Inigo Philbrick. Even the name is extravagant. A touch of Dickensian grandeur; a little pan-European romance. It would look good engraved in marble. If you attached it to the protagonist in a satire of the contemporary-art scene, your editor would tell you to dial it down a bit. Too on the nose, they’d tell you. Too writerly. Too ornate.
But it’s all true, even when it’s built on a pack of lies. Inigo Philbrick: the globe-trotting, high-flying, billionaire-baiting, magnum-spilling, quick-thinking, Zegna-wearing, fugazi-shilling, Ponzi-scheming prodigy. The brazen wunderkind dealer who fleeced the art establishment to the tune of some $70 million. The great disappearing Inigo, whose current whereabouts are rumored to be a remote Pacific island. Or maybe Thailand. Or the Bahamas. Or South America. Or South Africa, actually. Or Cuba. Or Australia. Or Miami. They seek him here, they seek him there—that damned elusive Inigo!