric tingle roll from his stomach tohis crotch, and as she walked toward him with the painting, he felt his knees give a bit.
    â€œCheck it out,” she said, holding it up for him to see.
    It was about the size of his laptop, with a dusty wooden frame and a tarnished brass nameplate that said G. RAVLIN—MOROCCAN MARKET . It looked out of focus, the paint brushed on thick, the details all blurred over. Were they men or women? Or both? Was that a rifle or a stick? There were camels, either three with five legs or five with three. The colors were way off—the sand was mustard yellow and white, the animals looked more red than brown, and the shadows were blue and pink. The whole thing seemed sloppy and rushed and he didn’t like it, but the way Grace was oohing and aahing, he figured it was best not to say anything.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” she said. “Impressionist, early nineteen hundreds, maybe even the late eighteen