The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  I step closer. “Damn right. What’ve you promised her? What’s she getting?”

  Allyson steams in until there’s less than a hand’s width and a lot of lightning between us. “What are you getting, Mr. Friedrich?”

  Her eyes are big and hot and sucking me under. We’re both way too close and breathing hard. Nine million replies roar through my brain, but it’s too loud to hear any of them. So I do what I’ve dreamed about for four years.

  I grab her neck and kiss her. Hard.

  She snags my hair in her fists and pulls me in tighter. Our tongues crash head-on. Her hips grind against mine. I’ve wanted her mouth, her body, for so long. There’s nothing tender or loving about it. We’re animals, and one of us is dinner.

  A sharp pain in my lip breaks the clinch. My thumb comes away from the spot smeared with blood. “What the hell?” I stagger back a step, trying to clear my head. “Don’t your kind go for the neck?”

  Her tongue flicks a drip of blood from her lip. Her face is flushed. The wall lights reflect orange in her eyes, just like in the bedside lamplight in Geneva. She looks like a predator in the headlights at night. Allyson and Carson are nothing alike, but they both remind me of cats—Allyson of something sleek and graceful, like a panther or cheetah, and Carson of something big and powerful, like a tiger.

  She holds her hands out at her sides. “Is this what you want?” she pants. “Just say it.”

  I could say I want you. It would be easy, just like I did before. I don’t even have a wife to worry about this time. She might knock me down, fuck my brains out, make me her toy. She might fire me. Or maybe she’d just laugh.

  With everything that’s happened since the last time we shared a suite, I doubt I’d survive any of these.

  I scrape together the little bits of dignity I can find. Thank God I’m a good liar. “I’d rather have the money.”

  Allyson’s eyes explode. She spins, stalks to a side chair, and flashes a lot of leg as she thumps down. I don’t think she stops watching me even when her back is turned.

  I drift to the minibar, all wrung out. Press a cocktail napkin on my lip. Fish another shot-sized Stoli out of the cooler. When I go to the bedroom door and hold it up for her, she says “gin,” so I find a Bombay Sapphire miniature and toss it to her. She doesn’t look away when she downs it in one long gulp. What’s that in her face—surprise? Respect? About damn time.

  “Why Carson?” I ask once I start breathing normally again. “She works alone. Why’d you stick her on me?”

  Allyson throws one leg over the other. Her skirt’s ridden way up, maybe showing me what I already know I’m missing. She smoothes her hands down her thigh and laces her fingers around her upturned knee. “She has useful skills.”

  “Breaking and entering? Assault with a deadly weapon?”

  “Among others. Neither of you can complete this project alone. Also, you aren’t nearly as different as you think. You’re both self-reliant, which gets you into trouble. You both need second chances. You’ve both recently had painful episodes in your lives. You both have debts to pay. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not getting along better.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. You both have been loyal to the people who are important to you. You stood with Mr. Heibrück, the people you chose not to hand over to the federal prosecutor, your mentally disturbed wife—”

  “I wasn’t loyal to her, and you know it.”

  “You felt guilty about what we did because you were loyal, despite your situation. Ms. Carson shares this quality. She’s suffered a great deal because of it. Once you earn her trust—and you have to earn it—she’s fiercely loyal. I’ve earned that trust, and she’ll do anything for me. Anything. Everyone needs someone like that, don’t you think?”

  Anything? What does that mean?

  Would Carson kill for her?

  Would Carson kill me for her?

  Allyson’s eyes cool. “Can you continue to work as a team with Ms. Carson? Yes or no.”

  “If I say ‘no,’ she’s still out there, following me around, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s no point saying ‘no,’ is there?”

  She shakes her head. “A wise decision.” She stands, wiggles more than she needs to while she tugs down her skirt, then snags two grand worth of black Givenchy shoulder bag off the floor by the bench. “You’d best talk to Ms. Carson once I leave.”

  You bet I will.

