The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  “Shut up.” She punches the gas and screams across two traffic lanes. A choir of car horns warns me not to look back. For a very bad moment, I’m sure we’re going to pancake into the concrete retaining wall. I close my eyes and clamp onto both the door handle and the grab bar.

  A couple seconds later I open my eyes. We’re not dead. Carson’s flipping somebody the bird through her side window. The Alfa’s pacing us on the other side of the guardrail. It sinks below the concrete barrier as we climb to overpass level. Then it’s gone.

  I can pretty much breathe by the time we loop under the A4 and join a divided road heading northwest. “What’s your plan?”

  “Get us another car. This one’s burned.”

  Right. I forgot we have an endless supply of rental cars. We climb off the divided road and find ourselves heading straight for an enormous white box of a mall with a green-and-white-striped turret—an enclosed access ramp to parking—on its nearest corner. An excellent place to get lost in. “Oh, good. We can go shopping.”

  “Not on your life,” Carson mutters.

  The stores don’t open until nine and the new car won’t show up until almost ten. We leave the VW in the rooftop parking and march in circles through the mall as it slowly wakes up. It looks like one of the lower-end malls back home, except cleaner.

  Who was in that black Alfa? Why guns? When Carson calls Olivia for a new car, Olivia says the “contractor” hasn’t returned her call yet. “Check with the client,” Carson tells her. “See if the contractor’s on his payroll.”

  “Someone must’ve bought him first,” Carson grouses afterwards. “Fucking hate that.”

  “Yeah. Why aren’t these crooked cops more honest?”

  For ninety minutes, I obsess about Angelo’s semi and whether it’ll still be at the truck stop when we get back there. With our luck, he’ll have driven it off while we’re dodging whoever was following us and we’ll be at square zero. Then again, if he knows somebody’s looking for the truck, he’ll never go near it again.

  At ten, a guy who looks like a better-fed version of Burim with nicer teeth meets us outside the enormous Auchan hypermarket (like an Italian Walmart Supercenter) that anchors the mall. He swaps keys with Carson, then disappears down one of the endless white hallways. We get some decent cappuccino at Lino’s Coffee and head back out onto the mean streets in our shiny-new, lime-green SEAT Ibiza five-door.

  Carson steers us back the way we came on the A4. After a lot of squirrelling around, we approach Lambro Sud from the west once again. The place is busier now than it was in the middle of the night.

  “Gonna drive straight through,” Carson warns me. “Look for the truck, then look for shadows.”

  Angelo’s Scania is right where we left it over two hours ago. Another Alfa—this one slate gray—is parked nose-out behind the Autogrill. I can’t read the front plate, not that it makes a lot of difference. It’s quiet in the Ibiza as we squirt into traffic on the A4.

  We’ve lost our only solid lead.

  We spend the day in the various industrial zones east of Milan, checking Morrone’s properties off the list one after another. The GPS drags us through unremarkable working-class neighborhoods both old and new. Mom never mentioned these places in her Italy stories.

  No truck. No art.

  Olivia finally comes through with a trace on this morning’s lurker: it’s registered to the Polizia di Stato in Milan. At least we know who was gunning for us—just not why, or who for.

  The ticking clock sounds like tympani behind us. The points of Carson’s jaw get paler with every dry hole we drill. Lunch is takeout hamburgers from a place called Aro’s Fast Food in Lissone, northwest of Monza. It’s scary watching Carson plow through a double-decker burger with cheese while she speeds one-handed through one-and-a-half-lane streets. But we can’t stop to eat—we learned yesterday that when we lose the light, we’re done.

  In midafternoon, after a particularly fruitless visit to an abandoned factory, I check the digital version of Corriere della Sera’s Milan edition and found what I’d been looking for, though not what I was ready for. “They identified the dead guy,” I told Carson.

  “Car bomb? Who?”

  “Stefano Ergotini, 46, of Bollate.”

  Belknap’s still alive.

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Carson says. Her face is all screwed up. “So where is he?”

  “Gone, if he has any sense.” My brain’s still resisting this. How did he…? “He’s had two full days to disappear. He said he had property in Shanghai. The Russians can’t get to him there.”

