The red-bricked, black-shuttered townhouse was quaint, almost. The glossy, raven colored door, with its brass doorknob glinted in the sun, and the tall, elegant windows—their glass tinted a purplish gray—overlooked the Common, Boston's finest public area.
Annabeth looked up, a blonde curl falling from her cream colored knit cap. The morning was cold, evident in the rosy blush on her cheeks. She gripped the business card—the one that brought her there—with both hands, squinting into the early morning sun as she let her arms drop to her side.
"Lovely little place, isn't it?" She heard a familiar voice call out from behind her. She turned just as "Warhol" stepped out of a shiny black town car, two cups of coffee in hand. He was dressed to the nines—per usual—in a nice-looking wool pea coat, and, underneath, a plain black suit. Soft, cream colored earmuffs hung around his neck.
"Your nonfat cappuccino—light on the skim." He smiled, extending one of the cups towards her as he took a sip of the other.
"How did you—?" She began, taking the warm cup. Her blonde eyebrows knit together.
"Sources, darling. I have them." He grinned. Annabeth nodded—as she had learned to do whenever interacting with this Warhol character. He stood next to her and let out a contented sigh as they both looked up at the building.
"You know," she murmured without turning to face him, "my mother used to tell me that purple glass was a sign of an old building. I take it this place has been around long?"
"Correct." He smiled, facing her and tilting his head towards the door. "Shall we have a look inside?"
Annabeth gave him a tight smile, nodding as she followed him up the steps and to the door. He pulled an old-fashioned, adorned brass key from his pocket, turning it slowly before pulling the door open. He slipped inside without further thought, and she came quickly after, shutting the door behind her.
Inside, the décor was almost as beautiful as the exterior. It was what you would assume Jackie Kennedy's white house to look like—the perfect mix of classic American grandeur with hints of French and British influence. It was a timeless look.
Annabeth followed Warhol as he stripped off his coat, tossing it on an armchair in the small living room off the grand foyer. That room—dimly lit with a roaring fire—was empty, but the half-empty scotch glass on the table suggested that it hadn't been that way for long.
Warhol led her to a staircase, next. He took the stairs with ease, his steps almost sprightly and weightless. Annabeth, meanwhile, trudged behind, apprehension and premonitions making her legs feel like lead.
As she took each additional step, the second floor came into view—just as beautifully decorated as the first. Rooms stood on either side of the red-carpeted hallway, with a tall, bay window at the end. This window came with a spotless, white window seat—cushioned and calling Annabeth's name. The honey colored light and gorgeous view, though, would have to wait—Warhol was gesturing to the second door on the right.
"Here we are." He smiled, as if unaware of Annabeth's heavy breathing and dilated pupils. He pushed the glossy white door—which had been slightly ajar—open, allowing her to slip past him into the room.
The gaze of ten eyes immediately met Annabeth. Scattered through the room were five people—all men with the exception of one lanky, gorgeous woman.
No one looked pleased to see her.
Warhol followed her in, closing the door behind him, and took a seat in one of the two remaining armchairs. Glancing around nervously, Annabeth took the other. They all sat in dead silence.
"I…well, um, I…it's…" Annabeth tried to force words out of her mouth, unable to stand the uncomfortable silence any longer.
"I thought you said she was intelligent, Warhol." One of the men—a short, pale fellow with thinning brown hair and a soul patch—sighed, staring at her with a bored expression.
Annabeth's eyes crinkled, pressing back the tears of embarrassment, as Warhol piped up from behind her. "She is, Gauguin. Give her time."
"Well I, for one, am glad to have another woman amongst us." The other female in the group said, finally breaking a small, almost amused smile. "Cassatt" she introduced herself, leaning forward and offering up one long, tan arm to shake hands with Annabeth. "We've heard so much about you. Warhol here says you're well acquainted with the MFA. I hope he's not mistaken."
"No, he's not. I…I visit it every Sunday" Annabeth answered nervously.
"And you're familiar with the intricacies of the law?"
"Yes…I'm a paralegal."
