"Well I see we have found our lost ark"

Nicked startled at the familiar voice bellowing behind him.

"Jerry?" Nick sputtered, turning to see his partner in crime staring with child like delight at the post modern masterpiece on the ceiling. "I didn't...uh...hear...What the hell are you doing here? How...did..."

"Excellent work, Nick." Jerry interupted, never taking his gaze from the ceiling above. "I thought I'd brave it and come on down and check things out for myself." he added turning in circles, neck arched back, eyes glazed.  "Anyway, I didn't want you to have all the fun" he sneered, finally meeting Nick's stare and kicking debris from his custom crafted italian shoes.

Nick was rendered speechless. Damn. Why had he gone to Jerry. He didn't need anyone's help. He had gotten the lead on this. He had tracked it down it. Now that the possibly final work of the New York Times acclaimed "anti-artist" was right before his eyes, Nick wanted to claim it for himself. Just one prize that could be his and his alone.

 He was tired of being the lackey, the gopher, tired of braving the seedy underbelly of the black market art world, the twisted underground railroad of ill acquired masterpieces, just so someone else could reap his rewards. Where was his piece of the abstract expressionist pie? Nick didn't care that these collectors had huge bankrolls, advanced degrees from prestigious universities, mammoth homes and miles of wall space to fill with the newest, the rarest, the most brilliant of priceless pieces. He didn't care that they donated obscene sums of cash to whatever charity would get them pictured in the society pages, standing reserved and humble next to the president of some children's hospital or learning center.

No, these elite of the elite were not much different than Nick himself. Snaking their way through the often shifty jungle of the commerce of fine art, they shed their skins of respectability and quietly choked the life, or money, out of their prey.

They were modern day pirates, he thought, looking for that elusive treasure. Sure their mighty vessels were town cars and jags, their attacks more underhanded than swashbuckling, their site of battle not the open sea but the refined auction houses of Sotheby's and Christies, but pirates they were just the same...and Jerry, their unflinching captain.

Nick had known nothing of the world of art until six years ago. He had been doing odd jobs, delivering "packages" and collecting "dues" for a relatively big fish in a small city pond. Nick worked hard, he was discreet, fair, eager to learn. One Sunday he was collecting on a loan; short guy, big gambling problem, bigger debt. This was not the typical loan shark bait. This guy was different. Of course his gambling was a secret, from his well respected family, his soon to be ex-wife, even from himself at times, and producing such a sum of cash conventionally would have led to an unhappy and eye opening paper trail.

"I..I.. have other assets..." the man murmured, glistening orbs of sweat erupting on his forhead.

Nick lifted one eyebrow. He felt for the guy.

"I have...some jewelry...and art..." he stammered.

Nick guffawed as the man unclasped his stainless steel Daytona from his wrist. He added some unconvincing stacks of bills, an impressive white diamond bracelette and topped it off with a small rectangular wildly colored gold framed canvas, gingerly procured from the wall.

"It's a minor piece but worth a good sum just the same." the man answered Nick's dubious expression. "It's a Brandisnski for God's sake" the man's breathing was staggered, rushed.

He might as well have said "It's a Curious George" for all Nick knew about painting.

Nick shrugged. It had been a good day. He clasped the watch onto his wrist, popping his old one into a small briefcase along with the bills, the bracelette and the gilt framed canvas, snapping it closed.

"Be careful" the man pleaded, as if sending his only child off to his first overnight camp. Maybe this was worth something after all Nick pondered, walking out of the cherry paneled office as quietly as he had walked in.

Nick's boss was not impressed but he was happy enough with the cash and the jewelry, and wrote the loan off. He had bigger fish to fry.

"Here you can keep this" he said casually, tossing the swirls of oil on canvas across the table. "not my market."

Through a friend of a friend, Nick's preferred way of doing business, he was able to extract some decent cash for the tiny painting. It was an easy uncomplicated exchange involving just a few phone calls.

He was happy, until an envelope arrived later that month, slipped under his apartment door. It was a sturdy manila type, no return address. Nick carefully tore open the heavy paper  A thick glossy catalogue spilled onto his kitchen table with a small lime green post-it note affixed to the front.

FYI- turn to page 47- let's do business again. - a friend.

Nick flipped the pages, scanning a myriad of photographs, lengthy descriptions accompanying each one: Statues, china, dining tables. Looks like an expensive garage sale, he chuckled. Then Nick saw the painting- adjacent were the words rare, early work, recent acquisition, and a price that floored him. Nick calculated the numbers-nearly twenty times the amount he had been paid.

And that is when Nicholas A. Perretti decided art would be his commodity of choice. Street drugs were small potatoes compared to the prices this artwork was fetching according to the catalog, besides a cop wouldn't think twice about someone driving around with an old painting in their trunk.