The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  “Sure.” I watch her watch the crowd and think about what she’s said. I’ve learned more about her in the past five minutes than I have over the last week. Now I wish we’d done this earlier. Then again, if I’d suggested it, she might’ve thrown me out of the car while it was still moving. “Yow, four brothers. Any sisters?”

  “You mean, did I have somebody to play tea party with? No.” A large-caliber finger aims at me. “You’re head-shrinking me. Stop fucking doing that.”

  The pizzas arrive on ceramic platters. Mine is Mozzarella, arugula, cherry tomatoes and prosciutto sliced so thin I could read the menu through it; hers is every kind of meat you can think of. Neither is sliced. We get busy with our dinner knives. Since everyone around us is eating their pizzas with knives and forks, I follow the when-in-Rome rule. Carson just shovels hers in until she realizes she’s the only one trying to pick up a slice with her hands. She switches to flatware.

  Half a slice later, she says, “The job.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Guess we need to talk more. What we’re gonna do, why we’re doing it, backup plans, comms, all that.”

  This sounds promising. “Yeah.”

  “I mean, you kinda freaked at the lawyer’s when you didn’t know where I was. And today, it would’ve helped if we’d prepped more. Felt like an idiot all day.”

  “Sorry. Wish you’d asked. I’d’ve been happy to tell you more. It’s just… well, you didn’t seem interested.”

  “Guess I wasn’t, not up front. Got kinda interesting later. Watching you. You’re, like, this whole other person out there. That what you used to do? Impersonate people?”

  “No. Hoskins is like a few of my old clients. I know the type pretty well.”

  “Huh. So, brief in, brief out? Talk over the plan before we launch. Hot-wash when we’re done.”

  Finally. “Okay. That’ll be good. And tell each other where we are if we’re in the middle of something, so we don’t wonder if the other one’s taken off.”

  She hesitates, then nods. “Fine.”

  While we’re on a roll, I take one extra step—the most important one. “And no freelancing. We’re a team. We support the team and support the plan, whatever it is.”

  I reach out my right hand. She eyes it like it’s a cobra about to spit. Her fingers roll the handle of her table knife, like she’s figuring whether she can cut off my arm with it. Then, slowly, she shakes my hand. Her face says, try anything funny and you die. I’m not sure how much I believe her attitude change—the money thing’s still there—but I can give it a try.

  The room’s full now, and getting louder. Carson’s chugged through two-thirds of the first bottle of wine, though it could be grape juice for all the effect it’s had. I manage to flag down a waiter and order another bottle. Carson keeps peering at me as she bulldozes her pizza, like she’s trying to decide what species of bug I am.

  After a while, the attention creeps me out. “What?”

  She shrugs, picks a pepperoni slice off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. “Trying to figure you out. I know cops, soldiers, guys like that. But you… I mean, art and clothes and opera and that shit? You never say something’s ‘blue.’ You say it’s ‘sky blue’ or ‘cadet blue’ or ‘midnight blue.’ That’s three more shades of blue than most guys know there are.” She leans toward me, her arms crossed on the table. “You into women?”

  “Are you asking if I’m straight?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She nods with more energy than she needs to.

  “Yes. I like women a lot. I was married to one for eleven years.”

  “So?”

  “It wasn’t cover, if that’s what you mean.” I could say I slept with our boss, but that would blow everything all to hell. “The guys you’re used to, they watch football and think women are for fetching beer and giving them blow jobs?”

  “Canadian, remember? We watch hockey.”

  “Yeah. You know, I could ask the same question. Today, the way you were with Belknap? That’s the first time I figured you’re into dudes.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Well, look what you assumed—I’m not a caveman, so I must be queer. All the women I’ve been attracted to were into art and culture and hair and makeup and clothes and shopping—”

  “Do that girl shit in a squad room, you come out black-and-blue from those dogs grabbing your tits and ass. Besides, now I travel to the kind of places where rape’s a sport. Not wearing a miniskirt and heels to that.”

  If Allyson was here, we’d be having a completely different conversation—one I’m more used to. Now that I think about it, though, I feel way less like a fraud here than I did with her.