  The essential problem hasn’t been solved, though: Carson still has an incentive to screw me (metaphorically). “Ally—Ms. DeWitt. If I’m going to finish my project, I need to know Carson’s not going to kick me to the curb when she sees a chance.” Deep breath. “If she’s so important, pay her her normal rate.”

  “You want me to double the fee for this job.” There’s frost on Allyson’s words.

  “No. I’m not asking you to hike my pay. But give Carson what she normally makes. It’s only fair if she’s batting cleanup.” And it erases her need to go behind my back. That’s better than a pay raise.

  She pins back my ears for a long, silent moment, tapping her fingernails against her purse strap. Her mouth is puckered tight. “I’ll consider it.” She paces close enough for me to smell the jasmine and sandalwood in her perfume and feel her heat. “I have something you need.”

  All kinds of things tear through my mind until I see she’s holding a new phone, identical to my lost one. I take a full breath for the first time since I walked into the room. “Thank you.”

  “Try not to throw this one away.” She strides to the door. “Good night, Mr. Friedrich.”

  I need one more answer, but I won’t push my luck by asking Allyson for it. As soon as the door closes behind her, I crack it open and watch her march down the hallway to the right. She’s heading for the double elevators. When she turns the corner, I pad after her and wait until I hear the ding of an elevator arriving. I wait another minute, then charge to the elevator lobby and stab the “down” button. It’s pretty unlikely that Allyson does taxis, so whether she has to wait for her driver or for the valet to bring her car, I’ve got a couple minutes to catch up.

  The elevator spits me out at the main entrance. The clerk behind the check-in counter across the hall glances up; I give him a “no worries” smile.

  The glass exit door gives me a view through the vestibule to the cobbled drive. Allyson stands at the edge of the entry’s light pool, a leg cocked, a fist on the uphill hip. My throbbing lip keeps me from thinking too much about all the other places she could’ve bitten me.

  A car glides up. The doorman opens the back door for Allyson, who climbs in without a word to him. The black Audi A8 slips away, rounds the end of the drive, then shoots out to the street.

  Not a G63.

  Carson might be ready to do anything for Allyson… but does that include telling her what she’s doing?

  Chapter 22

  Carson’s leaning on the far end of the rectangular counter in the hotel’s Mio bar. She’s staring at something fascinating in the bottom of her almost-empty tumbler.

  I slide onto the stool next to her, ready to rip her up if she so much as curls her lip. Instead, she glances at me, then back to her glass. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Her whole face droops. Some of the aggro I picked up from tongue-wrestling Allyson seeps away. “What’re you drinking?”

  “Single malt.”

  “How many so far?”

  “Three.”

  “Is that enough?”

  She shrugs. I give the bartender the high sign, then finger-circle the white marble in front of us.

  After a few moments, she says, “Total goat-fuck at the warehouse.”

  “No shit.”

  The look she gives me is both tired and disgusted. “Allyson beat you to it, okay?”

  This I totally didn’t expect. I’ve been where she is—bitched out by somebody you like or respect
—and it sucks. I file off some of the edge in my voice. “What happened back there?”

  Another shrug. “Hidden camera. Guy in the office heard us.” The bartender lays down two tumblers with three fingers of brown, neat, and takes Carson’s empty. “Should’ve seen it. It was too easy. But I was locked in on getting in there, seeing inside that conex.” She tosses back half her drink and rolls the rest around the bottom. “My fault. Sorry.”

  I never figured I’d hear Carson apologize for anything. “You knew what was in it.”

  She studies what’s left of her drink, then nods. “When I saw the vents. Seen that shit before. Hate it.”

  “I noticed. Where’d you go?”

  “Followed them. Had to see where they went.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. Storefront with blacked-out windows, about two klicks northwest. They went in and never came out again. It’s on the list.”

  “What’s that, their secret base?”

  “Probably not so secret. Half-dozen of their properties in a three-klick radius. They may handle their own security, cut the cops out. Maybe there’s more of them around.” She finally looks at me with bleary eyes. “Shouldn’t have left you like that. Didn’t even think about it, just went after them. Came back for you, but you were gone already.” She frowns. “You okay? What happened to your lip?”

