Marked Man

by William Lashner

  “But I have to emphasize,” I said, “that this all must be done with the utmost of discretion. There are dangerous people who will be very unhappy if Charlie comes home. Any leak of what we are trying to do here will destroy the possibility of a deal, put my client’s life at risk, and end your chance at recovering the painting.”

  “We understand,” said Spurlock.

  “If it goes public, the deal is off.”

  “You can rest assured, Mr. Carl,” said Jabari Spurlock, his hands clasped before him and his head nodding sagely, “that we will be the very souls of discretion.”

  Discretion lasted about twenty-four hours, and then all hell broke loose.

  8

  It had seemed a simple enough plan. I had one agenda for my client and Assistant U.S. Attorney Jenna Hathaway had another. The easiest way to get us all on the same page was to have someone else involved, hence my visit to the Randolph Trust. A few discreet phone calls from the powerful members of the board about a missing Rembrandt would have the FBI eating out of my hand.

  I was so sure it would all work as planned, I hadn’t even thought much about the strange questions raised by the visit, like why had Mrs. LeComte been so concerned about my meeting with Spurlock? Or why did Stanford Quick seem to recognize Charlie’s name? Or even the strangest of all: How had a loser like Charles Kalakos and his ragtag neighborhood gang been able to pull an impeccably planned, brilliantly executed professional heist? Still, why should I care about any of that? I was a man out to make a deal, and it looked like a deal was at hand.

  Until somebody let loose our laundry and hung my client’s life on the line. And not just my client’s life.

  “I know you,” said a man with a harsh strain of Philly in his accent. “You’re that Victor Carl.”

  He had stopped me right after I left my office. I had been working late, it was after seven, and Twenty-first Street was pretty much deserted, the shoe-repair shop closed, the Korean grocery closing. There was plenty of traffic on Chestnut, but I was heading away from Chestnut, just past the alley at the edge of my building, when the man had stepped in my way.

  “That’s right,” I said. “And you are?”

  He raised a small digital camera and took a snap, the flash momentarily blinding me.

  “Whoa,” I said, blinking away the afterimage. “What are you, a reporter?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, and he wasn’t exactly dressed as a reporter either, no ratty sport coat, no wrinkled shirt, no mustard stains on his tie, no air of bored disappointment with his life. Instead he was wearing shiny white sneakers, pressed jeans, a retro 76ers jersey over a white T-shirt, silver chains hanging down, and a white baseball cap with the Sixers logo embossed in cream. It was a strange look, stranger still on a guy with gray hair who was shaped like a pear.

  “You mind turning your head a bit to the side, Victor, so’s I can catch your profile?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Hey, pal, I’m just trying to snap some pictures here. No need to get hostile. Now, be a Joe and turn to the side.”

  “Go to hell,” I said, and as soon as I said it, something hard clamped down on the back of my head, holding it stiffly in place.

  I reached back and found a gnarled hand attached to an absurdly thick wrist. The hand turned my head to the side. From that angle I could see what had hold of me, a younger man in the very same outfit, except his retro jersey was green, for the Bucks, and his chains were gold. This second man was a foot shorter than me, but with the girth of a bull.

  Camera guy took another photograph, checked the outcome on the camera’s small screen.

  “Jesus, I hope that isn’t your good side,” he said. “Turn him around, Louie.”

  Louie twisted his wrist and spun me around 180 degrees, like we were partners at a square dance.

  Camera guy took another photograph.

  “I think we’ve got enough here,” he said. “I want to thank you, Victor, for your generous cooperation.”

  Louie let go of my head. I shook my neck, straightened my jacket, tried to restore some level of dignity.

  “What the hell is going on?” I said.

  “Louie and myself, we’ve come here to deliver a message.”

  “From who, the mayor?”

  “The mayor? Now, why would the mayor be sending someone like you a message?”

  “For his buddy Bradley. To threaten us off the Theresa Wellman case.”

  The guy in the Sixers jersey raised his eyebrows in sadness as he shook his head.

  “Isn’t that what this is about?” I said.

  “Unfortunately for you, no,” he said. “We didn’t get dispatched from City Hall. But let me tell you something, Victor. If the mayor’s irritated at you, too, maybe you ought to rethink your life. No, we’re here with a message for your buddy Charlie.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah, Charlie. Your boy Charlie the Greek. And this is the message. You tell that bald piece of dick we haven’t forgotten that he spilled last time he was in the stir. Fifteen years is but a snap of the fingers to us. You tell him painting or no painting, if he shows his face in this town, I’m going to personally rip it off his skull.”

  That’s when Louie piped in. “Off his skull, boysy,” he said, his voice soft and gravelly, like the crush of bones underfoot.

  “We’ve picked a bog for him already. He’ll understand. Tell him he’ll be crapping cranberries into eternity.”

  “Cranberries,” said Louie.

  “And you tell Charlie, wherever he is right now, he ought to be running, because we’ve called in our friend from Allentown.”

  “Your friend from Allentown?” I said.

  “Allentown, boysy,” said Louie.

