The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  “Good choice,” Carson says when she finally bothers to answer her phone. “Mid-morning flight. Stops the clock for half a day.” For once, she doesn’t bust my chops.

  Now it’s almost eleven P.M. and time to take care of Len, my probation officer. I look at my New York schedule for the past two days—the places where I’ve supposedly interviewed—check the current weather in Manhattan, then bring up a webcam I’ve found in Midtown East a few blocks from the Vanderbilt Y, where I’m supposedly staying. Thanks to Olivia, if Len calls any of these places, he’ll hear that I was right on time for my meeting.

  The chances he’ll check up? Almost zip. He’s got a hundred eight other almost-ex-cons to deal with, and most of them give him nonstop shit. I’m the model probationer.

  Half an hour later, we’re good until Monday’s call.

  Next I flip through my personal phone’s directory until I find the number I need and thumb it into the work phone. I hesitate a moment, then stab the “call” button. I haven’t talked to this dude since I went inside. That time didn’t work out so great.

  “Yeah?” he growls.

  “Getz? It’s Matt Friedrich.”

  Long, long silence. “Heard you got out.” He doesn’t sound so happy about it.

  “Yeah, a year ago. You’re still in the business, right?”

  Getz—not sure about his first name, I’ve heard both Sam and Simon—is a runner. That’s an art dealer who doesn’t have a fixed business location. He’s a middleman who sees clients in their homes or offices (or bars or back alleys) and meets other dealers in their galleries (or bars or back alleys). Gar had his own pet runners; Getz wasn’t one of them. They hated each other. I met Getz through Chloe’s gallery when I swung a few deals Gar didn’t need to know about.

  “Whatever it is, no.”

  Just what I expected. “I need a contact in Milan. Do you know anybody?”

  Another long silence. I can hear him simmering on the other end. “The fuck I should talk to you? Therese’s still in the pen. Fucking freezing up there. Two more years before she’s up for parole.”

  I catch myself before I say not long enough. I need him to hook me up. “You’re still out.”

  “Fuck you. You put her in that cage, asshole. We had something special. We were in love. You and me—”

  Therese Winograd was an evil, vindictive bitch whose gallery was the crookedest in L.A. after Belknap’s. In love? Sure. “Getz…”

  “—we’re done. Go—”

  “Getz…”

  “—fuck yourself. I’m not telling you—”

  “Shut up and listen hard, Getz.” Not how I wanted to do this, but it’s all I’ve got. “You’re still working, right? Still got money coming in? Still got that ‘40s bungalow in West Hollywood? Think about why that is.”

  He breathes hard into his phone. He knows the only reason he still walks the Earth is because I didn’t shop him when I sold his girlfriend to the feds.

  “Hang up now and maybe I remember something I forgot to put in my confession. Too bad Waseca’s not a mixed pen. You and Therese could visit each other.”

  “Asshole.”

  “You’re welcome. Give me a name.”

  The other end of the connection goes so quiet I wonder if the idiot really did hang up. Getz is a jerk, but not as much as some others I helped put away. I’ll dime him out if I have to, but I’d rather get a useful contact from him. I’d rather get this job done fast.

  Finally, there’s a long exhale on Getz’s end. “I gotta call around.” His own neck trumps true love. Go figure. “Milan?”

  “The one in Italy, yeah.”

  “Need someone honest?”

  “Somebody like you will be just fine. Tell him my name’s Neutra. Call me back on this number. Soon.”

  Chapter 13

  A guy in a black coat and peaked cap holds up a sign reading “Sig. Hoskins” when we get through Linate’s customs and immigration. His black Mercedes sedan takes us down an expressway that becomes an increasingly urban street clogged with midday traffic. Postwar architecture, some parks, billboards and posters that look like the billboards and posters we get every other November, except in Italian. “Is there an election or something?” I ask the driver.

  “Si, signore. Very soon now.”

  The closer we get to the center of town, the more it seems like we’re worming our way through a maze. I catch a glimpse of the Duomo’s spires: the Duomo! For real! I also notice a lot of people heading toward those spires carrying pink or yellow or orange flags. We pass a couple rainbow flags and a sign with “Libera” splashed across it. “What is this?” I ask Carson. “Gay Pride Day in Milan?”

