High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  George’s voice lacked the exuberance I was expecting for the solution.

  “There’s an added complication. As you know, Mr. Oresciu took a terrible beating that day. He’s an old man. He’s just recently, as the doctors say, come out of the woods. He has no idea which gang did it to him. He trusts no one—except you. You apparently made a deep impression on him.”

  I was stunned. I knew we formed a bond that day. It apparently ran deeper that I’d imagined.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He was moved to a small rest home outside of Sinaia. Under a different name for security.”

  “And he’ll talk to me?”

  “Only to you. I believe it’s his greatest wish.”

  Two thoughts were wrestling for control. The bond that day with Mr. Oresciu ran both ways. He touched me deeply. I had no time to show it then, but what happened to that gentle man broke my heart. The thought of my being in his company again held a strong attraction.

  Pulling in the opposite direction was an eruption of stomach acid at the mere prospect of being back where I had so nearly lost Terry.

  I let that decision lie unresolved for a clearer moment.

  * * *

  When I left Chinatown, I drove a route to the South Station more convoluted than anything even GPS could have conjured. Daniel Boone on his best day could not have followed my tracks.

  It was rush hour when I approached the bank of lockers. I opened my two lockers and filled the nondescript shopping bag I had brought with me. I dropped in coins, took back the same keys. Then I blended like one more undifferentiated lemming in the rush-hour crowd back to my rented car.

  I made one more tactical stop in Boston before leaving the city. Then I drove north to yet a different hotel on Route 1. I wondered with each mile in my rented Kia if my Corvette, securely tucked into its garage in Winthrop, missed me half as much as I missed it.

  * * *

  The next morning, I kept a major promise. I drove into the city by a route I hadn’t used before through Medford. I used the alley behind 77 Franklin Street, waiting at several points to check for followers. I took the delivery entrance and lift to the seventh floor.

  True to my word to Julie, I spent an hour and a half wading through message slips, returning calls, and soothing the savage breasts of lawyers who felt neglected. Lawyers have a fierce intolerance for the inability to reach the lawyer on the other side of a case. As long as their fears of abandonment are soothed by some kind of personal contact, however, postponements are generally handed out like water bottles at the Boston Marathon.

  I knew I was on thin ice for the morning’s next encounter at the Parker House. I was about to expose the genuine article. That was discomforting. My secreting of that fiddle could have been the only reason two conscienceless mobs had so far foregone the pleasure of dispatching me like an annoying insect.

  I parked again in the lot under Boston Common. I took the path across the Common that led toward the Park Street Church, clutching the large package under my arm.

  Foot traffic was low enough for me to get a fix on every other walker, mostly tourists, with a sprinkling of suits on the way to offices, courts, or the state house. My antennae were tuned for anyone paying too much, or deliberately too little, attention to my passing. I discounted older people and panhandlers sitting on benches.

  By the time I passed the site of the old colonial hanging tree, I felt like a running back of the New England Patriots within easy reach of the goal line. The dense cluster of people pouring in and out of the Park Street subway entrance was the last obstacle. I started bobbing and weaving crosswise through the cluster with an increasing sense of calm, until I felt the presence of a tall man of chunky proportions positioning himself directly ahead of me, close enough to touch clothing. In the next moment, every nerve in my spine reacted to a breath on the back of my neck. A quick glance showed someone equally large, and equally close, directly behind me.

  I was in the midst of telling myself that I was overreacting, when the raspy voice behind me with a Russian tinge, said, “Keep moving. Straight ahead.”

  The final hint that I was in an undesirable position was the dull pain of something steel in my lower spine.

  The pace of our little threesome was slowed by the need of the hulk in the lead to find openings through the heavy foot traffic coming up out of the mouth of the MTA station on the right. I could see that we were heading in the direction of a black stretch limo, stopped dead ahead at the curb on Tremont Street. The only certainty I could muster was that if I were forced into that car, it would be the last ride I’d take in this life.

  We were just ten feet from the top of the escalator that leads down three stories to the MTA tracks—and moving. I thought of one tenuous possibility. I let myself be swept along slowly between the two muscle-masses without resistance. We were five feet from passing in front of the down escalator on the right. Three feet. One foot. Point zero.

  In one move like a muscle spasm, my right arm shot out to the side. The package I was carrying flew out of my hand, careening off the moving steps of the down escalator. It bounced off steps, walls, and riders on a zigzag course toward the distant bottom.

  The man at my back jumped. The steel of a gun barrel drove hard into my ribs. The man in front knew something had happened but had no idea what. The man in back reached over my right shoulder. He grabbed the arm of the man in front and jerked him toward the moving stair with a force that knocked several riders off to the side.

  I heard a panicked yell in Russian from the mouth behind me. Whatever he said sent the man in front galloping down two steps at a time after the bouncing package, knocking stunned riders into the rails left and right.

  The man behind gave his full focus to his partner’s scrambling charge. I recalled a move I hadn’t used since my last wrestling match at Kirkland House. I spun to the left with a high elbow. It caught the Russian goon in the neck. He was focused on the in-and-out-of-sight package. The blow knocked him off balance into the escalator pit. He tumbled down about ten steps, knocking off riders like ten-pins, and spewing language that would probably have petrified anyone who could speak Russian.

