The Collection

by Lance Charnes

He examines me like he’s taking my skin off with his eyes. Then he looks over his shoulder at Carson. She shrugs. He turns to me and sniffs. “No hurt Italian girl, okay.” He tosses a hand toward the warehouse. “Go now, take picture, leave.”

  Yes! Hoskins didn’t get me killed. “Thank you, Mr. Rodievsky. Good luck.”

  I grab my burner from Morrone’s Mercedes. One of the no-necks gets the keys from Morrone’s pocket and escorts me inside the warehouse. He doesn’t follow me into the trailer, though, which is the way I wanted things. I find the Sisley and check its entry in StolenArt. Not only is it hot, but there’s a €100,000 reward out for it. Bonus.

  I look all around me. So many beautiful things hidden away, used like baseball cards on the playground of international money laundering. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.

  So take one.

  I’m considering it. Even if there’s no reward, I still know enough people who could move it for me. I remember seeing a nice mid-career Bonnard pastoral; it could just break six figures for me on a good day. But there’s no time—the ape’s already glaring at me through the door.

  Keep the Sisley.

  Yeah, thinking about that, too. The reward’s about twenty percent of what I owe. Getting the payoff would be a lot easier, not even illegal.

  The smart me tells me to grab the Sisley for myself and figure it out later. Then again, the smart me also got me sent to PEN, so maybe he’s not so smart. On the other hand, $110,000 is only 11,000-and-change hours of pulling coffee at my current rate. On the other other hand, I’d have to live with myself for those eleven thousand hours. I’ve been doing that for a while, and it’s not easy.

  The ape hustles me back outside and shoves me toward Carson, who’s leaning against the Alfa’s driver’s door. Rodievsky’s bossing the other apes around in loud, gravelly Russian. Two of them are busy wrapping Morrone’s body in plastic. I’ve seen this in movies, never in real life, and my stomach heaves at the sight. Angelo’s never getting his dad back.

  Carson shines her mini-flashlight on the Sisley. “Huh. In back. Fast, before he changes his mind.”

  I flash back to a few minutes ago. My stomach kicks me again. “I don’t know if I want to get in a car with you.”

  “Long walk to the airport.” She nods toward the nearest Russians. “If you make it.”

  “Should I trust you?”

  She snorts. “Why not?”

  “I watched you kill a guy.”

  “Burn me, you burn yourself.” She steps toward me. I skitter backward. She sighs. “Best it gets, you go in an Italian pen. Rodievsky has you done so you can’t talk. I’m worth more to him alive than dead. He moves me someplace, gives me a new name.”

  This is when I wish I could read her.

  Carson rolls her eyes. “Christ. I’m saying you’re not a threat. Don’t have to kill you.” She pauses, swallows. “Don’t want to, either.”

  All my brain can manage is, “Oh.”

  My suitcase and Carson’s duffel are already in the trunk. I carefully set the canvas on top, then edge to the passenger’s door as Carson fires up the engine. Before I can even reach for the seat belt, we screech off into the night.

  Chapter 56

  “Head for the gallery,” I tell Carson.

  “What?”

  “Just do it.” I drag my work phone out of the center console, cross my fingers, and hit Gianna’s number.

  After three rings, I hear a sleepy, “Pronto?”

  “Gianna? It’s—” I almost say Matt “—Rick. Sorry—”

  “Rick? What… it is so early… is—”

  “Sorry about that. I don’t have a lot of time left and I need to see you. Now. Meet me in the courtyard behind the gallery in…” I mute and turn to Carson. “How long?”

  “Thirty.”

  Back to Gianna. “Thirty minutes? Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.”

  Bedclothes rustle in the background. I let my mind build a picture—Gianna sitting up in bed naked, the covers around her hips, her hair tumbling around her face—then have to turn it off so I can think with the big brain.

  “Why do you call? Is there trouble?” She sounds marginally more awake, and confused.

  “I’m fine. I have to leave town right away. There’s something I need to give you before I go. Meet me at the gallery?”

  “Um. Yes. Okay. I take the taxi, the Metro does not work so early. I meet you.”