  Carson shakes her head. “Anti-Mob Day.”

  The Italian Mafia didn’t come to our gallery. The Russians, yes, and don’t get me started about the Mexicans. I watch the banners and signs pass by and pick out a few words here and there. Cosa Nostra I know because I saw all the Godfather movies. “Mafia” is universal; so is “No.” I get the point.

  After we move about a hundred feet in twenty minutes, the driver twists around to face me. “Signore, mi dispiace. The roads, they are, um, too full.” The poor guy’s blushing.

  “I see that. How far to the hotel?”

  We grab our bags and dodge the Libera people until we reach an open plaza a couple dozen yards down the street. A building across the square catches my eye before we turn left into the arcade that’s supposed to lead us to the hotel. I stop to gawk. Eighteenth-century neoclassical, gray stone details against cream stucco.

  “What?” Carson barks.

  “That’s La Scala.”

  “So?”

  “Dude, that’s La Scala. The most famous opera house in the world. It’s almost as old as America. Madame Butterfly premiered–”

  An iron hand clamps my elbow and drags me away from the curb. “I gotta piss. Go see the opera later.”

  It’s not some fleabit market alley on the other side of the arcade entrance; it’s the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the grandest of the mid-nineteenth century shopping arcades. A glass-and-iron vault stretches over a broad promenade lined with large stone arches, each one a shop door or window. The mosaic floor is a riot of geometric reds, blues, tans and blacks.

  We both stop dead. Carson just shakes her head in wonder. I say, “Welcome to the mall, Belle Époque style.”

  As we trundle down the concourse, I notice the other end—about a block away—is completely choked with people. More flags, more signs. The crowd roar fills every empty space, including my ears. “I didn’t know the Mob’s so big up here. Aren’t they down south?”

  “You mean the Cosa Nostra. Sicilian Mafia. All the Mob movies are about them.”

  “So how many mafias are up here?”

  “Too fucking many.” Carson’s starting to speed up; maybe she can’t hold it much longer. “Three main ones to watch here. The ‘Ndrangheta’s from Calabria, the foot of Italy. Watch the Mob movies? Know how the Sicilians call their gangs ‘families’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “‘Ndrangheta calls them ‘ndrine. They really are families—they’re blood relations or in-laws. There’s enough ‘ndrine in Milan to make a locale, a group of families. They’re worldwide. They run the cocaine trade in Europe.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Yeah, nobody has except the Italians.” Her tone says she’s irritated, but I don’t know if it’s because of the subject or me. “There’s the Albanians. Do their own thing, but the ‘Ndrangheta subcontracts to them, too. Opportunists. Do whatever to whoever for whatever.”

  An uncomfortable flash: that sounds like Gar and me at the gallery. “What’s the third group?”

  We reach the ottogono, an octagonal plaza under the central glass dome. It’s choked with tourists and protesters on their coffee break. Carson stops to get her bearings on her phone; there’s no sign that says this way to the hotel. She’s q
uiet for so long I figure she’s blown off my question. Then she says, “Russians.”

  “Italy doesn’t have enough gangsters? It has to import?”

  She shoots me a crabby look. “Nobody asked for them. Milan got part of the Solntsevskaya Bratva brigade in Vienna.”

  “The what?”

  “Solntsevo Brotherhood, out of Moscow. Biggest, strongest Russian mob. Hard-core as the movies say. They’re muscling in on the ‘Ndrangheta’s turf. They’re global, too.” She points her whole arm down one of the halls. “That way.”

  I trot to keep up. She seriously must need to pee. I scrape up the nerve to ask, “How do you know all this?”

  “Just do.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Leave it.”

  “You were mobbed up, weren’t you? That’s why Allyson took—”

  “The Mob? I was a cop!”

  She screeches to a halt, fuming. For a moment, I’m sure she’s going to hit me. But then she leans her head back, closes her eyes, and mouths “fuck!”

  A cop. This explains so much: the way she moves, her attitude, the way her eyes are always looking for threats, even her vocabulary.

