The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  Angelo’s a much younger, slimmer, softer version of Morrone. He’s in an abstract black-and-white Emporio dress shirt and medium-gray windowpane slacks. When we shake hands, I say, “He’s doing a fine job.” I trade smiles with Angelo; his says thanks for lying, mine says help me out here, will you?

  Morrone gives Carson a slow once-over. “Prego, who is this attraente damigella?”

  Once again, I wish I had a first (or last) name for her. “This is Carson.”

  There’s a flash in her eyes, and I wonder if this is where she snaps his neck. Instead she pastes on a noncommittal smile and says “Pleased to meet you” in her corporate voice. She holds out a hand to shake, but Morrone sweeps it up and kisses it. Her smile freezes in place.

  Once he lets go of her hand, he asks me, “Your business is what?”

  “Property development. We’re looking at European models for urban infill projects. I’m here for inspiration… and maybe find a souvenir.” I wave at the nearest canvas. “I understand you’re an event planner?”

  Morrone has his head cocked toward Angelo, who’s whispering in his ear. Did I just blow his English? He nods, then turns back to me. “Si. It is a thing to do for my—” a consult with Angelo “—retirement. I make this festa, ehm, party. Do you like her?”

  For a moment, I think he’s asking about Carson. “It’s a great party. Very generous of AIL to sponsor it.”

  “Si. The company, it makes many profits from the work. It is full of thanks.” There’s no irony in his voice.

  None of the event planners I ever met could afford a multi-million-dollar art collection. Carson’s report on his investments flashes by me: construction, transport, healthcare, schools, pipelines, food delivery, temporary workers, labor unions, entertainment… Of course, Morrone probably doesn’t own any of it—his relatives do, or shell companies, or charities that never do anything charitable, or random dead people.

  A young waitress in a black skirt and white button-down arrives with a round silver tray holding flutes of Champagne. The interruption’s an opportunity to think about how to get to the next step. I don’t expect to get him blabbing about his stockpile of looted art, but I need to start the con.

  I snag two glasses and turn to hand one to Carson, who takes the flute like it’s gold and kisses the air in my direction. That’s more disturbing than talking to a gangster boss.

  Morrone throws a summoning gesture at one of the men by the bar. “You are the builder, si? You talk to mio fratello. He knows this business.”

  Lucca Morrone looks just like his picture. He’s a few years younger than Salvatore, a couple inches shorter, and has a good start on a gut. The snug gold-tone dress shirt isn’t doing him any favors. The moment he sees me, his eyes go hard and narrow. I’ve been doing okay up to now, but I seriously don’t need open hostility from a mobster.

  My dad was a commercial contractor before his world fell apart. He built small stuff like gas stations and fast-food places, 7-Elevens, the odd mini-mall. I absorbed the subject like I do everything else, plus I still try to keep up with architecture. I can talk like I actually know what I’m saying, which I even sort-of do.

  I try to chat with Lucca about business for a few minutes. His English is a lot better than his brother’s, but he says as little as he can get away with. He manages to not mention exactly what he does for AIL, big surprise.

  Partway through a stop-and-go discussion of brownfield remediation, Carson snuggles up to me and trails a hand down my chest. “Darling,” she coos, “this is where I find something interesting to do. Can you do without me for a while?”

  The hand’s totally distracting, especially when it hooks a finger in my waistband. Hoskins considers patting her manfully on the butt, because that’s what guys like him do. I’m the one who’ll lose the hand, though, so I go for a one-armed, around-the-waist squeeze instead. “Sure, honey. Don’t go too far.”

  She pecks my cheek and saunters toward the bar, putting more swing in her hips than I’ve seen on her before.

  Morrone watches her go with appreciation. “That is a woman, si?” he says once Carson leaves hearing range. “Very strong, very… sensuale. She gives you strong bambini, si? All sons, I think. I miei complimenti, signore.”

  I try looking at Carson through Morrone’s eyes for a moment. She’s standing tall by the bar, nursing a drink and surveying her domain. The downlighting accents curves that don’t need the help. I wouldn’t have put “Carson” and “sensual” in the same sentence before now, but… hm.

