By Hook or By Crook

by Gorman, Ed

  “My eighty thousand dollars?”

  He chuckled as though he appreciated her funny joke. “No. These.” From a folio he lifted three heavy sheets, each wrapped in acid-free paper. One by one he liberated them and laid them on the desk. Hasui, Rainy Lake in Matsue District, Evening at Soemoncho, and Spring Night at Inokashira. And good impressions, too.

  Molly’s jaw dropped, though she recovered fast. Shooting me a glare, she asked Boyd, “What makes you think I’m interested in these?”

  “Your boyfriend here. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Jack, try not to look so abashed. Truly, you did Molly a favor. If you slip these into the collection, Gordon Thompson will never know. Not too many editions of these three were made. The paper’s all the same, the ink. What Gordon had was probably so close to these that he’ll never be able to tell they’ve been replaced.”

  While Boyd was yakking on I examined the prints. They were the real thing, and breathtaking.

  “Jack,” said Molly icily, “I’m going to kill you.”

  “That would be all right with me,” said Boyd. “But please pay for these first.”

  “How much?” I asked, to see if I could be useful.

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “For the three?”

  “Each.”

  “Are you insane? Hasui’s not going for anything near that!”

  “Most Hasuis don’t have the power to save a promising career.”

  “Thirty-five hundred each for these two, forty-five for ‘Inokashira.’”

  “Don’t make me laugh. And this isn’t a rug shop in the casbah. My offer’s firm and it’s not going to last.”

  “Where do you expect Molly to get that kind of money?”

  “She can borrow it from you for all I care.”

  “Are you two through?” Molly’s angry words sliced through our dickering. “Jack? Shut up. Don’t help, okay? And Peter, you can stick your offer in your vault.” She settled back in her chair and gave a surprising little smile. “These are beautiful but I don’t need them.”

  “Oh, how lucky,” Boyd said mock-kindly. “Gordon’s have turned up?”

  “No. But I have a line on something else, something he’s so exited about he’ll forgive me for the Hasuis, which aren’t my fault anyway, and your scrap-heap Buddha, too.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Molly, crossing her awesome legs, arched a single eyebrow. I didn’t know she could do that.

  “All right, you want me to guess. Why not?” Boyd dripped condescension. Molly was being kind of obnoxious, though, I had to admit. Pretending to think hard, Boyd stared into space. “I know he’s been looking for both cloisonné and carved jade lately.”

  “And you have some beauties to sell, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Jack,” said Molly, “did I mention ‘shut up?’ I really don’t need your help, or whatever this is. And Peter, forget it. Besides the fact that I’ll never, ever do business with you again, this piece isn’t even Asian. It’s Americana.”

  “Oh.” Boyd deflated. “Junk, you mean.”

  “To you, maybe. Not to Mr. Thompson. He’s thrilled.”

  “Whatever it is, I suggest you buy these anyway. It can’t hurt to have his Hasui collection intact when he gets back.”

  “If you were giving them away for free I wouldn’t take them.”

  “Twelve each for these,” said Boyd. “Thirteen for ‘Inokashira.’”

  “If I keep saying no, will you keep coming down until you get to free?” Molly looked delighted, as though this were a game.

  “No.”

  “Then I might as well go.” She stood. I noticed she hadn’t said “we.” “Hans Grolsch will be coming by with my new purchase. I don’t want to miss him.”

  “Wait,” Boyd said. “You’re not going without revealing the secret of this wondrous artifact?”

  “Oh, didn’t I say?” Molly smiled and paused. I rolled my eyes. It was clear she’d had no intention of leaving the room without dropping her bombshell. “It’s an opium pipe. Edgar Allan Poe’s.”

  Peter Boyd blanched. Wow, I thought. Good for Molly.

  Boyd, recovering, demanded, “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s actually beautiful, too. Though Mr. Thompson would want it no matter what, for its historical importance. It’s been in private hands since Poe pawned it in 1842. Never on the market before.” Her eyes widened theatrically. “Oh, that’s right! Peter, you collect opium paraphernalia, don’t you? Would you like to see it?”