  I bolted through the crowd. I darted across Tremont Street with an abandon that would chill the most hardened Boston jaywalker. My pace never slackened up Tremont Street, right on School Street, and up the marble steps of the Parker House.

  I caught my breath on the top step while I scanned the sidewalk crowd for anyone who looked like a Russian thug. None in sight. It felt like a safe haven.

  * * *

  The stately lobby of the Parker House, grand old lady that she is, could restore calm to the most agitated soul. I returned the welcoming smile of Neil Albert, the concierge of ten years. He knew why I was there from our conversation the previous evening. I had dropped by the Parker House just before driving north to the hotel. He discreetly nodded in the direction of the chairs just outside of the bar off the lobby.

  I spotted Mr. Chang first. Directly across the lobby from Mr. Chang, with his eyes in my direction, I saw George. I made eye contact with George before approaching Mr. Chang. The thought occurred that it might be wise not to mix company at this point. I gave George a very slight shake of the head. He caught it and remained seated behind the morning’s Boston Globe.

  Mr. Chang caught sight of me at ten feet. I could see his eyes scanning me for the package I should have been carrying. I looked for a furrowing of the brow or some sign of deep agitation that I was clearly not carrying the package that brought us there. He held it together well.

  Mr. Chang rose, bowed courteously, and bade me a “good morning.” I did the same. We both sat.

  He led off. “I was believing that you were to bring the item for my inspection. Was that not our understanding?”

  I gave him a full play-by-play of my Park Street run-in, including my Tom Brady lateral of “the item” down the MTA escalator.

  He listened quietly with an increasi
ng look of concern. He let me finish before commenting quietly. “That is indeed distressing.”

  I marveled at his reaction to hearing that his bank’s entire security for a million-dollar loan had just taken a slam-bang ride to the bottom of Park Street Station. What he termed “distressing” would to me have been a total damn disaster.

  “And did the men who attacked you get control of the instrument?”

  “I didn’t wait to find out. They were certainly making an Olympic attempt. They quite probably did.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Knight, then I believe our business here is done.”

  We rose, exchanged bows and handshakes, and Mr. Chang was on his way down Tremont Street. George had his eye on the scene from across the lobby. He came across at a quick step and slid into the chair beside me. His expression showed what I considered an appropriate level of panic at my obviously empty hands.

  His voice was a stage whisper. “Michael, where is it?”

  I rose, held up a finger for silence, and beckoned him to follow me to the elevator. We rode in silence to the executive office level. The assistant manager, Marj Dutilly, a friend of many years of exchanged favors, met us at her office door and led us to her inner chamber.

  Once the door was closed, I retold my Park Street adventure.

  I could see the blood drain from George’s face. He simply said in defeat, “Then they got it. The Russians.”

  I nodded to Marj. She opened her office safe and took out a large cardboard box. She handed it to me and left us alone.

  I took the lid off the box to reveal an ancient violin case. George’s eyes were like saucers. “Is it …”

  I nodded. “I left it here in Marj’s safe last night.”

  George gingerly lifted the case out of the box and opened it. He took the violin out of its case as if it were a newborn baby.

  He turned his back while he examined it. I found myself holding my breath.

  “George, is this it?”

  He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. His voice seemed to catch. What came out was a raspy whisper.

  “It is. It is.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “I am.”

  He laid it back in the case with extreme care. When he looked back at me, he just asked, “Then what did those Russians chase down the escalator?”

  I could not squelch a grin that came from my toes. I looked George right in the eye and milked every word of it.

  “I wasn’t sure something like that Park Street grab wouldn’t happen. I took some precautions last night.”

  “What did you do?”

  He was grinning with me now in anticipation.

  “When those Russian thugs turn that package over to their boss, and he opens it, he won’t be seeing a million-dollar Stradivarius. I wish I could be there.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll be looking at a $25 ukulele.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT WAS TIME to test the strength of our bargain. George and I walked out of the Parker House together. I was carrying in a cardboard box under my arm what George had just confirmed to be the genuine article. I had kept my part of the bargain in letting George see it. The verbal agreement was that I was to keep possession. If George wanted to break the deal and call in his troops for a grab-and-run, this was his moment.

  We crossed School Street and stood talking in front of the original site of the oldest school in the country, Boston Latin School. After about five minutes in the wide open, I was renewing the sense that my trust in him was not misplaced.

  I pushed it one step further. “George, now you’ve seen it. You say it’s the McCoy. Would it hurt to tell me how you knew?”

  He had a slight grin while he chewed on that for a minute. “I guess not. You held up your end. Maybe we’ve reached a new level of faith here.”

  “So?”

  He looked over at me. “I didn’t always know whose side you were on. So when I gave you the translation of the ship doctor’s letter, I left out a line.”

  “Which said?”

  “That he had used a thin blade through one of the holes on the face of the violin to scratch his initials inside. Just shine a light in there when you get it home.”