"You seem fit for the job. I don't see why we should take you in. Oh, and don't mind Gauguin. I'm afraid he's a bit of an antagonist" she smirked.
"I most certainly am not!" Gauguin cried indignantly. "I'm merely protecting the order of the Scarlet Ibis—as the rules decree and as I see—"
"—Fit." One of the other men, a British, middle-aged professor type, clad in a tweed jacket with distinguished, gray tipped hair, finished, rolling his eyes. "As you've told us, Monsignor, thousands upon thousands of times."
"Flaxman, you needn't be so rude. I was only correcting a simple misstatement." Gauguin sniffed, shifting in position.
Warhol cleared his throat, sitting forward a bit.
"Well, now that you've gotten a feel for the group, Annabeth, why don't we get down to business. Would anyone care to discuss our purpose?" He asked, glancing briefly around the small, cream-carpeted room. No one answered.
"Dali, why don't you take a whack at it?" Cassatt smirked, reclining back in her chair and crossing one long, bare leg over the other.
Annabeth shifted her eyes to the corner in which Dali sat. She had previously paid little attention to him—he seemed too engrossed in his Chinese finger trap to be of much interest or use. Dali, a tall, spindly man with oiled down black hair and excited, light-filled eyes, looked up, grinning a crooked smile and rising from his chair.
"Well, my fair Annabeth, we are artistes of the highest order." Dali began, pacing around the room and casually, every now and then, looking back and making eye contact with her. His voice—rich, deep, with a hint of Spanish—floated, softly, and resonated in the small, light-filled room. "There are beauteous works of art—paintings, sculptures and the like—that are abused by the publique, set to rot in dusty museums. And whom, may I ask, can we blame for such maltreatment? For dooming the wonders of life to live out their days in a dirty, piss-poor environment?"
Dali smiled casually, glancing around the room. "The Pigs!" He snapped finally, after a moment, his delicate features hardening into a dog-like trance. The shock jolted Annabeth backwards. "We must blame the so-called Proletarian leaders, who believe themselves Robin Hood! Taking from the rich and powerful—who appreciate such a thing as good art—and giving to the lowly, unappreciative poor! Those monsters, those pigs, those—"
"Alright, Dali, that's…that's good." Warhol rose, placing two hands on Dali's shoulders and guiding him back to his seat. He cleared his throat, straightening his tie. "My sincerest apologies. Dali, well, he tends to be a tad excitable."
"Um…it's…fine?" Annabeth winced, looking back around the room. Dali, once more, was studying his gadget, muttering to himself about the "greedy pigs". Cassatt was filing her nails, Gauguin was scribbling something on a piece of paper, and Flaxman, who was seated next to the extensive book shelf, was reading a heavy, cracked volume. The last artist, who was so quiet that Annabeth almost forgot about him, was seated by the window, staring intently at her.
"Who's that?" Annabeth whispered under her breath to Warhol. She smiled nervously, lifting her right hand slightly in a small wave, but the artist's stony face did not move.
"That's Hopper." Warhol answered, flicking his eyes over the broad, African-American man, who was clad in black jeans and an expensive-looking leather jacket. "You'll find that he doesn't talk much."
Annabeth smiled tightly over at Hopper. Once more, he did not return the favor.
"You still haven't fully explained to me why I'm here." Annabeth murmured, turning back to him. "What place do I have among these intellectuals, and geniuses, and…"
"You have every place." He answered, grinning, his green eyes illuminated. "Everyone does—that's the point. As for what Dali said—well, it was mostly true. We take brilliant pieces of artwork—ones that aren't appreciated enough by the public—and transport them to places where they will be. It's a network of increasing exposure to and appreciation of the arts."
"And you couldn't just, you know, get jobs as curators and suggest moving things around a bit? Wouldn't that be more…legal?"
"We've found that this method is much easier. It's…evolved from our earlier ways of acting as the reverse Robin Hoods—just as Dali said. Bringing the arts back the rich and all that. Not that I was around for that. It was before my time."
"And that's all you're doing? Just increasing exposure? And no one ever finds out? I mean…how does that work? Don't people realize when paintings mysteriously disappear and then reappear somewhere else?"
