Bertram was bored. He sat sipping his Remy XO and trying to decide if his upcoming trip to Paris was really worth the effort. As the senior art critic for The Art Times, he had come to the realization that leaving New York to view art was as useful as leaving Rome to see ancient ruins. It just all seemed unnecessarily tiring.

He sat back in his plush chair and looked around the room. The interior of the club looked like it had been snatched out of Victorian England, lots of fine wood paneling and an over abundance of maroon. It was a very exclusive establishment, requiring not only a yearly membership fee of twenty thousand dollars, but the recommendations of three members before inauguration would even be considered.

He found the club pleasantly tacky and pretentious. It made him feel absolutely colonial, even in the politically correct Mecca of the Big Apple. It made him feel successful.

Bertram was waiting for his usual Friday afternoon companions, Devon Barnaby and Elaine DuChamp. Devon was an art critic like himself, but for what Bertram considered an inferior publication, American Art Magazine. Elaine, on the other hand, was the owner of the DuChamp Gallery, one of the most prestigious artistic venues in the city since the late 1800's.

His patience was rewarded when he noticed a oddly mismatched couple headed in his direction. A tall elegant woman in her mid forties, dressed immaculately in a vintage Chanel tweed jacket with black yachting pants approached, accompanied by a short, balding, bespectacled man in his fifties wearing a too-tight Zegna suit in a valiant effort to appear classy. Bertram smiled gratefully, thankful that his friend had abandoned the Jean Paul Gaultier designs that had made him look like an extra in a Luc Besson movie. He waved the pair over to his table.

Devon began complaining before he even sat down, "Dear God, this city is getting worse every day. Do you realize it took twenty minutes to go just ten blocks. Something really needs to be done about the traffic."

"You could have walked," Bertram replied, knowing his friend's response before he answered.

"Me, a pedestrian? Don't be ridiculous!" He unbuttoned his jacket and spread out across his chair, "Now be a good fellow and order me a cognac."

"How about you Elaine?" Bertram asked.

"I'm feeling a bit retro today, darling, I think a Pink Lady is called for."

"Your wish is my command," Bertram answered cheerfully. He motioned to one of the servers, who approached immediately and took his order.

"Will your boy-toy be joining us today?" Elaine asked in a slightly bitchy tone.

"He's not a boy-toy, Elaine," Bertram answered firmly, "I know you find this hard to believe, but I think I love him."

"Just because you love him doesn't mean he isn't a boy-toy. All my beaus are in their twenties too, and they are definitely boy-toys, there's nothing wrong with that," she chuckled.

"Whatever you say," he replied dismissively, "in any case, Wilson won't be joining us today, he's getting ready for an opening tonight."

Devon was feeling a bit left out of the sparring and interjected, "Don't you think it's a tad unethical for you to be romantically involved with a painter? You are the city's leading art critic, after all?"

Bertram laughed and corrected Devon, "You mean the nation's leading art critic, a burden you will never bear. No, I make it a point not to publish reviews of his shows."

"But you recommend him to other critics as well as to your consulting clients, that hardly seems proper."

Elaine interrupted, "Oh, do stop being an ass, Devon. Of course he's going to recommend him. What's the point of having any kind of power if you don't use it. It's not like you don't profit from your reviews. I know you take kickbacks from galleries for hyping their shows. Those three thousand dollar suits don't pay for themselves."

Devon harrumphed defensively, "Those are consulting fees, my reviews are totally honest."

"Of course they are, so are mine. If someone chooses to reward us for our insight, it's only proper." Bertram agreed.

Elaine shook her head, "Dear God, you boys are so sensitive. I hope those drinks get here soon, I'm parched."

When the drinks finally arrived, Elaine still found herself amused by her male companions's bloated self esteem issues.
"You two really do believe you are privileged due to some vague influence you might have on the art community, don't you?"

Bertram feigned outrage, "Vague influence? Dear girl, we two shape the art the world. Myself more than Devon, of course. I am the Zeus of the Art world and Devon is the...," he searched his mind, "... Hephaestus, crippled and ugly, but still a god."

Devon harrumphed again, "First off, you are no Zeus, Hera would be more appropriate, the supreme queen. As for me," he raised his glass, "I will accept Dionysus, god of wine and merriment."

The three friends laughed heartily. Elaine refused to let up, "You hardly control the art scene boys, you're just along for the ride like the rest of us."

"Nonsense," Bertram insisted, "I'll wager that between us we have made more artists famous than the Louvre."

"Hear, hear!" Devon agreed.

Elaine shook her head, "Utter nonsense on your part."

Bertram felt slighted and stared into Elaine's eyes, "Let's have a real wager then."

"Are you serious?" Elaine asked.

"Absolutely! Not afraid are you?"

"What kind of wager?"

Bertram went silent in thought for a moment before answering, "The wager is that Devon and I can select a completely unknown artist and make him the new star of the Art World in twelve months, one year from today."

Elaine was intrigued, "What would constitute a star?" 

Bertram went silent again, a smile came to his lips, "So that you are invested, darling, let's say we select someone who now gets less than a thousand dollars a work. You will host a show one year from now and offer forty of his artworks. None will be offered for less than twenty-five thousand dollars apiece and at least thirty of them must be sold within thirty days."

Devon perked up, "That would certainly line your pockets Elaine. What is your commission to new artists?"

Elaine smiled after doing some quick math in her head, "Forty-five per cent. It is tempting, I would have to put out significant expenses though and you haven't told me what the stakes of this wager would be."

"If I succeed, we get fifty per cent of your commissions for the show...," he turned to Devon, "are you in Devon?"

"Absolutely!" Devon answered enthusiastically.

Bertram turned back towards Elaine and continued, "...fifty per cent of your commissions for the show and if I lose, if even one less piece... if only twenty- nine sell, you get all of the commission...and in addition, Devon and I will give rave reviews to the next two shows you have at the gallery."

Elaine laughed, "So much for ethics. If I agree there are some restrictions and additions."

"Such as?" Devon asked.

"Neither of you can purchase in person or through proxy any pieces from the show. I don't want a suspicious buyer suddenly buying the thirtieth piece of art...also, this artist of yours must secure a major art commission from a reputable individual or corporation within the twelve month time frame."

"Agreed, anything else?" Bertram asked.

"I get to put restrictions on the artist you choose, let's say six characteristics of this new Da Vinci of yours."

"Let's say four."

Elaine nodded, "Okay, I need to think on those a bit, but other than that," she thrust out her hand, "it's a bet!" She vigorously shook hands with both men and all three finished theirs drinks and ordered another.

Elaine looked across the table, "What fun! Will you two be going to the charity Gala at the Guggenheim tomorrow night? I can let you know the restrictions I come up with there."

Bertram pretended to be sad, "How could you ask such a question, of course we'll be there. I'll be bringing Wilson, he loves that building."

Devon frowned, "Never cared for it myself, but don't you dare let anyone know I said that. But no matter how ugly that building is, I'd never miss a charity Gala," he looked at Elaine, "What charity is it?"

Elaine made a dismissive gesture, "I forget. Who cares, it will be a great bash, all the best people will be there."

Devon raised his glass, "Well then, I guess I'll see you girls there tomorrow night!"