  He slithered out of dying. Just what I was afraid of. Now I’ll have to watch my back for the rest of my life, or until he washes up on a beach somewhere. That son of a bitch won again.

  “Will you for chrissakes stop?” I growl at Carson. “That Pepsi from lunch wants out.”

  “Just fucking hold it.”

  It’s sunset. We’re both tired and frustrated. My whole upper body is stiff and achy. We’ve managed to visit eighteen warehouses or industrial sites so far. Carson’s bashing through traffic in Gorgonzola—I kid you not—trying to get to a warehouse in Vignate (about fifteen clicks east of downtown Milan) before the rapidly fading light disappears.

  It’s hard to keep believing this is getting us anywhere. The clock’s running out on what’s left of this completely wasted day. There’s gotta be a better way to find the art. Has to be.

  My burner phone rings, startling the hell out of me. “Hello?”

  “I ring for Lucca Morrone.” A gruff, heavily accented male Italian voice. “Meet at San Lorenzo Maggiore at the twenty-two hour. Be alone.”

  Chapter 50

  A streetcar rumbles behind me as I walk into the forecourt fronting San Lorenzo Maggiore, the oldest basilica in Milan. The old church is floodlit, but I can’t concentrate on the unusual octagonal cupola or monumental entry. Being out here in the open feels like being spotlit on stage in front of a sold-out house at La Scala. The critics have rifles.

  I stop at a heroic bronze of Constantine the Great in front of the basilica. “What do I tell Lucca, dude?” He just stands there with his right arm raised in an I’m-the-man pose. No help.

  It’s warm and damp. People wander by in pairs or small, noisy groups, heading for late dinners or early clubbing. I don’t see any lurkers, but I can feel them. Carson’s out there in the dark; we had another one of those you’re-not-going-alone arguments she always wins. Lucca’s gotta have his backup in the shadows, too. This Spy vs. Spy shit’s getting real old.

  “Mr. Friedrich?”

  He’s standing right next to me, facing Constantine with his hands in his jacket pockets (where I figure the gun is). It’s not the guy on the phone. This one’s a little younger than me, slightly shaggy dark hair, goatee, white earbuds, an ‘80s-style deconstructed blazer over 501s. Put a porkpie hat on him and he’d look like a hipster, not a gangster.

  I remind myself he’s a gangster. “Who are you?”

  “My name isn’t your problem.” Fluent English, hardly any accent, cool casual, just loud enough to carry a foot or so. “Your problem is, two men are watching you through night-vision scopes, and your girlfriend is hunting them. They don’t like that. If something happens to one of them, the other will shoot you. Then he’ll shoot your girlfriend. You should tell her to stay where she is and not interfere.” He finally glances at me. “No one needs to die tonight.”

  Now I know why my scalp’s crawling—I’m in two sets of crosshairs. I take a careful breath, then pull my phone and text Carson: They know ur here. Snipers. Dont do anything. I hope she listens for once.

  “Is Lucca here?” I have to concentrate to keep from squeaking.

  “Not tonight.” Hipster Goon brings a little foil square out of his pocket, twists out a lozenge and pops it in his mouth. “Trying to stop smoking.” He shrugs. “Mr. Morrone wants to know what you’ve found so far. Friday’s your first d
eadline, remember.”

  Like I can forget. I need to tell him something so it looks like we’ve made progress. If I say too much, Lucca might piece things together before we can. I don’t know if either Carson or I will survive that.

  “The collection moves,” I say. “That’s why nobody’s found it. I’m not sure how he does it yet. There’s still a couple hundred pieces in the inventory. I understand there’s a lot of turnover, so my guess is it’s still in the country.”

  Hipster Goon doesn’t say anything for a while. “Go on.”

  “That’s it for now. Can we sit over there?” I point behind us to the Colonne di San Lorenzo, a file of sixteen uplit second-century Roman Corinthian columns running along the street. I’d feel way less exposed back there.

  “I like it here.” He would. “You’ve not given me much. Mr. Morrone will be unhappy.”