  “Charlie will know who we’re talking about,” said the man with the camera. “He’ll know enough to take it seriously.”

  “Who the hell are you guys?”

  “The name’s Fred. Charlie will remember me because I’m the very guy he was running from fifteen years ago. And you, Victor, let this be clear. If Charlie shows up, it won’t be so good for your health neither.”

  “What makes you think I’m representing this Charlie?”

  “Are you saying you don’t?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  Fred pushed me. I started going backward and then flipped over some huge solid thing, which turned out to be Louie, bending at his waist. I hadn’t fallen for that since grade school.

  “You stupid little pisspot,” said Fred, now standing above my prostrated body. “This thing with you and Charlie and that painting, it’s all over the freaking news.”

  I was still on the ground when, side by side, they started walking away from me, south, toward Walnut. I sat up on the sidewalk, my legs spread before me, my arms behind, propping up my torso.

  “Hey, guys,” I said.

  Fred and Louie turned together. In their twin outfits, they looked like part of a sanitized hip-hop dance troupe. Up with Hoods.

  “What was with the photographs?” I said.

  Fred took a couple steps forward until he was leaning over me. “Our friend from Allentown,” he said. “After what happened one time in West Philly, he let it be known from here on in we should take photographs. It cuts down on the mistakes. Very meticulous, our friend from Allentown.”

  “Why don’t I find that comforting?” I said.

  So much for dire threats. And I have to give him this, as far as I could tell, Fred hadn’t been lying, because yes, I was a stupid little pisspot, and yes, Charlie’s story was all over the freaking news.

  9

  I had missed the early wave of evening broadcasts, but I caught the eleven o’clock news, and there it was, on all three channels, narrated by each station’s organized-crime reporter, the whole story of the missing painting. They broadcast shots of the Randolph Trust building, pictures of the painting itself—Rembrandt as a young man with his bulbous nose and sharp eyes and goofy hat—t
hey had mug shots of a younger Charlie Kalakos squinting for the police camera, and they had file footage of me talking exuberantly to the press about one of my prior cases.

  All in all a good night for a publicity hound, which I shamelessly admit to being, but a lousy night for a lawyer trying to keep his sensitive negotiations on the QT. Which was proved with the very next phone call.

  “Carl, you make me so very weary,” said Slocum.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “First, this morning I get a call from some high-toned lawyer representing the Randolph Trust, barking in my ear about some missing Rembrandt. Then A.U.S.A. Hathaway calls up, irate as can be, complaining about sudden pressure from higher-ups concerning that selfsame painting. And, funny how it works, both conversations seemed to include your name.”

  “That I had something to do with.”

  “It was no small thing to calm Hathaway. Watch out for her, Victor, she’s a hard case. But I worked it, yes I did, and just as I’m about to get a meeting set up, you leak the whole thing to the press to apply even more pressure.”

  “That’s the part that wasn’t me.”

  “You didn’t talk to the press?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “But you love talking to the press.”

  “Like Hoffa loves cement, true, but this time I refrained. And everyone I talked to understood that keeping the whole thing quiet was in everybody’s interest.”

  “Obviously not everyone.”

  “So do we still have a meeting to work out a deal?”

  “Not now, not after this. Hathaway called back and said if they deal now, it will look like stolen art was being used to buy off the righteous arm of justice.”

  “Which of course would be true.”

  “Of course. Except that when it’s done behind closed doors it is one thing, and when it is headline news it is another. You should have kept it quiet.”

  “I tried.”

  “So who spilled?”

  “I don’t know. That Randolph Trust is a hornet’s nest, with everyone holding their own agendas. There was an old lady there who wasn’t included in the discussions, but I don’t doubt that she knows every nook and cranny in the place and the best locations to eavesdrop. And then, of course, our friend in the U.S. Attorney’s office could have leaked the information herself to give her an excuse to torpedo the deal.”

  “Are you accusing a federal law-enforcement official of using the press to further her own ends?”

  “It’s happened before.”

  “Yes, it has. Why didn’t you just let me know about the painting right off?”

  “I thought a little outside pressure would get the lard out of the FBI’s ass.”

  “Well, you were right about that. The search for Charlie the Greek has been accelerated. All the field offices in New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland are in on the hunt.”

  “Crap.”

  “I knew you had stepped into it, yes I did.”

  “Hey, Larry, you ever hear anything about some hit man from Allentown?”

  Pause. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Just something I heard in the street.”

  “Oh, I bet you did. Remember all those murders through the years we’re trying to link up to the Warrick Brothers Gang?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Word is the finger man was some old pro from Allentown.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This isn’t so good, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. Sleep well, Victor, ’cause you’ll be needing it.”

  It took me a while to figure it out, what I could do to salvage my client’s chances to make it home, to give his dying mother his heartfelt good-byes, to let me cash in my pile of jewels and chains, and for both of us to survive it all without prison time or serious bodily harm. It had to be something that would push the feds to deal and something that would work fast enough to kick in before their revived manhunt pulled in Charlie, or the friend from Allentown mooted the issue. It took me a while to figure it out, because usually when a solution to a difficult problem congeals in your consciousness it ends up requiring sacrifice and daring, it ends up requiring you to transcend your baser instincts and rise to the occasion. But not this time. This time my baser instincts were spot-on.