  “Now you know,” Carson snarls. She’s staring at me with her sucking-lemons expression. “Happy?”

  Not especially. Still, while she’s talking… “Were you a Mountie or something?”

  That sets her off again. “Wasn’t any goddamn pony. TPS.” She must read the complete lack of a clue on my face. “Toronto Police Services. Detective sergeant, Organized Crime Enforcement.”

  “Okay.” One more? Try it. “Why’d you stop?”

  Her mouth twitches. “Wasn’t my idea.”

  Chapter 14

  My suite at the Park Hyatt Milan—let me repeat that, my suite—is bigger than the pool house I share with Chloe back home. I could have a party in the travertine-and-glass bathroom. There’s a bottle of Prosecco and a tray of petit fours waiting for me. I’ve stayed in two suites in my entire life: this one, and Allyson’s. I could totally get used to this.

  But there’s a problem. I brought nearly everything I have that isn’t worn out or coffee-stained, but when I unpack, I realize how little clothing I have. My good suit, a pair of decent-but-old slacks, a couple dress shirts from Macy’s, my good-but-old Bruno Magli black oxfords, a couple not-too-frayed pairs of jeans and three polos. I can’t even pass for a rich guy in L.A., where millionaires wear ripped jeans, far less here. At least I got a sharp haircut in Brussels.

  Time for another call to Mommy—sorry, Olivia. I haven’t been this dependent since college. It’s not working for me.

  After I check into the hotel and change, I go out and work my way into the edge of the crowd under the Galleria’s south entrance. “Sea of humanity” isn’t just a figure of speech; the Piazza del Duomo is packed solid with tens of thousands of folks who hate the Mob.

  I retreat to the ottogono and nose around. The Libera rally breaks up after a while, and a stream of people rolls by hauling banners and flags. I’d love to go back down there and get a good look at the Duomo now that the crowd’s thinning, but I’d told Carson I’d meet her here. Yes, the Hyatt’s lobby would be easier, but it’s a hotel lobby and this isn’t and I have no idea when (or if) I’ll ever get back here again.

  Carson finally appears at the mouth of the west arcade after I’ve made a few circuits of the ottogono. She’s in black dress slacks, the same businesslike black pumps she wore in Luxembourg, and a crisp white button-front shirt with the cuffs carefully folded halfway up her tanned forearms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with a purse, in this case a big, black satchel on a shoulder strap. Props to her: she cleans up okay. Just as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.

  I watch her from the Louis Vuitton store at the northeast corner. Carson checks out the dome and the four-story, golden-stone building facades under it, then starts laser-scanning all the people. Finally, her eyes lock on me. She holds her hands out at her sides, palms-up: so?

  “Isn’t this place great?” I ask when I catch up with her.

  “Whatever. Where’s your bruise?” She squints at my face. “That makeup?”

  My right cheekbone’s colored up nicely from van Breek smashing me into the wall yesterday. “I covered it up. Want me to look like I’ve been in a fight?”

  Carson blinks slowly, then shakes her head. “Right. Did we have to get dressed up?”

  We’re not exactly “dressed up.” I’m wearing the guy version of what she is, no tie. “We need to look respectable. We’ve got some galleries to visit.” I point up the north arcade. “The car’s waiting by La Scala.”

  “Galleries? More than one? Belknap’s only got one.”

  “Patience.” Before we go, there’s something I gotta do. I circle around her to the mosaic of Turin’s coat of arms, a gray bull dancing on a blue shield. The bull’s supposed to be, well, anatomically correct, but there’s a divot in the tile where the beast’s balls should be. I plant my heel in the divot and spin three times.

  Carson’s eyebrows arch like a Halloween cat. “The fuck are you doing?”

  “It’s supposed to be good luck. We need all the help we can get. Come on.”

  We charge up the north arcade past tourists, happy shoppers and the Libera brigade. “Didn’t answer me,” Carson says. “Why go to galleries that aren’t Belknap’s?”

  “Trust me.” I give her my best smile. “First we have to fire up the jungle telegraph.”

