A camera shot of the painting hanging in the museum appeared on the screen and a reporter at the scene began giving details about Tayler’s life and work.
But Eddie wasn’t listening anymore. He licked his lips, knowing what the death of an artist could do to the value of his or her work. He turned away from the TV.
“Okay,” he said into the phone, “so, dis guy is dead and his painting is worth a bunch. What’s that gotta do with you and me?”
“I can get you that painting.”
“Okay, so it’s a heist?”
“Not exactly,” the caller said, “but that’s not your concern.”
“Right.” Eddie shook his head.
These guys were all the same. They thought they could just sell him a stolen piece, collect the dough, and disappear. He knew better. With this painting being so hot on the news right now, the cops – and maybe even the feds – would be all over it for at least a year. Eddie might have to hang onto it for a while before he could make a sale.
Behind him the TV seemed to get louder as the reporter held her earpiece.
“Wait, my producer is telling me we have more breaking news. What’s that?” The reporter’s mouth dropped open. “Bill Gates wants to buy it? Oh, my God.”
Eddie whistled across his teeth. He knew he could never sell it to Bill Gates, but the ante just got bumped up… way up.
“Mmkay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What’s the deal?”
“I bring you the painting,” the thief said, “and you give me four-hundred grand.”
“Four hundred?” Eddie sputtered. “I thought you said two.”
“Yes, well, you can see things have changed a bit now.”
Eddie tried to slow his breathing. From the corner of his eye, he could still see the news. This thing was going viral in a way that could mean millions. Besides that, he only planned to put two hundred grand in the bags anyway.
“Deal,” Eddie finally said as T.D. lumbered back into the office. “When and where?”
“Put the money in a trunk,” the caller said, “and I’ll do the same with the painting. We’ll do a double drop out at the airport.”
Eddie threw his head back and laughed. T.D. looked confused, but he started laughing too.
“Yeah, dat’s rich,” he said. “And how the hell you gonna deal with security?”
“We’ll drop them at the E.V. charging stations,” the thief said. “They’re outside the perimeter due to safety concerns, and not monitored by the airport.”
Eddie opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. That was true. He hadn’t considered that, but it was absolutely right. Vehicles were often left plugged into the charging stations for days at a time while their owners flew. This could work.
“Okay, I’m intrigued,” Eddie said. “When?”
“Tuesday, noon.”
“Noon?” he asked. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Broad daylight?”
“Half the staff will be on lunch and no one will be watching for two cars to be plugged in and left out there.”
“Cameras?”
“There aren’t any,” the thief said. “I already checked that.”
It seemed too simple. Eddie mulled it over in his head as T.D. stared at him. Could it really be that easy? Drop off a car and pick up the money?
“Okay, you got a deal,” Eddie said, then inhaled. “But here’s what’s gonna happen. There’ll be a transmitter in a locked case with the money. When I verify the painting is on board, I send you the code to open the case and you can ditch the transmitter. Capiche?”
“Excellent,” the thief said. “I will have similar measures in place and will let you know how to secure the painting when I’ve seen the money.”
“See you Tuesday,” Eddie said.
“Tuesday.”
He hung up the phone and looked at T.D. The big man was looking back at him expectantly.
“So?” the giant asked.
“I dunno,” Eddie said, rubbing his chin. “It just might work.”
“What might work, boss?”
“Never mind, T.D.” Eddie slapped him on the back. “Let’s just go get those donuts and make our deliveries. Tell ya ‘bout it later.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Eddie Vargo wondered if this might be the score that did it. The one to retire on. Could be… if he walked away with the painting… and the money.
A plan started to form in his head.