  I finally turn back to business. “Lucca, do you collect art too?”

  Lucca puts on an empty smile. “No, it is not my interest.”

  “I tell Lucca, buy the art,” Morrone says. He claps his brother’s shoulder. Lucca looks like he has gas. “But mio fratello, he buys only the automobili. I tell him, no painting is, ehm, distrutto—” Angelo jumps in “—wrecked, si, by the taxi.”

  The patient irritation at an old joke told too many times flashes across Lucca’s face for a moment. He replaces it with a not-really-smile. “I say to my brother, no painting takes me to the trattoria or the football stadium.”

  Morrone booms a laugh and wraps a thick arm around Lucca’s shoulders. Lucca looks like a dog getting mauled again by a four-year-old and wondering if it’s finally time to bite.

  Lucca starts interrogating me. What projects have I worked on? Who are my backers and my banks? I keep trying to change the subject to art, and while Morrone’s game, Lucca keeps lobbing in questions like grenades. He stares like he’s counting my pores. I try to tune him out and concentrate on Salvatore, but I can’t quite pull it off. What’s his problem? Does he see through my story? What’s he saying to big brother when they have their sidebars in something that isn’t quite Italian? I’m glad it’s warm in the room so I don’t have to explain the sweat on my forehead.

  As we talk, the Armani blonde brings in random guys to shake Morrone’s hand and grab quick, earnest conversations. I’ve seen one on campaign posters all over town. Another was wearing a police uniform on the news this morning. It’s like that scene at the start of The Godfather where Don Corleone holds court at his daughter’s wedding.

  “Is it always like this with him?” I ask Lucca as we wait for Salvatore to finish.

  He doesn’t look at me. “My brother knows many people.” Lucca doesn’t approve.

  A guard snags the Armani blonde as cop-in-a-suit leaves. She bows her head to listen, then marches to the door. It’s open only a few seconds, but I recognize the guy outside.

  Belknap. Here.

  My heart goes into warp drive. There’s no other way out except through the window. If he gets in, he’ll recognize me the moment he sees me. Then I end up face-down in the lagoon surrounding the fairgrounds.

  At the table, Carson suddenly turns toward me, showing her back to the door. If Belknap sees her face, he’ll recognize her even faster than he will me. She raises her drink to her mouth and lifts her index finger off the glass, pointing toward the door. I give her a tiny nod.

  The three-way conversation with the Morrones sputters back into gear, but now I’m distracted by the action at the other end of the room. I sidestep so Salvatore’s between me and the door, just in case.

  The blonde re-enters. She’s unhappy. She strides up to Salvatore. They have a whispered conversation that’s mostly him shaking his head and her making small, controlled hand gestures. Finally she nods in a halfway bow and returns to the door.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask when she leaves.

  Salvatore smiles—it’s a little strained—and waves his hand. “No, it is nothing. When do you leave Milano, Ricardo? I like to talk more.”

  “In a few days. I’d love to—”

  The door bursts open. I hear the blonde’s voice firing rapid Italian. And I hear Belknap’s voice answering in gruff Italian.

  He’s in the room.

  My heart had slowed to a gall
op; now it’s going orbital. Just when things were going somewhere… I glimpse Carson as she slowly pivots, keeping her back to Belknap. Both Salvatore and Lucca swivel toward Belknap’s voice, which is getting closer. I risk a glance: Belknap’s in the middle of the room, his face turning scarlet. Two security guys hold his arms. Everyone’s staring at him. Salvatore says something patient and calming, then steps toward him.

  I’m trapped.

  I grab Angelo—who’s drifted away from his dad—and turn us both to face the windows before Belknap sees me. “Who is that?” I ask, because it’s the natural thing Hoskins would ask.

  Angelo’s face is set in waiting-for-the-dentist discomfort. “He advised my father on purchasing art. They… disagreed. He is not an honest man.”

