Feint of Art: by Hailey Lind

digital clock I’d superglued to the dashboard and realized I still had time to pick up someone from the casual car pool, which ended at ten. When the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake temporarily shut down the Bay Area’s subway system and disrupted other commute options, perfect strangers were brought together by a mutual need to get into San Francisco, and the casual car pool was born. Those seeking transportation across the Bay Bridge waited on designated street corners, where they were picked up by drivers seeking passengers in order to qualify as a car pool. During rush hours, car pools zipped through the toll plaza, avoiding both the miles-long traffic snarl and the three-dollar toll.
    Today I picked up a middle-aged Guatemalan woman and we enjoyed a speedy trip across the bridge. I had no idea who she was or where she was going, but that didn’t matter. Casual carpooling etiquette did not encourage the exchange of personal information. Goodwill and mutual benefit were all that were necessary. I dropped her off at Harrison and Ninth and continued on my way.
    Armed with the address Albert Mason had given me yesterday, I located Anton’s place easily enough, but parking proved harder to find. There were two approaches to parking in San Francisco: the superstitious and the scientific. A lucky few had serious parking karma, but I was stuck with the scientific, grid approach. I circled the block twice, then broadened the search perimeter to a two-block radius. After circling for another fifteen minutes, I finally squeezed into a space at a green-curbed, twenty-minute loading zone, tossed my CONSTRUCTION CREW PERMIT on the dash, and locked up. This was not strictly kosher, since I was supposed to use the coveted permit only when actually on a job site, but I was running out of time. I promised the universe I would not do it again, at least not anytime soon, and hiked up the block to Anton’s studio.
    It had been a very long time since I’d been here. The last time Anton and I had spoken, years ago, he told me I was wasting my talents by refusing to produce quality forgeries. He also insisted that I wasn’t sufficiently devoted to my grandfather, which I thought was rather cheeky of him given their long-standing rift.
    I let myself through the exterior gate in the tall redwood privacy fence. Inside was a courtyard formed by the fence at the front, the main house on the right, the neighbor’s house on the left, and a sagging carriage-house-turned-garage at the rear. Anton’s studio was above the garage. I crossed the weedy, neglected lawn and skirted a scummed-over birdbath. A broken flagstone terrace boasted a motley assortment of leggy potted plants, several of which looked suspiciously like marijuana. I climbed the steep, narrow exterior staircase on the right side of the garage and knocked on the workshop door, which Anton had long ago painted a bright red.
    There was no response.
    I knocked again and called out, “Anton! It’s Annie. Georges’ Annie.”
    Still no response.
    I pressed my ear against the door.
    Nothing.
    Frustrated, I tried the doorknob, just in case, though I assumed a criminal would be more careful than to provide job opportunities for others of his ilk. To my surprise, the knob turned, and I pushed the door open.
    “Anton?” I was whispering now, a response to the decidedly creepy feeling caused by trespassing in someone else’s home. I might have executed a few forgeries in the past, but I was no burglar, and I usually respected other people’s privacy.
    I prowled around as best I could, hindered by the junk that was piled everywhere. The studio was one big, airy room that held a double bed, a hot plate and mini-fridge, a sink and a curtained-off toilet, in addition to the heaps of paintings, drawings, canvases, easels, art supplies, and frames. I did notice one unexpected item—a computer. I guess even old guard art forgers were giving in to technology.
    I spied some brushes standing in a jar