  “It’s there?”

  “It’s very faint, as it should be after several centuries. But it’s there.”

  “Interesting.”

  “More than interesting. Now it’s my turn. I caught your signal when you came into the lobby. Why did you want me to stay out of your conversation with the Chinese banker?”

  I looked up and down School Street. No sign of any approaching Russian thugs. I nodded in the direction of Washington Street. “Let’s walk. No need tempting fate out here. Those Russians are going to open that box sooner or later. They may not appreciate the joke.”

  I led the way into the Scholars American Bistro on School Street. We took a booth close to the back. We had complete privacy before the lunch crowd arrived. A bowl of their signature buttery Boston clam chowder was perfect comfort food for both of us.

  When the waiter left, I leaned close enough to keep it in a low voice. “I’m glad you caught my signal to stay away when I met with Mr. Chang. A few things were coming together. I was getting uncomfortable.”

  “What things?”

  “I was supposed to bring that violin with me. His bank was depending on it to secure a million-dollar loan. Pretty clearly, when I was walking up to him, he could see that I didn’t have it. His reaction was mild, to say the least. Almost as if he didn’t expect me to still have it. When I told him I’d thrown it down the Park Street escalator and sent two Russian thugs scrambling after it, he found that … ‘distressing.’”

  “It was distressing.”

  “The hell it was. It was a full-blown calamity from his point of view. When he asked if the Russians got hold of it, I told him it was likely. I can’t swear to this, but he seemed almost relieved.”

  George sat back. Now the creases were on his forehead. “I think I see what you have in mind. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Granted, I’m no James Bond. But when I was walking across the Common to the Parker House, I did everything possible to see that I wasn’t being spotted. I’d bet my life—actually, I was betting my life, that no one, Russian or Chinese, was on my tail.”

  “And …”

  “And yet the Russians were waiting for me at Park Street Station. That was the most logical path I’d take to the Parker House.”

  “From which you conclude …?”

  “The very upright and honorable Mr. Chang was the only one who knew I’d be coming to the Parker House at eleven o’clock.”

  His furrows were getting deeper.

  I dropped it to a whisper. “I think our innocent banker, Mr. Chang, is up to his ears in the Boston tong. And this next part is insane. I’d bet this has never happened before. I think the Russian mob and the Chinese tong are in bed together on this violin treasure business.”

  I could see George making the calculations of whether or not I was in fantasyland. And, if I were right, what did that mean for both of us?

  The waiter brought the check. I took it and stood up. “This is my turn, George. In fact, the next five are my turn after that lunch at the Wallachia café.”

  I picked up the cardboard box with the violin. “Let’s leave separately. One last thought. You said that Mr. Oresciu wanted to talk to me in Sinaia. Maybe that’s the next logical step. This might not be the worst time for me to get out of Dodge for a while.”

  George stood up beside me. “I’ll give you the address of the rest home in Sinaia.”

  “No, not here. Will you book me a hotel? Something out of the way. I’ll give you a call for the address of the hotel and the rest home just before my plane takes off. In case the Russians or Chinese catch up with me before I leave, it’s better for Mr. Oresciu that I don’t know his address.”

  He gave me his hand and a very sincere, “Do be careful, Michael.
”

  * * *

  My highest priority was to get to South Station to secure that hot little item back into the same locker before I attracted unwanted company. When I had left South Station for the Parker House, I had the keys to two lockers. One had been holding the genuine article, and one still held the high-quality, non-Stradivarius violin that I had rented as a “just in case.” I wanted to restore that setup.

  My previous experience in passing by Park Street Station from the Boston Common Parking Garage convinced me to change course. I walked out of the American Scholars Bistro with the Strad violin in the cardboard box tucked tightly under my arm. I walked at a good clip up School Street to the line of cabs by the curb close to the entrance to the Parker House.

  I hopped into the back seat of the first cab in line and told the driver, “South Station.” While he pulled into School Street traffic, I glanced at the name on his posted cabbie’s ticket. I was struck by the name, Juan Ramos. Ramos is a common name on the island of my mother’s ancestry, Puerto Rico. I shot a quick, “Buenas Tardes, Senor Ramos.”

  He looked back at me in the rearview mirror. I tend to have more of the Irish facial features of my father than the Latino features of my mother. He gave a polite response. I’m sure he took me for a Caucasian getting his jollies practicing his high school Spanish.

  “Buenas tardes, Senor.”

  I smiled into his mirror. “Veo que tu nombre es Juan. Tambien es mi nombre.” Basically, “I see your name is Juan. That’s my name too.”

  He looked in the mirror again. The name, Juan, might still not have registered with the face, but he was still polite. “Muy bien, Senor.”

  I caught a trace of the way my mother pronounces words. I asked, “De donde eres originalmente—Where are you from originally?”

  “Soy de Puerto Rico—I’m from Puerto Rico.”

  “De Donde en Puerto Rico—Where in Puerto Rico?”

  “Soy de una pequena ciudad en la costa oeste. Mayajuez—I’m from a small city on the west coast. Mayajuez.”