  “Firing up the jungle telegraph” looks like this:

  Say I’m a rich collector and I want a city’s gallery network to know I’m looking to buy. I can hire a local advisor who already knows the players, but I’ll hire her grudges and crushes, too. I also don’t like paying commission just for introductions.

  Rich-me’s a hands-on kinda guy, so I go to a gallery that specializes in my area of emphasis. I pick the biggest one I can find and have my girl call ahead. (Female PAs are always “my girl;” male assistants only have first names.) By the time the town car stops at the front door, the gallery assistant (let’s call her “Amalea,” Italian for “hard-working,” because gallery assistants work their butts off) has already mined Google for information about me—she’s seen my supposed home, thanks to Street View. She thinks I’m potentially a live one. Maybe she’s called the gallerist, her boss, back from his long lunch/drug buy/tryst with the other gallery assistant. Or maybe she’s more ambitious: she’s hiked her skirt a couple inches, fixed her makeup, and she’s going to try to sell to me herself. Clients like me can mean big bucks.

  The assistant offers me mineral water or a glass of wine the moment I stroll through the door. My girl hands her my business card, then pulls out her phone to take notes. I might say something general like, “I’m feeling like a landscape.”

  Amalea, being a good assistant, asks who I work with back home. Google’s one thing, but a recommendation from another gallery carries more weight. She doesn’t recognize the name, but it’s Los Angeles. There must be a ton of galleries there, right? All those rich movie stars? She’ll check when she gets a chance.

  For now, she leads me through the works hanging on the gallery’s sales floor. I turn to my girl at certain pieces—usually more expensive ones—and murmur something Amalea can’t quite hear. My girl pounds notes into her phone. Amalea adds a couple zeroes to her dream sale.

  Then the gallerist (“Giuseppe,” or “he shall add,” which is what he’ll do to the sales prices) returns, introduces himself, and signore, may I borrow Amalea for a tiny moment, per favore? They disappear into the back; Amalea gives Giuseppe the sixty-second download of what’s made me murmur to my girl. He tells her to keep researching me while he deals with me. It burns Amalea to know she won’t get a commission now. But she needs the job, so she swallows hard and goes back to her desk while Giuseppe races out to me. Time kills deals.

  When Giuseppe returns, I’m talking to my bank about cash transfers a
nd reporting requirements. When I’m done, I ask Giuseppe what currencies the gallery accepts, whether it can sell to corporations, and if the gallery can arrange shipping and customs clearances. Does he have any more pieces by Artist Y over there? I’m fascinated by his work.

  Now Giuseppe knows I’ve got money, I’m maybe trying to dodge taxes or duties, and I’m paying cash, so Giuseppe can underreport the sales prices to the sellers and the tax man and skim the rest. He’s already choosing the color for his new BMW. Maybe he hauls out a couple pieces he was holding back for other clients; what they don’t know won’t hurt him.

  While the gallerist is squiring me around, Amalea’s looked up my home gallery (nice website!) and gives them a call. “Lovely man,” the English voice purrs on the other end of the phone. “An excellent eye. One of our best clients. I suggested he visit you—please treat him well.” Amalea whispers the news into Giuseppe’s ear as soon as she can.

  I tell Giuseppe that I intend to make several purchases while I’m in town, but (my girl reminds me just a bit too loudly) I have another appointment with Gallery X and I want to review my notes and form a strategy.

  Of course, signore, I understand. Prego, take my card, that is my personal number, ring when you are ready, will you place a hold on anything before you go?

  The minute I walk out, Amalea texts all her gallery-assistant friends that a big fish is incoming and here’s the deets. Giuseppe calls the owners of other galleries in his niche (except those bastardos at Gallery X) asking if they have any landscapes by Artist Y they’d be willing to consign to him.

  And the jungle telegraph lives.

  We make the rounds to three galleries and an auction house in artsy Brera and rich Monte Napoleone. It’s weird being in a gallery again after all this time. It’s doubly weird being a client, even a fake one. The deja vu dredges up a lot of memories, some good, some not. I have to concentrate hard to stay in my role, to not slip up and use their lines—what used to be my lines. To remember who I’m supposed to be now, not who I really am.