  “I see.” What do you have to do to get the Mafia saying you’re not honest? Something to think about… later. We’re still in Belknap’s peripheral vision. “I should go. I wouldn’t want to embarrass your father by—”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m certain this will be settled soon. Please—”

  Salvatore and Belknap are deep into a very intense, angry-sounding exchange off to the bar side of the room. The grim-faced blonde patrols behind Belknap, whose back’s now to the table. The guards flank him. Carson’s worked her way to the end of the table nearest the door. Everyone else has found someplace else to look. It’s my chance.

  “It’s okay, Angelo, really.” I have to force the rising panic out of my voice. All Belknap has to do is half-turn toward the window… “I’ve been in Salvatore’s position before. I know how mortifying it is when somebody you’ve just met sees this kind of thing.” I clap his shoulder, man-to-man. “Please give my apologies to your father. Tell him I enjoyed our talk and hope we’ll meet again soon.”

  Angelo nods. His eyes have been flicking between me and the low-volume argument across the room. “Of course, sir. I appreciate your discretion. I can tell that my father enjoyed speaking with you. Most of the people he speaks with about art want to sell it to him.”

  We shake. When I turn to go, I notice Lucca standing halfway between me and Belknap, squinting at me like he’s got a sniper scope. He’ll just have to stew—I need to get out now.

  Carson’s talking with a pair of women in short, sequined shifts at the dessert end of the table. They’re pretty, underfed, have high Slavic cheekbones, and neither looks a day over eighteen. They’re like stick figures next to Carson. Her back is still toward Belknap; I doubt he’ll recognize her in that dress. I swoop in, slip an arm around her waist… then realize she’s not speaking English. That knocks my brain off its rails. What the hell?

  She peeks over her shoulder at Belknap. “Took you long enough,” she hisses at me.

  I whisper into her ear, “We’re outta here.”

  The guards have Belknap’s arms again. He’s about to get thrown out. I’d much rather have him behind us—so we know where he is—than ahead of us.

  Carson tosses a quick goodbye-sounding line to the Sequin Twins in not-English, then takes my arm. As we clear the door, she whispers, “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t know.” My stomach’s curled up in a ball. “If he did, it’s all over.”

  Chapter 32

  We leave the goon squad behind and charge down the stairs in record time. I can feel Carson pumping herself up for another grand entrance. “Tone it down,” I tell her. “We need to get lost in the crowd.”

  The floor’s crazy packed by now. We’re surrounded in seconds. I risk a glance behind us. Belknap’s halfway down the top staircase, still escorted by security apes. He’s already scanning the mob. Looking for us? I rewind through what he said upstairs.

  “He’s looking for Gianna,” I yell into Carson’s ear. “He said her name up there.”

  Carson crowds into me. “So? She’s a big girl.”

  “You don’t get it. He’s pissed enough to go after his sponsor for something about her. Three guesses what that is.”

  “Hoskins?”

  I pull out my work phone and text Gianna: L mad looking for you. Had fight with rossi. B careful. R u ok?

  People are barging into us from every direction. Carson hauls on my arm. “Let’s go.”

  “Hold on.” Carson stands so close that her boobs brush my chest every time she breathes deep, but every ounce of my attention (well, almost) is on my phone. Come on come on come on…

  Nothing. I look back in time to see Belknap start edging around the crowd toward the Lake Plaza exit—right where we’re headed. Of course. R u there?

  Still nothing. Maybe her phone’s off. Maybe the battery’s dead. Maybe she can’t hear it.

  “You warned her,” Carson yells at me. “Need to go.”

  “She’s not answering.” We should go. I can’t let Belknap see me yet. But I also can’t let Gianna get hurt for helping me. “We gotta find her.”

  “In this? You’re nuts.”

  “Look, whatever he’s pissed about, I got her into it. I gotta make sure she’s okay.”

  She shakes her head. “Fucking wonderful.” After a peek over my shoulder, she grabs my hand and drags me deeper into the human whirlpool.