11
Bobo Skee Otten Dotten
Troy Clint Bodean sat on the loading dock out back of the Jepson Center Museum. A truck was due any minute with a few pieces for the Rubin exhibit, on loan from a private collector. They weren’t original Rubins, but statues based on the paintings of the artist. Meaning, not-so-thin, naked people… in other words, heavy. So, Troy was mentally preparing himself for some grueling lifting and the placing of eleven hefty works around the exhibit. And it was likely that the designer, who would show up in dark sunglasses sipping a latte, would want them moved here and there according to her whim. Try it over here, now try it over there. Ugh. Troy thought a better idea was just to put the pieces in a circle in the middle of the exhibit hall… but that was never going to happen. Or it might happen, but not until they’d moved the bulky statues around ten times first.
“Truck comin’ in, eh?” said a voice from behind, startling Troy.
He turned to see Bobo Gladmore leaning on a wide broom.
“Somethin’ like that,” Troy said as he pulled himself up to greet the janitor.
“Hey, I’m sorry ‘bout the other day.” Bobo stuck his hand out. “My sister had ta go in to her doctor. Yup, she’s pregnant again.”
Bobo was older than Troy, but not by much. Troy guessed maybe sixty. He looked much older though, with wiry, silver hair, a scruffy beard, wrinkled splotchy skin, and a hunchback-like physique.
Bobo’s sister, Maisy, had to be at least forty… and this was her fifth child. As far as Troy knew, they lived farther inland, near Brunswick, on a pig farm. Troy pictured a bunch of dirty, naked kids rolling around in the mud.
Bobo held out a crumpled pack of Morven Gold cigarettes, offering one to Troy. After a brief flashback to Afghanistan, Troy decided he might have one after all. It’d been a few dozen years since he’d smoked and he figured one wouldn’t throw him off the wagon. With more moans and groans than a Peppermint Hippo girl turning tricks out back, Bobo settled down on the dock beside Troy. He flicked a gas station Bic and lit the two cigarettes. As he handed one to Troy, he fell into a hacking cough.
“Reckon I oughta quit one a’ these days,” he said, “damn things gave my Bessie the cancer all up in her lungs. Still payin’ for that damn bidness.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Bobo.”
“Don’t be. Woman was a certified witch, she was.”
Boba laughed a wet, hacking laugh. He leaned over the loading dock and spat a disgusting ball of mucus. Troy tried to look away, but couldn’t.
“Yeah, I figure the only way to get outta them bills is ta kill mahself the same damn way.”
Troy shrugged his shoulders. “No insurance money?”
“Nah, ran out a long time ago. Eh, it ain’t so bad. They did put me on a real nice payment plan.”
Troy took a long drag on his cigarette as a large white truck pulled into the parking lot. The driver navigated the lot until he could reverse into the bay, his truck beeping as he slowly backed in. Troy flicked the butt of his cigarette down and stood up. He hooked a hand under Bobo’s arm and helped him do the same. Bobo groaned, and what could only be described as a deep, bubbly, juicy, moist sound rumbled in his pants.
“Aw, hell,” he said, finding his balance, “I’m gon’ have to change that one, ain’t I?”
As the smell hit Troy’s nose, he realized Bobo had soiled himself. But, not one to miss an opportunity for a great joke, Troy smiled.
“Depends.”
Bobo began to chuckle, and just as his laugh escalated, a new so
und – one that reminded Troy of a nearly empty squeeze bottle of ketchup being emptied – emanated from Bobo’s nether regions.
“Yup,” the old janitor said as he flicked the one-inch butt of his smoke on the ground, “might have to change my pants, too. I’ll catch up to you in a bit, T-Roy.”
“No rush, Bobo.” Troy waved politely as the old man shuffled away, his trousers sagging under the weight of all that…
“Yo, bro,” the driver of the truck called out, interrupting Troy’s thought. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”
“Ain’t much shakin’ around here.” Troy reached down a hand to pull the man up on the loading dock. “Whatcha got for me?”
“Eh, not much,” the driver said, “buncha naked ladies and a few naked dudes. Every one of them’s had too many donuts though.”
Troy laughed as he slid the back door of the truck up and open. “Sounds like a party.”
“Yeah, man,” the driver said. “Hey, I’m gonna hit the loo.”