  From her purse she took a sleek digital camera. She clicked on a stored photo and passed the camera to Boyd. She was smiling like the cat that ate the canary and when he saw the photo he turned apoplectic like the cat that had been planning to. He stared at the screen and she stared at him and no one except me seemed to care whether I saw the photo, too. So I leaned over Boyd’s shoulder.

  Molly was right, the pipe was beautiful. A richly carved ivory bowl and mouthpiece, a silver stem inlaid with what looked like jade. “That’s jade,” Molly told Boyd. “On the stem.”

  Boyd looked up at her.

  “Poe bought it one of the few times in his life when he was flush,” Molly said. “Then pawned it when he went broke again. The pawnbroker was an admirer of Poe’s writing. Gave him a good price and never sold it. It’s been in his family since.”

  Boyd found his voice. “Where — ”

  “Happy Hans,” Molly said. “That’s why he’s in New York. The family moved to England in 1896 when they started to come up in the world. Now they’ve come down again so they’re selling off their art. Hans thought he’d do better with the Americana here than in Europe. He brought a few things, including this, specifically to offer to Mr. Thompson. He didn’t know Mr. Thompson was away, but it doesn’t matter. As you know, Peter, you stinker, Mr. Thompson will buy from photos, as long as he’s sure the piece is genuine.”

  Boyd ignored the dig. “And this is?”

  “Hans authenticated it. There’s still the pawn ticket, for one thing. And a lab Hans consulted says because of the chemical nature of opium residue, there may be recoverable DNA. They haven’t tested for that yet, though.”

  That undone test didn’t seem to bother Boyd; he knows as well as anyone in the business that Hans Grolsch never signs off on a piece he’s not sure about. Boyd turned slowly to look at the pipes and jade picks in his paraphernalia case. “That fat Dutchman. This is my area. Why didn’t he offer it to me?”

  “Because,” I said, muscling in on Molly’s victory, “Happy Hans is just one among thousands who won’t do business with a worm like you.”

  Boyd must have been seriously rattled because he ignored my slur, too. “How much?” he asked Molly.

  “What do you care?”

  “How much!”

  She blinked. “A hundred thousand.”

  “For a pipe?” Boyd snorted. “I’ve never paid more than fifty.”

  “Coleridge’s went for a hundred and twenty-three last year,” I reminded him. “And not to you, as I recall. You were beat out by Simon White in London.”

  “That fat Brit. Why is everyone in this business fat? Sit down. Both of you, sit down!”

  Molly looked at me.

  “Sit down!”

  I shrugged. We sat down.

  “I want this,” Boyd said.

  “Too bad,” said Molly.

  “No. Too bad for Gordon Thompson. What you need to do, Molly, is get in touch with Happy Hans and arrange for him to sell it to me, and only me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because, little Molly, if you don’t, I’ll tell Gordon you were not only part of the scheme to defraud him of his Buddha, but that it was in fact your idea.”

  Total, total silence.

  Finally Molly squeaked, “What? You can’t. You wouldn’t.”

  Boyd smiled thinly. “I think I’ll even tell him you took the lion’s share of the proceeds. If I sound aggrieved, you can be sure he’ll believ
e me.”

  “Peter — ” I started.

  “Jack, let me echo Molly: shut up.”

  “No!” I jumped from my seat. “Listen, you can’t do this.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Goddamn it — ”

  “Jack, if you want to be Sir Galahad and ride to Molly’s rescue, why don’t you stop yelling at me, and convince her I’m serious and she should call Hans right away?” He was speaking to me, but looking directly at Molly.

  “Peter,” I said, “Hans won’t sell you the pipe no matter what Molly says. Remember, he won’t do business with you?”

  Boyd’s brow furrowed. “That’s probably true. All right. Molly, you’ll buy it and convey it to me. I’m not even going to insist that you dicker with Hans over the price.”

  Molly looked at him wildly. “I can’t! Peter! Mr. Thompson wants it so much!”

  “You can tell him he got beat out for it. It happens all the time. He’ll get over it.”

  “But he’ll be mad at Hans, and Hans will tell him he did sell it to me.”

  “That’s your problem. Maybe you can offer Hans some other ... consideration.”