  “Dude, it’s been, like, three days. He’s been looking for a year and didn’t get this far. Tell him to chill.” As long as I’m pushing the envelope, I might as well push hard. “Tell him I wish he hadn’t tried to kill Lorenzoni so soon. I might’ve gotten more info out of him.”

  Hipster Goon chews his Nicorette and nods in time with his earbud music. “Lorenzoni is a problem. We need to make an example of him before others get the same ideas.” He turns his head toward me. “You’re a problem, too.”

  Hearing that feels like I’ve just swallowed something very cold. “Thanks for reminding me. I’m also his best shot at finding the paintings. Can you guys try to not kill anybody else who might have information?”

  “What we do isn’t your concern. Focus on your work.” He turns and strolls away. “Two more days, Mr. Friedrich,” he calls out over his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”

  After Hipster Goon disappears, I tell Carson to meet me at Luca’s Bar, a busy hole-in-the-wall hard against the medieval stone-and-brick Porta Ticinese about a block south. Carson’s boiling by the time she gets there. “Had one of those bastards,” is how she says “hi.” “Why’d you call me off?”

  “Because the other sniper would’ve killed me.”

  That calms her down. So do €5 cocktails. We grab a round two-top on the cobblestones next to the streetcar tracks, surrounded by young Milanese celebrating Hump Day. It’s noisy as hell. Anybody trying to listen in is going to hurt themselves.

  “This isn’t working,” I tell Carson. She nods and studies what’s left of her scotch. “You called it on Tuesday. The more of these places we look at, the better the chance they’ll move the art someplace we’ve already been. And looking for a semi here is like looking for a brunette—there’s too many to count.”

  Carson looks glum. “Can’t just stop, though.”

  “I know. We haven’t heard from Morrone yet, about the art he’s got in storage. He could come through.”

  “Play the lottery much?”

  I’ve been thinking about this for most of the day. Of course, it’s only now that I start to get the fuzzy shape of a plan. I ought to keep it to myself until I can think it over, but time’s so short now… “Angelo’s an only kid?”

  She squints at me. “Only son. Baby brother died when he was three. There’s a sister in Calabria.”

  I tell Carson what I’m thinking. It’s long odds and it could go bad in a dozen different ways, but long odds are better than none and we’re already in shit. By the end, I can almost believe it won’t be a total disaster.

  “You’re fucking nuts.” She looks like I just whacked her with a Parma ham.

  “Probably. Can you do it?”

  Carson leans back in her black plastic chair and stares at the makeshift awning over us. Gears turn behind her face; sometimes they jam. “Maybe. Not much notice. Lot of ‘ifs’.” She crinkles her face at me. “Sure you wanna do this?”

  “Salvatore needs a shove. Let’s give him one.”

  Chapter 51

  Angelo’s black Range Rover double-parks outside the Deep Milano Café at 12:21. He’s late. I’ve been getting more wound up with each passing minute even though I know only American tourists eat lunch at noon in Italy.

  I watch through the window as one of Angelo’s security goons lets him out of the back. He’s in Emporio again: a closely tailored white camp shirt with broken gray horizontal stripes, tucked into twin-pleated black slacks. He turns and takes a female hand when it appears in the doorway.

  It’s Gianna.

  Oh, hell no!

  I’d asked her last night to set up this meeting. She wasn’t happy about it, but she agreed. I said I wanted to go through her because she’s still my local dealer; in reality, I didn’t want to explain to Angelo why I needed a face-to-face. When he didn’t show up on time, I had to wonder if Gianna sat on my message to spite me. Clearly not.

  The security goon escorts them through the early lunch crowd at the half-full tables outside. Gianna’s wearing her Audrey Hepburn LBD and what passes for her poker face. Her hand’s wrapped around Angelo’s crooked arm. There’s a sliver of daylight between them. If they’re sleeping together, they’re hiding it well.

  Still, this plan doesn’t involve her or anybody else I like.

  When they enter, I wave them toward my tan-laminate two-top near the wannabe-Mid-Century Modern bar. Angelo scans faces on his way in, maybe looking for threats. I grab an unused chair from the next table and set it in the aisle.