  “Great. Be careful out there.” I sigh and fall back into my seat. I feel a vibration against my leg and see that it’s my hand. Now that I’m safe, I can’t stop shaking. “Is it cold in here?”

  Carson fiddles with a dash control. Warm air blows on my feet.

  “Thanks.” I concentrate on basics, like breathing. The dark city spools by outside, not that I’m paying attention. Just sitting without feeling sick is enough to deal with. Once I master that, I watch Carson drive for a while. As usual, she’s ferociously focused on the road.

  “Painting’s for her?” Carson asks.

  I don’t know yet. “Did you know Morrone had the paintings?”

  We cover a block before she nods. “Yeah. Didn’t know where.”

  All that wasted time. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’d want to start at the top. Gennady’d already—”

  “Gennady?”

  “Rodievsky. Tried that, got nowhere. He knew Lucca was looking for them too. Couldn’t infiltrate the ‘Ndrangheta or get members to rat—everybody in the locale’s related to everybody else. Gennady knew he had to work it from outside. Couldn’t risk having any connection if Morrone’s people caught wise. We’re the cheap and deniable way out.”

  We were pawns in a game. I haven’t felt so used since Gar split. “Who are you?”

  She glances at me. “What?” But she knows what I mean; it’s a question, not a slap.

  “Who are you?” More volume this time. I point behind us. “Are you like them?”

  “Why do you care?” she snaps.

  “Why? I was starting to like you. Now all I can see is you shooting Morrone.” Just mentioning Morrone flips my stomach over… and adds to the burn.

  “Don’t cry for him. Remember the conex? That’s what he was.”

  “I know, I know. That’s the only reason I’m in this car with you. But… why? You had the paintings. Why’d you kill him? Why not one of those pit bulls back there? Why not—”

  “Does it matter?” she snaps.

  “Goddamn right it does! Now I’m part of it. I’ve done lots of shitty stuff, but not that. Not that. Now I’ll see that shit in my head—”

  “Live with it!” Even in the wash from the instrument panel, I can see her face flushing. “I do. Live with this—world’s been a better place for half an hour. He was scum.”

  “So’s your boss.”

  “Tell me about it. Sometimes you don’t get a choice.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t tell these people ‘no.’”

  I twist in my seat so I can see her straight-on. “How’d you get hooked up with them in the first place?”

  “None of your fucking business!” She glares out the windshield.

  “You made it my business!” I don’t even know where I’m going with this, whether I really want to know. But after everything we’ve been through… “Back there, you said you’re worth more to them alive than dead. What did you mean?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No. Your boss is happy with you because I got you there. You owe me an answer.”

  She stabs a finger in my breastbone so hard, it shoots fuzz into my eyes. “I owe you? I stopped them from killing you. You’re welcome.”

  The air goes out of my anger. I sag back into my seat and watch her drive for what seems like a long time, though it’s probably only a few minutes. “Why?”

  Her mouth twists, but I don’t get an answer. After a longer silence, she says, “Two m
illion Canadian.”

  “What?”

  “What I’m worth.”

  That’s a very specific number. She must owe Rodievsky. But so much? “You’re paying it down by doing… that?” I thumb toward the back window, and everything behind it.

  Carson shoots me a sharp look. “No. Tonight was… different. I find people, find shit, move shit around, do security consulting.”

  “So you work for him, not Allyson?”

  “Both, this time.”

  I can’t absorb any more half-answers and semi-information. “You owe four times as much as I do. Why? How’d this happen?”

  She lets some more road slide by before she answers. “Love your family?”

  “Usually.”

  “Me too. Even when they fuck up.”

  That’s a whole book in seven words. I could ask for details, but I don’t need to know more right now. I watch her face cycle though colors and moods. Something Allyson said about a hundred years ago comes back: You’ve both recently had painful episodes in your lives. You both have debts to pay.

  If I could wipe out five or six figures of debt by killing some scumbag, would I? Would I do it to save Mom or Dad or Dianne? I’d sure give it a hard think. Carson’s in so much deeper than I am, and the consequences are so much worse if she doesn’t deliver.