  I hadn’t courted the wave of press attention that flowed like sewage into Charlie’s messy life story, but now that it was here, I was going to ride it for all it was worth. Time for A.U.S.A. Jenna Hathaway to learn how low I could go.

  The next morning at my office, the phone didn’t stop ringing and I didn’t stop answering. The television crews were lined up like rush-hour aircraft on the runway, waiting for their exclusive interviews.

  “Channel Six, come on in, it’s your turn. Channel Twenty-nine, we’ll be with you next, and then Channel Three. But I might have to take a moment when the New York Times calls—don’t want to keep the old gray lady waiting. And then I have a photo shoot with the Inquirer scheduled for two. Will that give us all enough time?”

  And in each discussion about the painting and its whereabouts, because that’s what the press all asked about, I talked about my client Charlie, who was simply trying to come home to say so long to his dying mother but was being stymied by the heartless autocrats at the FBI.

  “My client wants to return this painting, not for his own benefit, or even for the benefit of Randolph Trust, but for the people of this great country and for all the generations to follow. He wants to return it for all the children who will someday find their lives enriched by this preeminent work of art. If only the FBI would show a little flexibility. If only the Bureau could stop thinking of its own selfish ends and consider the children. The children are what really matter.”

  And, of course, there was one key statement I made in all my interviews, the most important point I drove home that day and in the days to follow.

  10

  “The name is Carl,” I said to the reporter who sat across from me with her notepad out and her pencil sharpened. “Carl with a C.”

  “You said that already,” she said. “Twice. Tell me about your client.”

  “He’s a nice old guy,” I said. “Harmless, really. My gosh, he’s over sixty and not even five feet tall.” I forced out a chuckle. “I’d hardly call him a threat to the community.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Still in hiding. It’s a shame, really, with his mother deathly ill and praying to see her son one more time before she dies. I think the government is being quite unreasonable.”

  “So it appears.”

  “Can I get you something to drink? Water?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  The interview was being conducted in my office. My jacket was on, my tie tight, my feet were off my desktop. I was feigning a thoughtful, concerned manner, listening to the questions as if I hadn’t heard them before, phrasing my answers as if I really cared. There were no cameras to explain my faultless etiquette, which could only mean that the reporter sitting on the other side of my desk was remarkably good-looking, which she was. Hair like scrubbed copper, green eyes, pale freckly skin, no longer young but far from too old. Her name was Rhonda Harris, and she was wearing a tight blue sweater and a green scarf. Occasionally, as she concentrated on her notebook, the pink tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her mouth.

  “Could I possibly talk to Charlie?” she said.

  “No, I’m sorry. That’s not feasible.”

  “But it would really help me set the right tone. I’m trying to focus this article on whether it is possible to come home again, despite what Thomas Wolfe wrote.”

  “Ah, a literary twist. Good for you. Do you like Wolfe?”

  “I adore him.”

  “Too many words for my taste.”

  “But that’s what I love about him. All that ripe excess, the sensual pleasures of his long and twisting sentences. My God, sometimes his prose leaves me feeling ravished.
”

  “People say I talk too much.”

  “But, see, if I could just speak to Charlie, even on the phone, it would help so. I think his sense of exile is at the heart of this story. Charlie Kalakos, like George Webber, trying to come home to a hostile city.”

  “That sounds very interesting, Rhonda. Can I call you Rhonda?”

  “Of course.” Nice smile, that, the way her eyes crinkled with warmth, the way the corners of her mouth curved down like a kitten’s even as she showed her very white and very even teeth.

  “And call me Victor, please. As I’m sure you understand, Rhonda, there are many people searching for Charlie, some more dangerous than others. His location must be kept a secret. I don’t even know where he is or how to reach him.”

  “You have met with him, though, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Now, now, Rhonda, really. I can’t disclose that.”

  “How often do you meet him?”

  “Who did you say you wrote for again?”

  “Newsday.”

  “And you’re their crime reporter?”

  “I cover the art scene for them on a nonstaff basis.”

  “Ah, the Rembrandt.”

  “Yes, the famous Rembrandt.” She leaned forward, tapped her pencil to her lip, opened wide her lovely eyes. “Have you seen it?”

  “Just the photographs on television.”

  “Such a fabulous piece of work. It would be thrilling to behold it after all these years. I’d give anything to examine it up close.”

  “We’re hoping you get that chance very soon.” Pause. “At the Randolph.”

  “Of course,” she said, leaning back again, tapping her notebook in disappointment. “Can I ask one thing more, Victor?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m just on the art beat, so I might be missing something here, but is this whole thing fair? Do you really think that Charlie deserves a sweetheart deal simply because he somehow has possession of a valuable piece of stolen property? Isn’t that just as bad as a rich man buying his way out of an indictment?”