  Our boss tried to eat my face. No, we won’t go there.

  I shrug and take a sip from my glass. I’ve never liked whiskey, but I’ll get by. “I’m tired. My feet are sore. I’ll survive.” I hesitate. “I had a talk with Allyson, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  I lay the new work phone on the counter. She glances at it and nods. Now’s not the time to mention leaning on Allyson to come up with more information and more money. Carson will find out if it happens. “She asked me if I can still work with you.”

  She looks down at her crossed hands. The quiet resignation on her face almost makes me feel sorry for her.

  “I told her it’s useless to split us up if you’re going to be following me around to get to ‘your own end state.’”

  Carson nods once, finishes her drink. “She tell you what I’m doing?”

  “No, it’s all still very mysterious. She’s holding out on us both, you know.”

  “Just figured that out, eh?”

  I hear the you idiot she doesn’t say. She must be feeling better. “Why does she do that? What does she get out of it?”

  Carson sits there playing with her glass for a while. Then she snickers. “It’s so you don’t try to scrape your skin off when you suss out who you’re working for.”

  That burns going down. “All of Allyson’s clients are slimeballs?”

  “Not all. Some are legit. She takes pro bono work sometimes when it interests her, or she can work an angle. But the rest…”

  It’s one thing to have this scurry around the dark corners of your brain; it’s a whole other thing to have somebody turn on the spotlight. I know better than to ask, but I have to. “Do you know who we’re working for now?”

  She looks up at me, sad and tired. “Knowing never helps, it makes things harder. Just—”

  “That ‘for your own good’ thing? It always pisses me off. Just so you know.”

  Her eyes harden. “Wouldn’t change anything anyway. Do the job. Let Allyson deal with the clients. Better not to know.”

  “Is this why she thinks you’re so loyal? You don’t ask questions?”

  “She thinks lots of things.” Carson scrubs her face with her palms and leans against the bar again.

  Meaning…? She’s so carefully not answering my questions that she must have the answers. But too much has flown at me already today and I need time to sort it out. Carson will keep. “We’re not done.”

  She sighs. “I know.”

  One of those endless, painful silences thuds down between us. We spend what seems like forever trying not to look at each other, and ending up constantly looking at each other. At last I say, “What did we find at that warehouse?”

  “Depot or transshipment point. Mob’s gotta put its shit someplace. Those women…” She lets out a long sigh. “That kinda shit burns me. Hope the cops do the right thing, send them home.”

  “I do too.” I finally finish my drink. I look forward to brushing my teeth to get the taste out of my mouth. “Remember Saturday night?”

  She peers into my eyes for a few moments, then drops her focus to her glass. “Yeah.”

  “Nothing’s changed.” I slide off my stool and sharpen up that edge I’d dulled a few minutes back. “No freelancing. You get any bright ideas, you let me know. And don’t dump me again. Got it… partner?”

  Carson stares at me, her eyes turning hard and flat. “Or what?”

  “Do you have friends in the Albanian Mob?” I have no idea what I’m saying, but I’m spun up enough to say it anyway. “Because I do now.”

  Her eyes ignite. Kind of like Allyson’s when I told her I wanted her money more than her body. I guess tonight’s my night to surprise the women in my life.

  Sweet dreams, lady. “We start at seven-thirty tomorrow. You’re gonna learn about art.”

  Chapter 23

  “Did you see about the mob hit last night?” I ask. “It’s all over the TV.”

  We’re walking down Corso Magenta, a residential street flanked by continuous two- and three-story buildings, on our way to Santa Maria Delle Grazie. The morning rush hour zooms past and orange trams rumble by every few minutes. After our traffic torture yesterday, we’re taking mass transit or hoofing it unless we need to make an entrance. Carson—who apparently stayed at the bar way after I left—needed the largest cup of strong, black coffee she could get from the McDonalds on the Piazza del Duomo before she became verbal.