  Does that excuse what she did to Morrone?

  It explains it. I’m in no position to get all moral on her.

  “Is your last name really Teresenko?”

  Carson sighs, readjusts her grip on the wheel. “Was. Carson’s my married name.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Was, to a complete asshole. Oughta be a law against cops marrying each other. I was young.”

  “And stupid?”

  That gets me a hard look. “Rookie mistake.”

  At least now I know she has a first name, even if I don’t know what it is.

  After a while, the streets start looking familiar.

  “Don’t like killing people,” Carson finally says. Her voice has gone quiet. “I’ll do it if they need killing, but I don’t like it. Won’t do innocent people. If that helps.”

  Does it?

  We drive the last few blocks in silence.

  Chapter 57

  The wrecked cars are gone from the courtyard. Big burn marks and boarded-up windows are all that’s left of what happened here five days ago. It still smells like burned rubber. How cheerful.

  We don’t say much while we sit for forty minutes, waiting by the gallery’s back door. Carson’s talked out and I have a lot to think about. If it means anything, I feel a bit less uncomfortable sitting next to her than I did at the start of this drive.

  About every other minute, my anti-conscience kicks me: get out of here… take the Sisley… figure it out later. And just when that starts to sound reasonable, my conscience barges in: do it, and I’ll never let you sleep again.

  The sky’s orange-tinged black is fading to violet when Gianna steps through the tunnel leading to the street. She skitters sideways when Carson flashes our headlights at her. I meet her halfway between the car and the tunnel.

  I’d pictured her with bedhead and a sleepshirt over ratty jeans. Instead, she’s wearing a very 1965-girl-out-shopping outfit: white capris and a clingy, short-sleeved, butter-yellow sweater.

  We stop a couple steps from each other. I say, “I’m glad you came.”

  She nods, then points to the car. “Is Miss Carson there?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about her.” She only kills gangsters. I step in for the two-cheek kiss and get a handshake instead. “Still mad at me?”

  “Maybe. Why do you want me to come?” She sounds grumpy and a bit suspicious.

  My conscience and anti-conscience are still in a cage match over the Sisley. Having Gianna standing in front of me doesn’t make the decision any easier.

  I take the easy way out. “You’re going to need some walking-around money when Diciannove closes. This might help.” I show her my phone screen. “It’s a 1945 Miro in Morrone’s holdings in the storage room. One of the stolen ones. It’s got a €30,000 reward out on it. It’s on frame three left.”

  She frowns at the phone, then at me. “What if Signore Morrone comes for it?”

  “He won’t. He’s—” Dead? No, only one of us needs that picture in our heads “—left the country. Some people will come for his stuff pretty soon. They probably know how many pieces he has, but not what they are. Do you know how to roll back the date on a computer?”

  She nods slowly, like it’s a confession.

  “Good. Switch the date on your gallery computer to the last time Lorenzoni changed Morrone’s inventory. Pick a piece about the same size from the gallery’s holdings. Take the Miro out of Morrone’s inventory and replace it with whatever you choose. Update the gallery’s inventory to get rid of the piece you’re swapping to Morrone. Fix the date on the computer, run a backup, and delete any other backups. It’ll all look normal if the cops decide to investigate any of this. Got all that?”

  Her eyes flick from the Miro to me and back. “But… what do I do with this? It is stolen, yes? What—”

  “Hold on. Lorenzoni must’ve agreed to fence it. He hid it someplace in the gallery where you’d never look for it. Can you think of a place like that?” After a moment, she nods. “This morning you’ll go through the gallery trying to get a handle on what you’ll need to liquidate, and you’ll find this. You look it up on that great new StolenArt app and see it’s hot. Okay so far?”

  She’s staring at the screen, yanking on her thumb. “Yes. Yes, I do all this. I am very surprised I find it, of course.”

