420 Read Free Page B

arrested.
    Regardless, I chose the American Airlines Arena as my canvas. There was a Miami Heat game the next day, and I hoped to have some fun with the fans.
    I did.
    I spray painted it all, climbing a ladder that I’d had a friend drive out to me. Tito fell asleep. No one knew why the arena security had never caught me. Luck had just been on my side. And he was probably sleeping in his car.
    I finished by dawn, right on time, dragged Tito home, cooked up ten eggs and eight slices of bacon for us, and then crashed on my couch. I’d had a decent apartment due to my day job doing IT helpdesk, a small start-up company.
    Later that day, I woke up to news reports of the mural on not just the local news, but CNN. While I slept, word of my art spread all over the world. The city had rushed tons of workers down there to paint over it. By the time the game started, the arena was back to solid white.
    Yet, Miami’s Museum of Contemporary Art announced that they’d give half a million to the mural’s artist, if he or she recreated the image on canvas.
    Tito went to the museum, dressed in a gorilla suit, and let them know that he was my representative. Used to dealing with ridiculous artists, they gave him the contract and delivered the canvas to an abandoned warehouse in Little Havana.
    I reproduced good ole smoking Abe, while my friends looked out to make sure no police or any of the museum officials snuck out to see my identity. Once the canvas was delivered, I got the check and appointed Tito as head man in my newly formed entourage, and hired Pierre to represent me in all things from then on.
    “Sir?” Pierre said again.
    I blinked out of my reminiscing and grinned. “Sorry. I guess my head is all over the place today.”
    “That’s okay.” Pierre’s black hair was cut short. He wore a blue suit and cream shirt, just like he always did. Like me, he was Cuban, but spoke much better Spanish than me. I was serious about the business of art, and if one wanted to do business in Miami, they needed to be fluent in Spanish. Most of the city’s top companies only spoke in that language, even though we sat right in the US. Pierre came in handy many times.
    “Would you like me to get you something, sir?” Pierre asked.
    “Yes.” I pointed at the glass, targeting Red. “You see that woman over there with that beautiful hair?”
    “The one with the two others?”
    “Yes.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “What would you like me to do?”
    “Make sure all the staff knows that they need to spoil those three. Give them whatever they want, champagne, the caviar drizzled in hash oil, anything. Even my own stuff to smoke from the crystal bong I got in Paris to the vape pen done in pearl. They need to be impressed.”
    “Yes, sir.” He nodded.
    “And once their bellies are full and champagne glasses refilled, have the beautiful red-head come up to the rooftop through my private entrance.”
    Pierre stopped nodding. “Have the red-head come up?”
    “Yes.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Yes.”
    “What should I say?”
    “She’s a street artist. Tell her that I want a mural commission for my wall on the rooftop. She’ll need to meet me up there for further details.”
    “Do you really want a commission?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “I’m just saying.” Pierre ran his fingers through his hair. “Sometimes you can get a little. . .obsessed, when you spot something that you like.”
    “She’s not an obsession.”
    “Isn’t she the one that you follow home every night?”
    “I’m not following her.”
    “Okay.”
    “And who told you that, by the way?”
    A wrinkle appeared at the center of the man’s forehead. “Your staff is a bit worried.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Yes, sir.” Pierre placed his hands in his pockets. “However, she may not want to come up to the roof with me. I’m a strange man. Do I give her your real name or one of the others you use?”
    “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
    Pierre opened his mouth,