  “You woke me up,” Carson grumbles. “Barely had time to piss.” She looks as bedraggled as she sounds.

  “It was just a few blocks from the hotel. You didn’t hear it? It woke me up. From what I can tell, some mafia dude took out some other mafia dude’s car with an RPG. Three dead in the car.”

  “Huh. No humans involved.”

  “That’s harsh. But seriously, an RPG? Isn’t that what assault rifles are for?”

  “It’s a statement.” She thumb-dances on her phone for a couple minutes. “News says ‘Ndrangheta versus Russians. The Calabrians make their fights public. They like car bombs and RPGs. Go big or go home, eh?”

  Those are Belknap’s new friends? Jesus.

  We’re almost right on top of Santa Maria before we see it: a Renaissance-style brick, stone and stucco structure with a cupola and semi-cylindrical apsidal chapels. We pass by the Gothic nave and end up on the flagstone piazza outside the church. “Here we are.”

  “Where?” She squints at the banner over the door into the butter-yellow stucco building next to the church. “What’s a ‘Cenacolo Vinciano’?” She butchers the Italian.

  We enter the yellow building—the convent’s former refectory—and turn in our tickets for the 8:15 viewing (the hotel’s concierge got a nice tip for scoring these). Carson plods outside to sit in the sun. I make the rounds of the historical panels, then after fifteen minutes collect Carson for our entry. We go through a waiting room with our twenty-three travel companions, then through what’s essentially an airlock. “Look to your right,” I whisper to her as we pass into a dim, overcooled hall.

  Carson’s jaw drops. So does mine. Da Vinci’s The Last Supper does that to you.

  The rest of the morning’s a forced march through Milan’s Gallery of Modern Art—which should be called the Gallery of Modern Italian Art—while I give Carson the inch-deep rundown of major European art movements ranging from the end of the Eighteenth Century into the early Twentieth. As the personal assistant to a collector, she needs to know at least some of the names and terms so she doesn’t sound like an idiot when somebody in the business speaks to her. She takes it seriously and d
oesn’t bitch too much. We don’t talk about yesterday or last night, but it’s there in the background, chewing on us both.

  Carson’s a quick study, at least in learning the vocabulary. She still doesn’t have a feel for the art itself. A couple times I lead her into the middle of a gallery and say, “Which one would you take home?” and she either seizes up or answers “None of them.” That’s okay; she hasn’t found what speaks to her yet.

  Around 11:45, I have Carson call Belknap’s gallery. If he answers, she’ll do the “wrong number” thing; if the assistant answers, Carson will tell her we’re inbound. I want to make sure we catch the assistant before lunch—I want her hungry physically as well as metaphorically. Yeah, cruel maybe, but it works.

  Carson mutes her phone. “She’s there, he isn’t.”

  “Find out about the door camera.”

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Carson tells the phone in corporate smooth. “I’m sorry, I need to ask… I noticed a camera covering your front door? Mr. Hoskins is very sensitive about having his picture taken… Yes, that’s right… Okay, thanks so much.” She kills the call. “Camera’s off when they’re open.” Just like what we did at Heibrück. Some clients don’t want to be video stars. “I’m texting the limo service.”

  “Good.” This is why we wore our almost-business outfits this morning, so we don’t have to waste time changing. “Let’s see if Miss Gianna knows everything a good assistant should.”

  Chapter 24

  That meerkat feeling hits me hard when we walk through Galleria Diciannove’s door. I expect the chime to wake up the hyena, who’ll claw out of his hiding place and take me down. This is what happens when you grow up on National Geographic TV shows.

  Then I hear running water. There’s no water feature.

  The assistant trots out from an alcove. Today she’s wearing a sleeveless, knee-length white skimmer dress that sets off her olive-plus-suntan skin. A gray-blue-and-white paisley-print scarf rings the neckline. Her ponytail’s leaking drifts of hair, though, and the string mop she’s holding spoils her Mad Men look.