  It was impossible to miss what that meant. Molly’s cheeks flared.

  I took a step toward him. “Peter — !”

  “Oh, Jack, drop the histrionics. What are you going to do, karate-chop me? Go on, both of you, get out of here. Molly, bring me that pipe tomorrow, or — when did you say Gordon would be back? In three days? Or, you have three days to find another job.”

  Molly rose in a wobbly way and stood for a moment. Then without warning she rounded on me, eyes practically shooting sparks. “This is your fault!”

  “Me?”

  “If you hadn’t shot off your mouth about the Hasuis we wouldn’t be here. He’d never know about the pipe!”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “Molly, my dear.” Boyd stepped between us as though Molly were about to sock me, which she might have been. “Jack’s not the one who brought up Poe’s pipe in an effort to lord it over me, is he?”

  That caused another silence. Molly was glaring like she’d make Boyd’s head explode if she could.

  “Tomorrow,” said Boyd. “And by the way, I close at four.”

  “Wait,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “First,” I drew a breath, collecting myself, “you’ll pay with a cashier’s check.”

  “Jack! Don’t you trust me?” Boyd broadly faked surprise.

  “And second, you’ll throw in the Hasuis.”

  Now the surprise was real. “I’ll do what?”

  “You can’t leave Molly with nothing. She’s got your junk Buddha and now she’s lost Poe’s pipe. Your blackmail,” I snarled the word, “is supposed to save her job. If Mr. Thompson finds his Hasuis gone, too, that’ll be the last straw. He’ll can her, so why should she do this in the first place?”

  Molly looked as if she were going to cry.

  “Coleridge’s pipe went for a hundred and twenty-three,” I reminded Boyd. “Poe’s at a hundred is a steal.”

  Boyd cocked his head and relented. “All right. Bring the pipe and you can have the Hasuis. They’re not worth more than ten thousand together anyway. And of course I’d like to see Molly keep her job.” He smiled. “Then we can do business again in the future.”

  • • •

  The pipe did get conveyed to Boyd the next day, not by Molly, but by me. “I don’t even want to be seen going in and out of there anymore,” she said. So I waited as late in the day as I dared, just to make Boyd sweat, then brought the pipe and resisted the urge to shove it where it would do the most good. I made him give me the cashier’s check, which I held up to the lamp to check the watermark, and the Hasuis, which I also examined, before I handed the pipe over. Seeing the lovelight in Boyd’s eyes as he unwrapped it almost made me think he might be a human being. It was truly beautiful: the ivory bowl intricately carved, brought to a rich gold from heat and smoke; the jade inlays on the silver stem glinting provocatively.

  “The paperwork?” he snapped at me, pulling his eyes from his new darling.

  I handed over an envelope. Boyd slid out a cardboard square in a protective plastic sleeve — the pawn ticket, countersigned by the pawnbroker and the customer — and a Certificate of Authenticity from Hans Grolsch’s gallery in Delft.

  Boyd’s forefinger gently rubbed the pipe’s silver stem. Without looking at me, he said, “Jack, it’s been a pleasure. Now get out.”

  • • •

  When I got to Molly’s office I found one of the Qing chairs cradling Hans Grolsch’s beefy behind. I hesitated. Molly looked at me with anxious eyes. “Jack..?”

  Glancing at Hans, I offered Molly my portfolio. She opened it and, one by one, took the Hasuis out. Hans stood to look at them. “Well, these really are beautiful, aren’t they?” he said.

  Molly looked from the prints to me. I kept the stone face going another minute, then cracked. “So’s this,” I cackled, slapping Boyd’s check down.

  Molly drew a sharp breath. She put out a tentative hand, as though the check might bite her. Hans craned for a look. For a moment all eyes were fixed on that paper rectangle.

  Then Hans laughed, a booming explosion of glee. Then Molly laughed, like chimes. Then I laughed. Then Hans whomped me on the back. I gasped for air as he said, “Jack, my boy! You did it!”

  “We did it,” I wheezed. “It would never have worked without you, Hans. But Molly’s the real star. That eyebrow thing — did you practice in a mirror? And DNA in the opium residue! Where did that come from?”