  “I’ve never been around a woman like you. You don’t know how to talk to me? I don’t know how to talk to you either. It’s not bad, just different. Guess we both have to learn to deal with different.”

  Carson snorts. “You said it.” Then she aims another loaded finger at me. “Since you’re straight, get this through your skull: I’m not fucking you. Forget it.”

  My rational brain tells me being in bed with Carson could be life-threatening. But the lizard part thinks, yeah, so?

  I tell it to shut up.

  Chapter 17

  I haul my butt out of bed at 6:30 Sunday morning, fumble on some gym shorts and a tee, and go for a run. I’m tired of breathing hard after climbing a couple flights of stairs. I was in pretty good shape when I got out of PEN—three squares a day and lots of time to work out—but now I spend too many hours on my feet or on a bus, I don’t eat well, and I don’t have the energy or will to do much else.

  On the way back, I take a cool-down lap around the Duomo. It’s like running around a thunderhead: beautiful and vaguely threatening. Job or not, I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend time in Italy and not at least hit the highlights. I owe it to Mom if nothing else.

  By the time I’m dressed after my shower, two Olivia emails are waiting for me. The first is a copy of Hoskins’ background check from a company I used to go through back in the day. Last night I’d started thinking about how I’d gotten a bunch of people to look into Hoskins’ background and figured I should see if he actually has one. The stuff on Google makes me wonder if he used to exist for real, but maybe the data aggregators tell a different story.

  Richard Danforth Hoskins has very nice credit scores with all three agencies. The right plastic shows up. He has a couple checking accounts at the FDIC limit, a mostly unused six-figure line of credit and a couple brokerage accounts that don’t hold nearly as much money as I’d expect. No debt worth mentioning. And he doesn’t own anything.

  That stops me for a few moments. Then I understand: Hoskins doesn’t own anything personally. But I’d bet a year’s pay that like some of my ex-clients, his house and most everything in it belongs to a flock of trusts based someplace with great secrecy laws. I’ll bet even more that the rest of his liquid assets are offshore in places with very underworked tax authorities.

  If Belknap got a background dump on Hoskins yesterday, this is what he saw… both what’s on the page, and what’s not. I can live with that.

  The second email answers a question I asked yesterday morning:

  We will reimburse up to €1000 for clothing you need for your cover identity. Any related amount beyond that will be deducted from your pay. Choose wisely.

  A grand won’t go very far, but it’s a start. I’d figured I wouldn’t get much of a budget, so I did some homework last night. I was looking forward to cruising Monte Napoleone—Milan’s version of Rodeo Drive or Worth Avenue—but I learn online about a place where I’ll get more mileage out of Allyson’s money. Road trip.

  The McArthur Glen Serravale Designer Outlet is the perfect American outlet mall plunked down outside a country town sixty miles or so southwest of Milan. The faux-neoclassical architecture—all arches and columns—looks like something in Las Vegas or Phoenix. There’s even a Burge
r King next to Sunglass Time and a traffic jam getting off the freeway (sorry, autostrada). And like American outlets, the place is stuffed with Chinese tourists and shellshocked local families trudging through the endless rows of stores.

  Based on our supposed new spirit of cooperation, I’d invited Carson to come along. She reacted like I’d asked her to swim the city sewers with me. We’re not besties yet.

  As my collection of shopping bags builds up, I realize I’m in a better mood than I’ve been in for months, maybe years. Gar liked me dressing sharp for the clients, and I spent some time trying to keep up at the Cabazon and Camarillo outlets outside L.A. When I looked in the mirror I felt like a grownup, a success. Now I wear a green apron and cheap black chinos and polos I don’t mind spilling coffee on. But today—with the fabrics and tailoring, the look of these clothes on me—I feel human again. Not a loser, not a failure, not a crook.

  An outfit catches my eye as I pass the Dolce & Gabbana outlet: a crimson kimono-sleeved lace top over a bone knee-length lace skirt. I can see Allyson in it just like she was standing in the window. Is shopping in places like this her secret vice, or does she only go to the top-tier stores? Maybe someday I’ll ask her.