Warhol sighed, glancing over at his preoccupied colleagues. "No" he said. "Not if we do the job correctly. What you saw—yesterday—that was a mistake. I picked the wrong place, the wrong time, and the wrong piece of artwork. I messed up. They're none too pleased with me." He gestured towards the rest. "But when the job is done correctly, no one notices, no one cares, and everyone's a little bit better off."
Annabeth nodded thoughtfully, chewing it over. She studied his attire—the others' attire as well—with thought. No one could afford such nice clothing without a nice source of income. "So what is there to gain?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.
Percy laughed smirking. "You really waste no time getting right to the point!"
"I need to know this stuff to make rational decisions" she frowned.
"Well, museums are willing to pay very highly for new, valuable pieces of work. It's quite lucrative, if you must know. We're talking above the actual price of the art itself. It's a competitive market, you see."
"So...what? You just keep what you can sell it for? That hardly seems fair."
"Of course it isn't. That's why we don't do that." He smirked.
"So, what do you do, then?"
"Donate the price of the artwork—in full—to the Museum under a pseudonym. The rest—which, I might add, is still a moderate sum—goes to the seller. Do a high-profile job correctly, and you could be pocketing upwards of a million dollars per gig."
Annabeth exhaled loudly, her eyes widening. That was far better pay than Rick and Johnson—her firm—could ever offer. She brushed a hand through her blonde curls, thinking it over.
"Where do I sign?" She smiled, locking eyes with Warhol.
"Hold your horses!" He laughed at her eagerness. "You have to be voted in first, and then you'll need to sign a confidentiality agreement, and you'll need a pseudonym…" He trailed, smirking. Annabeth blushed.
"So…they vote me in?" She asked, gesturing to the group.
"Yep." He answered, smiling. "If I could have your attention, everyone?" He asked, though no one lifted his or her eyes. Warhol cleared his throat. "I nominate Annabeth Chase for membership. Could we put it to a vote? Yay or nay."
Cassatt, without looking up from her nails, proclaimed: "Yay." Flaxman echoed the positive vote under his breath, Hopper gave a slight nod, and Dali announced that he was: "absolutely, without an iota of uncertainty, in favor of the motion."
Warhol turned his eyes to Gauguin, who, now looking up from his yellow notepad, rested his pale face on his closed fist. "Nay." He said emotionlessly. "The last thing we need is another screwup."
"Well," Warhol cleared his throat, ignoring the jab, "The majority decides it. Annabeth, welcome to the club!" He grinned, shaking her hand, and the others clapped—some more enthusiastically than others. "Now," he said, pulling a sheaf of papers from the desk next to him, "If you'll just sign this confidentiality agreement, we'll get you all set up. Take all the time you need to look it over." He handed the papers to her.
The contract looked fairly standard—at least, as standard as the numerous others she had seen—and she quickly signed her name along the dotted line with a flourish. Warhol swept the papers away, tucking them back into the drawer and, this time, locking it.
"And now, our final order: finding a suitable name for our new member. Any suggestions?"
Once more, the room remained silent. Tears of embarrassment prickled Annabeth's eyes—she had never felt so much like an outcast in her life. She had always chosen solitude voluntarily, but having it thrust upon her, with little choice around it, was much crueler.
Annabeth watched across the room, as, slowly, silently, Hopper reach across Flaxman to snag a sheet of lined paper from Gauguin's notebook. Pulling a pen from the pocket of his leather jacket, he scratched something out quickly, capping the pen before crumpling up the paper and tossing it gently to Annabeth.
She lifted the crumpled paper off the floor, carefully unfolding it. Inside, Hopper had written a single word—a name.
O'Keefe
Warhol, peering over her shoulder to see what Hopper had written, grinned at her, his green eyes locking with her gray ones. He smoothed his jacket, reaching a tan hand forward and grasping hers tightly. His shiny black hair glinted in the mid-morning sun that streamed through the gauzy curtains.
"Welcome to the Scarlet Ibis, O'Keefe. Glad to have you aboard."