Troy waved him off as he pulled on his gloves. Then a thought struck him, remembering Bobo’s excrement predicament.
“Hey, man,” he called to the driver, “you might want to use the ladies’ room. The men’s might be occupied.”
The driver shrugged. “Aight, cool. Don’t matter to me.”
Troy walked into the back of the truck and counted five human-sized crates tucked against the walls of the cabin, strapped in tight to the sides. Not too bad, he thought, I’ll have these folks unloaded in no time.
Though it would’ve been nice to have help, the driver was prohibited, for insurance reasons, to lay a finger on anything loaded in the back of the truck. Thus, the damages or losses would all be on the museum… and Troy… should anything un-fortuitous happen. Troy wheeled the dolly in and unstrapped crate number one. He slid the dolly underneath, tipped back the boxed statue, and rolled it off the truck.
“Piece of cake,” he said, offloading the first box.
He rolled it into the exhibit hall where they would eventually be placed – and re-placed and re-placed again – at the designer’s direction. The heavy moving would all be done with the pieces still in the crates to avoid any serious damage. Then, once they were near their final destination, they would be unboxed and moved slightly one last time. Troy figured he had about two hours of work ahead of him.
Wheeling in the last box, a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, he saw a fresh, clean Bobo tapping on one of the crates.
“Pretty impressive stuff, eh?” he said, licking his bottom lip.
“S’pose so,” Troy agreed, and lowered the final box into a rough circle he’d made of the five statues in the center of the exhibit hall. “Don’t know much about it myself.”
“Oh, now,” Bobo leaned against the crate he was tapping, “you would like these. Based on the work of Rodin.”
Troy must’ve had a blank look on his face, because Bobo added to his thought.
“Naked ladies,” he said, using some interesting hand gestures to accent his words, “with good proportions.” Apparently believing Troy was missing the point, he continued. “Not like the women today,” he said, shaking his head, “no stick figure girls. No, these women have shape. Voluminous shape. Hourglass, ya know?”
“Ha.” Troy took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I guess so.”
“I’m talkin’ ‘bout titties, man.” Bobo’s voice rose with excitement.
As Bobo got more and more worked up, he flailed his arms out to the side. His shoulder bumped the crate next to him, and, almost impossibly, it started to sway. In slow motion.
Troy watched as it leaned past its tipping point. It was going down.
He lunged toward the crate at the same time Bobo reached out and grabbed the edges nearest him. Troy barely reached out and wedged his fingertips under the top edge of the crate that was falling toward the floor. He heaved as his hands got under the box, and Bobo shuffled around to help. Together, they started to push the box back upright. Troy was shocked at how little he had to push… Bobo seemed to be carrying most of the weight.
The saved statue wobbled back onto its base and rocked once more before settling down.
“Jeezus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bobo wheezed, “that was damn close.”
Breathing heavily, Troy replied. “I know. I can’t even believe that dang thing tipped. It’s the heaviest of the lot!”
Bobo started chuckling. “Tipsy and naked. Sounds like a good party to me.”
It wasn’t that funny, but it was one of those perfectly timed quips that caught Troy just right. He started laughing too. Then Bobo started laughing at Troy laughing, then Troy laughed harder until he couldn’t catch his breath. Then Bobo doubled over and laughed harder still. And then the sound of a giant champagne cork popping and blowing out its bubbling, fizzy contents erupted from Bobo’s backside.
“Oh, shit,” Bobo said, suddenly looking ill.
Troy had tears streaming down his face. “I’ll say!”
Bobo couldn’t help but laugh even more as he put a hand on his backside, holding his legs tight together. He waddled away and glanced over his shoulder at Troy, who was hunched over, his hands on his knees.
“I gotta get over to the house,” Bobo called to Troy, waving a hand over his shoulder, “only brought two of them damn underwear things to work today.”
Troy waved back. “Go… please… go.”