  My work phone rings.

  I’m about to answer it with “Hoskins,” which is how I figure Rick answers his phone, when I notice the caller has a 310 area code and a number I don’t recognize. West Los Angeles? “Hello?”

  “Friedrich? It’s Getz.”

  It’s 5 a.m. there. He must really want me off his ass. “Jesus, Getz. This early?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Noplace you need to know about. You got something for me?”

  Some kind of electronica’s playing in the background. He must be at some after-hours club. Eventually, Getz says, “The name’s Burim. Worked with him a couple times. Here’s an email for him.” He rattles off a ten-digit number starting with “347,” then “@vodafone.it.” “Send him your number, he’ll call. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I vouched for you. Don’t fuck me over.”

  “Whatever. Who is this guy?”

  “Albanian. He finds things. A real sweetheart.”

  “Connected?”

  He coughs out a little laugh. “Probably. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Just what I need: the Albanian Mob. “If this goes sideways, I’ll be asking you about it.”

  Chapter 18

  Monday morning’s overcast but not sticky yet. I’m stretching before my run, using the low iron railing surrounding the flower bed at the west end of the Piazza del Duomo. It’s a hell of a view. Every time I see the cathedral, I have to tell myself that it’s real, that I’m in Italy after hearing about it for all these years. Maybe today I’ll actually get inside.

  Another runner chugs down the street at the west edge of the piazza. I glance up at the movement, register gray sweats, then look again. It’s Carson.

  Hm.

  She weaves through the early-bird pedestrians in the tangled intersection at the southwest corner of the piazza, then merges onto Via Mazzini, a main road heading south.

  Follow her?

  Why not?

  I hang about thirty yards behind, staying near the buildings on the street’s west side so I can duck into a doorway if she looks back. She doesn’t. The street is cobbled and split by two trolley trackways. It’s a normal-people shopping strip, but the stores aren’t open this early. White delivery vans, scooters, and the occasional car rumble by. It’ll be packed and loud in a couple hours.

  Carson runs steadily toward a distant, domed Second Empire building at the end of the street. She’s doing around a six-minute mile, not so fast in the greater scheme of things but enough to kill me off after a couple miles.

  Just past the granite-fronted Banco Populare di Milano building, Carson cuts through traffic behind a northbound yellow tram. I do the Frogger thing through the panel vans and trucks. When I hit the sidewalk, she loops left around a ratty postwar concrete midrise at the end of the block. I thread through its arcade, pass a newsstand, and reach the next street—Gonzaga, a slot between the midrise and a newer, arcaded concrete high-rise—in time to see Carson slow to a walk on the other side.

  She stops at a boxy silver Mercedes SUV parked at a bus stop. Its badges say it’s an AMG G63. Tinted windows, dual sidepipes. When she disappears behind the SUV, I jog across the street and edge through the arcade until I reach the glassed-in wind break for the (now closed) Lo Spuntino Bar. I can see Carson again, talking into the open rear passenger’s window.

  I peek around a column for five minutes that seem like an hour, trying to figure out what’s she’s up to. Maybe Allyson traded in her black Mercedes limo for something more butch? Or maybe this is Olivia’s ride. Or maybe… well, maybe what?

  The door opens. For a moment I see an older guy, thinning hair with lines and blemishes showing a lot of serious sun time in his face. Carson climbs in. The G63 chirps away from the curb, growls up Gonzaga, and disappears around a corner.

  I grind this over for the rest of my run. After my shower, I look into Carson’s mystery ride.

  An AMG G63 is a serious piece of hardware: a twin-turbo, 536-horsepower V8, zero to sixty in 5.3 seconds (not bad for two and a half tons of truck), governed top speed of 132 mph. A steal at €141,200. Carson’s probably isn’t off an airport rental lot.

  Whose is it? Who was that guy? He could be one of Allyson’s minions, but that doesn’t feel right. The Canadian Army uses G-series SUVs. Coincidence? Probably. Something else I hope is a coincidence: the G63’s supposedly popular with Russian and Chinese mobsters.