  “Signore Hoskins.” Angelo gives me a businesslike shake and a polite smile. “I expect you are well?”

  “Well enough, thanks. Hello, Gianna. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Buongiorno, Mr. Hoskins.” Her voice is as cool and sharp as it ever will be. I get to grip her fingers in a limp excuse for a handshake before she pulls away. Angelo holds the aisle chair for her as she sits.

  “My father still considers your request.” Angelo looks puzzled. “Is that…?”

  “That’s not why I wanted to meet, but thanks for letting me know.”

  Gianna cuts in. “You are buying these paintings without me, yes?” I hear you lying bastard between the lines.

  I’m not at all prepared for this, but I can’t just ignore her. “I don’t know if I am or not. That’s up to Salvatore. If I do, I’ll pay you a nice commission for the introduction.”

  Angelo lightly touches her bare shoulder and slides a line of low, smooth Italian past her. It starts with “Mio padre,” so he’s blaming something on Salvatore. She stares at him for a moment, then shrugs off his fingers.

  A waiter in a black short-sleeved button-down stops by. Angelo rattles out a complicated-sounding order in Italian. Gianna orders an Asti; I ask for an acqua minerale, even though I’d rather have something a lot stronger. I need to keep my head clear.

  When the waiter leaves, I say to Angelo, “I wanted to meet because what I need to tell you… well, I shouldn’t say it on the phone. You know.” I glance at Gianna. “It’s sensitive.”

  “Gianna is discreet…” his eyes dart toward hers “…yes?”

  She scours Angelo’s eyes, then mine. “You do not talk about the paintings, yes?”

  “No,” I say. “This is something else.”

  After a moment, she sighs and pushes away from the table. We both watch her slow-walk to the bar. So do several other men around us.

  “I must apologize,” Angelo says. He rests his forearms on the table and leans in. “I assumed you wished to talk about the art. She insisted that she come.” We both glance at her. She’s leaning back against the bar with her elbows hooked on the counter, watching us like a hungry cat watches a hamster. “It is very hard to say ‘no’ to her.”

  “No joke.”

  I’ve been rehearsing this next part since last night, but half the words disappeared when Gianna walked in. Now I have to try to flush them out while I say them.

  I lean forward and put on my best sincere-concerned face. “Look, Lucca approached me on Sunday. He… well, he had this story about how your father’
s art collection doesn’t belong to him? He asked me… actually, he demanded I help him find the rest of it. I blew him off at first. It sounded too strange, like maybe he’d been drinking or something.”

  Angelo’s eyebrows crawl closer together all through this. Now he’s got his elbow propped on his forearm and his chin on his fist. The weird thing is, he doesn’t look surprised, just irritated. Too-late flash of insight: is he on Team Lucca?

  I’ve gone too far to stop. I’ll know soon enough if I’ve read him wrong. “The thing is, he tried again last night. He was a lot more… direct than on Sunday. He threatened me and Carson. That’s why I needed to meet with you today. What’s going on? Lucca just about admitted he set off that bomb by the gallery. And I got the impression that maybe he’s trying to replace your father.”

  He rests his forehead on the tips of his index and middle fingers, then shakes his head with a sigh. I don’t understand the not-quite-Italian he mutters, but I hope it’s not “what do I do with this moron?”

  “Again, I must apologize.” His eyes are darker than normal. “The relations between my father and my uncle are… difficult. I am sorry to say that you are not the first guest of my father who my uncle has approached in this way. This is… a problem.”

  So everybody has problems now. Salvatore with Lucca, Lucca with Salvatore, Lucca with me, Angelo with Lucca, Gianna with me. It’s a little late to wonder if I’m now a problem for Salvatore or Angelo, but that doesn’t stop me.

  Our drinks arrive—Gianna’s already got hers, Angelo’s looks like café au lait in a glass. I wait for the waiter to bustle off before I ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Not that I think there is, but I want the offer on the table to show whose side I’m on.

  Angelo sips his whatever-it-is and gives me a thin smile. “No, no. You have helped enough by telling me of this. I’m sorry this family… business has caused you alarm. It is a matter for my father to decide. Do not be worried by my uncle. He will not harm you.”