Chapter 40 - Back at Work
Tommy made it to the museum the next day at noon, crawling into his make-shift office and trying to hide behind the computer, which is where the Curator found him. He looked at Tommy and said, "Jesus, what happened? You contract malaria or something?"
Tommy looked up at him and said, "These women you got down here; hard to keep up with. What's happening around here?"
"Not much. Just the Mayor's been here, Chief of Police, and the Director's been on the phone twice with your boss, what's her name?"
Oh, shit, Manos de Piedra. That's all he needed. Tommy wondered if he should tell the Curator that he had a competitor in the catch the crook business, Richard, who said he was going to write about the hunt and publish it on some forum. And, run a gambling thing with people betting on the ending. God, there went his fee and his English racing green with beige interior Jag. Tommy decided he had to call his boss, but he'd let the world hear about Richard's competition in the natural course of events, whenever that hits the fan. He waved the Curator away, picked up his phone, and hit speed dial #1.
"Where the hell have you been?" she yelled into the phone. "You know how long we have till we have to cut them a check? Not fucking long, that's how long. And cutting that check means I'm not cutting the other kind of check, the one with your name on it. And after you don't get the check, I start telling people you're washed up in the investigation department, and then I fire you, and then no one will hire you, and then you stop buying the fancy wines, and all hope of owning the Jag goes down the terlet along with your rep. CROWN, what are you up to down there?"
Tommy was amazed at how well his cell phone speakers conveyed Ms. Granite's rancor; those IPhone engineers really had done a great job, enabling every syllable of her words to slam first into his ear and then directly into his still wobbly and painfully raw brain. He issued a pitiful defense, knowing it was useless to go up against her. "I've been running down leads. Jesus, I've only been gone two days. Whad'ya want from me?"
"What I want from you is to hear you tell me you know where the painting is and that you're going to recover it, and soon. What I want is to get emails and phone calls from you so's I know you're not spending your time eating shrimp and grits and drinking mint juleps all day. Something's got into you, and it ain't good. Do I have to come down there and kick your ass?"
"I know where the painting is, I just can't prove it yet. This is gonna work out. Just give me some time. And stop exaggerating about when you have to write them a check. I know we have a couple of months from the time of the theft."
"MONTHS. Months. You think I'm going to pay your expense account down there for months. You know how much you cost me in Paris? A lot, that's how much. You need to produce, Tommy, or Manos de Piedra are gonna make a mark on that Steve McQueen face of yours. Hear me?" Click came through the phone speaker.
Tommy set the phone on the desk and wondered what it would be like to retire. Retire to quaint, warm Charleston, where everyone was friendly and courteous and no one was named Ms. Granite. Charleston, where the dogs talk and the writers are tricky little self-serving bastards who find ways to make other people's lives difficult. He got up and went downstairs to the cafe where he ordered a coffee and sandwich, and thought about Richard's scheme. Richard’d said he would write the last chapter first, telling the end of the story of the heist (for some reason Tommy had stopped thinking in terms of stealing), and would post that chapter somewhere he couldn't change it, and then bet with people on its accuracy. He was confident about this, which meant he was sure he knew how it would end which meant he had some pretty good idea about what had happened to the painting. Did he actually know who had pinched it (Tommy actually cognated the word pinch, which never had entered his mind or lexicon before because it didn't exist anywhere in the entirety of New York City)? Did Richard really know where it was now? He acted like he did, and the only way he could know those things was through the weird goings-on at Church Street.
Tommy finished the sandwich and coffee and felt better, though he was disturbed to find his eyes straying over to the food counter and resting on the selection of little wine bottles there for sale, rotgut wine, but booze nonetheless. This pointed back to recent events. He'd never been on a forty-eight hour bender in his life. He liked to drink, but nothing like that. And it had been fun. And what about Gale, sitting around in her lingerie, her rating a ten on a scale of one to ten, and him and Jinny thinking, cool, but not much more, just living with it, friendly like. Then there was the whole dog thing; he wasn't going to think about that, at least until he was completely recovered from this hangover, other than that it seemed natural in some weird way.
He left the cafe and walked upstairs to the gallery, pausing to look at the beautiful silver service in the case, before he went and stood in front of the wall on which the painting had hung. He thought about me, the woman with whom he’d boozed for two days but who wouldn't let him out of my kitchen, not even to take a leak after serving him three beers on top of a bunch of stingers; the rest of the house off limits. And that pest of a neighbor, practically saying he knew where the painting was, how could that happen? Tommy looked at the faded rectangle of paint on the wall and said aloud, "Where are you, Gwendolyn? You've changed your address, and I wonder if now it’s on Church Street?"
Gwenny June's Tommy Crown Affair Page 40