  It’s impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. At least Gianna’s wearing bright yellow; otherwise we’d never find her. The music bashes me over the head, but not as hard as I’m beating myself. What’ll Belknap do to her? He’s got a temper. Sierra—his last L.A. assistant—turned up a couple times with mystery bruises she blamed on being a klutz, which she wasn’t.

  I spot Belknap’s bald head maybe ten yards away. “He’s getting closer.”

  “Following us?”

  “Can’t tell.” We approach the south edge of the crowd and veer right, away from the Cardo exit, then swim our way through a logjam around another bar. Nothing from Gianna on my phone.

  “Yellow!” Carson points toward the center of the dance floor. An instant later, I catch a glimpse. We wade through the drifts of party animals in our way, trying to keep that little sliver of color in sight. The swirling lights aren’t helping. Still, we manage to close in. Then an oval of white light hits her.

  I grab Carson’s arm and dig in, which is like stopping a bull. “Not her! Too tall. It’s a bandage dress.”

  She peers toward the retreating woman, then rolls her head back. “Fuck!” She wheels on me. “This is—” Her eyes get big.

  Carson wraps her arms around my neck, drapes herself over me and starts the best kiss I’ve had since… well, since Allyson in Geneva. I’m not sure what got into her, and it doesn’t matter because this is good. Surprisingly good. There’s a lot of really healthy woman pressed against me. I don’t mind kissing back one bit. I try to find someplace safe to put my hands and come up with warm, smooth skin instead. We slowly turn in a half-circle, almost like in a movie.

  She finally breaks the kiss and checks over my shoulder. I follow her look and see the back of Belknap’s head, trailing after the bandage dress.

  Carson glances down, shifts her hips, then glares at me. “Really?”

  “Give me a break. It’s been a long time.”

  She pulls back a couple inches, though her arms stay around my neck. “Must’ve seen her too.” Deep breath. “Got an idea.”

  We fight our way out of the dancers and past the stairs. Once we clear the main body of the crowd, I see a long line of women snaking around a corner up ahead and know immediately what Carson’s idea is. “Good thinking.”

  “Maybe.” She lets go of my wrist. “Stay.”

  I watch her charge along the line until she disappears around the corner, presumably heading for the women’s restroom. Then I look back the way we came from, watching for Belknap.

  Parties like this look so fun and glamorous in movies—all the pretty people, the Champagne tsunami, the throbbing music and lights. But the longer I soak in it, the more it makes me sick. The sex-for-money deal-making is too blatant to ignore. These dudes are junior versions of
the bastards who wiped out my parents, more interested in playing silly games with everyone’s money than using it to help people like Gianna get ahead. A mobster set this up to celebrate bilking the public out of millions.

  The sickest thing: as Hoskins, I fit right in.

  My cover’s all wrong. I shouldn’t be pretending to be a rich guy. I should be playing Belknap’s part—a scumbag art dealer looking to make money, no job too dirty. I know that part. I understand it. I’ve lived it.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Carson’s number. Got her.

  Yes! She’s safe! Need help?

  In the toilet?

  I look up from my phone just as Belknap breaks out of the crowd. He’s focused on the women waiting for the restroom. No no no… I turn to face the wall and get busy with my phone. Stay put. Belknap flyby. He stops a couple times, talks to a woman, holds up his hand at Gianna-head height. Both times, the woman shakes her head. I follow him around the corner. He slows while he passes the restroom door, then roars off toward the main floor again. It takes a couple deep breaths before my hands stop shaking enough to text. Clear.

  C u @ fountain.

  I hate to leave them, but I follow Carson’s thinking: we’re less obvious if we split up. I tag after a couple chicks as they giggle their way under a nearby rope line and past a security ape into the outside world.

  Out on the plaza—away from the music and the bodies—I claw back a little calm. My ears can clear and I can come down off my adrenaline overdose. That swamp in there was too much like the old days back home. I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.

  After a long while, I hear clicking heels behind me. Carson appears on my right, Gianna a step behind her.

  Gianna’s face glows as she beelines to me. “Rick! Thank you for making the warning. My phone dies after. What does Lorenzoni do?”