  Good girl. “Of course. You call the insurance company and tell them you found their painting. Send them a photo so they know you’re serious. Get them to commit to sending an adjuster right away. Don’t call the cops—they’ll just seize it and put it in a locker—”

  “But I must! It is stolen!”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve contacted the rightful owner and made arrangements to get it back to them. The only parties to the actual crime are either dead or long gone. There’s nothing here for the cops. Understand?”

  She looks dubious, but she nods. “This is why you want me to come?” It sounds like, is that all there is?

  Final decision time. Keep the canvas? Knock down a big chunk of my debt?

  I should. When I promised I’d help with her gallery, I never figured I’d actually do it. I took advantage of that fake hope to use her and lie to her, put her in danger with Belknap, and push her into Angelo’s arms. That’s why I made the promise. Me being me.

  The thing is, I don’t shaft people I like. It’s one of the few rules I follow more-or-less all the time. I like Gianna a lot. I’ve been a shit to her. And now—God knows why—I can keep my promise and pretend that makes up for what I’ve done. All I have to do is give away more money than I’ll see in the next ten years.

  This is a real-life right choice. No wonder it’s so hard for me to make it.

  “I’ve got something even better for you. Come on.” I lead her back to the car. The trunk thunks open just as I reach the back end.

  Gianna cocks her head when I show her the canvas. She gasps when I shine Carson’s light on the signature in the lower-left corner. “Sisley? Albert Sisley?”

  “Yeah. It was stolen in France in April ‘98. It’s on INTERPOL’s list and in Art Loss Register. There’s a €100,000 reward out on it.” I hesitate, then hold it out to her. “It’s yours.”

  Her jaw drops. She steps back. “But… I… no, I cannot–”

  “Same deal as the Miro. Lorenzoni hid it in the same place. Call the insurance company, send a picture. You’re a hero and you make some real money at the same time.” I hold it out to her again.

  This time, she takes it. Her mouth works a bit before sound comes out. “I… I do… I do not know how to… to thank you.”

 
“It’s okay. I promised to help you. You deserve it. Now there’s no loan, no interest, you don’t have to pay it back. You’ll start your gallery free and clear.”

  Gianna keeps staring at the canvas like she’s waiting for it to disappear. She has enough sense to not ask where it came from. When she looks up at me, her eyes are swimming, which makes me almost choke up. It’s been a long, long, long time since anybody was grateful for anything I’ve done to them. Winning the Powerball couldn’t feel this good.

  She sniffs, wipes her nose on a tissue from her white satchel purse, then nods. “I think I am very busy this morning.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat. “You will be. But it’ll be worth it.”

  Gianna nods, dabs at her eyes. She gives me a shaky half-smile. “Do you have more things for me to do today?”

  “That ought to hold you ‘til lunch.”

  She glances at the Sisley, then me, then gets a thoughtful look on her face. “We are only business partners still?”

  I like where she’s going with this. “Just you and me.”

  Gianna carefully leans the Sisley against the Alfa’s back bumper, winds her arms around my neck, and gives me a six-stars-out-of-five kiss. This makes everything that’s happened in the past three weeks totally worth it.

  As we break the kiss, I glimpse Carson’s eyes glaring at me in the Alfa’s side-view mirror. I turn Gianna so my back’s to the car.

  “You leave Milano now?” she murmurs.

  “Afraid so. I wish I didn’t have to, but…” Especially the way she feels right now.

  “I wish that also.” Mischief plays with her lips. “I change the inventory soon. Do you want something from the gallery? It is my gift, so you do not forget the Italian girl.”

  Seriously? I’m a bad influence on her. “There’s no way I’d forget the Italian girl. You don’t have to give me anything you haven’t already.”

  She presses against me the couple square inches of her that aren’t already touching me. “Hm. I think that when you are at home and all the beautiful American girls come for you, you forget Gianna. I give you something to remember her. What do you want?”

  Other than you? The obvious answer—the one that’s got me ready to explode—is out; there’s no time, and she deserves better than a quick screw on the viewing-room couch. She’s rolled out the puppy-dog eyes, so I’m physically incapable of saying no to her. Then it comes to me. “The Camoin landscape. The one you showed me that first day.”