  Molly looked up from the ledger on her desk and smiled. “Just a little improvisation. Glad you liked it. Here, Hans.” She handed him a check. “Are you sure it’s enough? I hate to see you not make a profit.”

  “My dear, I’d have paid to be part of this! Twelve thousand is nearly what I could have expected for that pipe, so beautiful but without provenance. And the other eight will neatly cover the fee of Jack’s delightful friend, who so skillfully created the pawn ticket.”

  “Abie does good work,” I said.

  “Yes. Though I must tell you, as pleased as he was with his results on the ticket, he became peevish when I insisted his forgery of my own signature be bad enough to be obvious, if need be. He made me promise to make you promise never to reveal the source of such sloppiness.”

  “The secret will go to my grave.”

  “I have one question, though,” Molly said. “What if Poe’s opium pipe does come on the market?”

  I stared at her. “You just have to have something to worry about, don’t you? First, if Peter ever gets his Jockeys in a knot over this, we deny knowing what the hell he’s talking about. What pipe? We sold him a pipe? Never happened, he’s tripping. What can he say? And Hans is completely insulated. Forged signature on no doubt stolen letterhead.”

  “People might even think it was Peter who forged it!” Hans grinned as that dawned on him.

  I nodded. “But second, it won’t. The pipe. Come to market.”

  “Why not?”

  “God, I love that eyebrow thing! Because, as you’d know if you’d ever stepped outside Cochrane-Woods to take an American Lit course with me, there is no such pipe. Edgar Allan Poe never smoked opium.”

  “Come on. I thought he was a big druggie.”

  “Slander. Though he did take a little opium from time to time.”

  “That’s what I — ”

  “But in the form of laudanum. Itty bitty liquid drops. He never smoked it. There is no pipe.”

  “Why, Jack Lee, you sneaky — ”

  “Hey, you two, lower the juice on the smiles, would you? You’re blinding me.”

  We made plans to regroup at the Beatrice Inn in an hour, where Molly and I could get major mojitos, Hans could get draft Ommengang, and we could people-watch the coolest crowd in New York and not see anyone cooler than we were. We’d have gone right away, b
ut Molly needed to put Boyd’s money in the bank so the Thompson’s account would be whole when Thompson got back. His Hasui collection would be improved, too; he’d never owned any of these three prints, which is why I’d picked them to get this ball rolling. Molly was going to tell Thompson that I’d extorted them out of Peter Boyd in exchange for not exposing his switcheroo. That, plus Hans’s lavish praise for her valor in calling him in to examine the Buddha even after she’d spent the money, and also the fine-tuned instincts that made her uncomfortable with the fake in the first place, should ensure her continued employment at the Thompson. Maybe even a raise. And next time I met him at an opening, Mr. Thompson might remember my name.

  So we split to run our own errands. I wanted to drop by my office, too; I had my own fee to deal with. Molly was adding two Hasuis to Thompson’s stash. Me, I was anxious to see how the full moon at the center of Spring Night at Inokashira looked in the sunlight dancing on my office wall.

  • • •

  S. J. ROZAN, a life-long New Yorker, is an Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, Nero and Macavity winner. She’s served on the boards of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, and as President of Private Eye Writers of America. She teaches a summer writing workshop in Assisi, Italy. Her latest book is The Shanghai Moon and her website is www.sjrozan.com.

  DARK CHOCOLATE

  By Nancy Pickard

  Seven inches high in the center, sloping gently from that center to the perimeter of the perfect circle, this was her cake.

  “My cake,” Marcie whispered, alone in her kitchen.

  All hers. All of it. Every. Single. Bite.

  “Mine.”

  Before she frosted it, there was a white lacework around its dark sides — a residue of the flour with which she had dusted her pans. Cake pan, cake pan, better than a man can. She rhymed, she sang, as she swirled her frosting spatula along the steep sides and mountaintop of the tall, dark, luscious beauty.

  Finished frosting, she stepped back to admire her work.

  Behind her, the old refrigerator hummed along with her.

  Ice it, ice it, slice it, slice it.

  “Perfect,” she whispered, as if she were afraid to wake the dead.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect, hummed the refrigerator.