When the old guy was gone, Troy took a moment to compose himself. He stood in the gallery, wiping his face and catching his breath. The driver came in with a clipboard, got Troy’s signature that everything was delivered intact, and after noting the smell – it was impossible not to – he left in a big hurry.
Troy walked slowly around the exhibit hall, wondering how much more he would have to move the heavy statues. Along the sides of the hall were images he suspected must be the Rodin works Bobo was talking about. He was right; lots of curvaceous women and men, nude or almost nude.
Just around the corner, on a wall by itself, a with couple of lights shining down on it, hung the painting by his ex-roommate. Savannah Smiling. While he was no student of the arts, Troy could tell it was a pretty picture. In the lower right-hand corner was a small signature in red: Tayler Evan. Just below that, in tiny black print,was a row of odd-looking dots. Troy stepped over the velvet rope that held onlookers back a few feet from the painting.
He leaned down to inspect the dots and saw that it was a perfectly straight line of perfectly round splotches or circles of color. There was one blue dot, one red, one was yellow, and the last was black. He wasn’t an artist, but he knew this was odd. Knowing he wasn’t supposed to, Troy ran his fingertips over the surface of the painting. Smooth. Too smooth. Not a single brush stroke rose from the surface. It wasn’t a painting. It was a print… a picture of a painting. Dangit, thought Troy. And that’s when the designer walked in.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Francis Millicent, the person who soon to be ordering Troy to move statues to and fro. “Don’t touch that, you brute, it’s a piece of fine art.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Troy said, sidling back over the rope, “but it ain’t. It’s a fake.”
“It absolutely is not,” Francis declared, walking closer. “I do not believe a vagabond like yourself would have neither the training, nor the understanding, to determine if such a work was a fake or not. It clearly has the—”
“Printin’ marks,” Troy interrupted her, “in the lower right corner.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. Pulling what looked like a jeweler’s loop out of her pocket, she leaned in to study the area of the print Troy had pointed out. She turned around quickly, the loop dropping out of her hand, her mouth agape.
“Oh, my God,” she said.
“Yup,” said Troy, “Savannah is gone.”
12
Dead Artists
Samantha Eliza Dawn, the model and inspiration behind Tayler Evan’s painting called Savannah Smiling,
could not believe what she was hearing in her Art History class. Her friends were all there, Alain, RayRay, and Becky, but none seemed to understand exactly what their professor was telling them.
Mortimer LeFleur stood in front of the class, leaning on a stool, arms crossed, a 1920s style cigarette holder – containing an unlit Virginia Slims cigarette – in his left hand. His white silk shirt draped over his shoulders like a blouse, and a bright purple and blue scarf tied into an ascot wrapped his neck in color. His pants were solid black with peg legs and were so tight they looked as if they might’ve been spray painted on him. And naturally, this entire ensemble was topped with a dark raspberry-colored beret over a thick mop of curly black hair. A pencil thin moustache straight from a Boris and Natasha cartoon completed his vintage look.
To Samantha’s incredible annoyance, Professor LeFleur would lick the front of his top teeth before every single sentence he spoke. The smacking sound grated on her every nerve. Most days she did everything in her power to shut out his endless droning, prattling on and on for hours about artists she had never heard of, nor cared anything about. But today was different.
“And so, we have the dubious distinction of announcing poor Tayler Evan’s demise,” he said in a nasally voice. “I understand the young man took his own life with a belt strung from a beam. Tragic, though poetic, I suppose.”
Some in the class were affected deeply, even to the point of tears. Some could care less. They didn’t know Tayler, so it merely emanated that odd feeling that you were expected to be sad or forlorn, but eh… it hadn’t happened to you or someone you love.
Samantha fought back her own tears. She hadn’t fully recovered from the loss. She and Tayler hadn’t exactly been boyfriend and girlfriend, but it seemed they’d been on the cusp of a deeper relationship. A fact that seemed to miff Becky Patton to no end – though she never said it out loud.
Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4) Page 6