  I send an email to Olivia asking her to run the AMG’s license plate. I don’t know if she can do that, but I won’t bet against it.

  Somebody pounds on the front door, the kind of sound that comes right before, “Police! Open up!” The peephole shows me Carson staring back. I open up and fight the temptation to say nice ride you’ve got.

  When she strolls in, she slaps a few sheets of A4 paper into my hand. “Here.”

  It’s a report from a site called Italian Land Finder. In Italian. “What’s this?”

  “Property records.” She glances at my computer screen on the marble desktop to the right of the entry—luckily, I’d closed all the G63 windows—then starts prowling the suite’s living room.

  I scan the top sheet. The name in the “Soggetto individuato” blank is “Proprietà Monza S.à.r.l.” After that, three pages of tables listing properties in Lombardy, Milan’s province. Somebody—Carson?—made notes on each one in red ink: “apt,” “w/h,” “comm,” “vac,” and so on. One of the “comm”s makes me think aha.

  “A company owns Belknap’s gallery,” I say. Carson nods. “A bunch of other stuff, too. Does Belknap own anything?”

  “No real estate.”

  “Three guesses on the company’s home office?”

  “Only need one.” She plops on the fawn leather banquette against the far wall, under the window. She’s so proud of herself, she practically glows.

  “I hope Knoedler & Preiss offers bulk rates. You want to explain any of this?”

  She shrugs and stretches her arms along the back of the banquette. Another long-sleeved tee, this one slate blue with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. “Belknap doesn’t own property.” I notice he’s not Fredo anymore. “The five companies with the art don’t either. Looked up the title on the gallery and found Monza Properties. Searched on them. Spent a few hundred bucks of Allyson’s money, but there you are.”

  I sit in the side chair at the desk and sift through the report again. There’s enough Latin in English to help me pick out a few words here and there. A good dozen and a half places are, according to Google Maps, sprinkled all over the Comune di Milano. “This is great work. If Belknap really has some secret art stash somewhere, it might be in one of these places.”

  If she had feathers, she’d fluff them. “Sai
d we need to work together.”

  “Yeah.” Before I saw her climb into the mystery car. To hell with being subtle. “Got anything else going?”

  “Not right now.”

  Uh-huh. “Know anybody here? Friends? Old clients?”

  She frowns. “No. Why?”

  “I could’ve sworn I saw you get into an SUV and drive off while I was running this morning.”

  Her eyes freeze and thaw in an instant. “You following me?”

  I try to look innocent. “I guess we were just going the same direction. So that wasn’t you? Silver Mercedes SUV?”

  Carson shrugs. “No idea what you saw.”

  Just then, my new burner phone chirps. Yesterday at the mall, I’d bought a prepaid cell with a thirty-minute Vodafone SIM chip and emailed the number to Burim. No way was I giving the Albanian Mafia any phone number linked to me.

  “What was that?” Carson asks.

  If I tell her about the burner, she’ll want to know why I need it. Last night I was ready to tell her about Getz and Burim; not any more. “Email on my personal phone.”

  She frowns. “Carry that with you? They can track you on it.”

  “They’d have to know about it first.” Which I hope is true.

  Carson drills holes in me for a moment, then shrugs. “Should check out these other places. Maybe we’ll find the swag.”

  “That’s a good idea.” What’s got into her? “Rent us a car. I’ll pull directions and we can get going after lunch.”

  She sits there blinking for a few moments. Her mouth opens once, then closes. “Okay.” I hear that was easy in her voice. She pushes off the bench and strides out of the room, giving me a wary glance on her way out.

  She didn’t deny she’d been in the AMG. Whether I was right or wrong, the Carson from a few days ago would’ve bitched me out, I’m sure. Why didn’t she? Is it because of Saturday’s dinner, or the guy in the hot-rod SUV? If it’s the guy, I’d like to know who has the juice to adjust Carson’s attitude. She didn’t say “fuck” even once. It’s kinda creepy.