by Lind, Hailey
“Oh, such a time we had in Chicago!” Anton said. Last spring, he and my grandfather had renewed their friendship and swept first place at the “Fabulous Fakes” art show with what turned out to be a genuine Caravaggio. Immediately afterward Michael had absconded with the masterpiece.
“The reason I’m calling is sort of related to that. You know that guy, Michael Johnson?”
“I don’t know a Michael Johnson, Annie. Let me think . . .”
“How about David? Or Patrick? Colin Brooks? Bruno, maybe?” These were but a few of Michael’s aliases.
“Colin Brooks! Well, of course! A fine fellow, fine fellow indeed. Oh! The meals we had, the tales we told,” he chuckled. “A randy young man, that one. Reminded me of myself at his age. Excellent businessman, too. We shared the proceeds from the sale of . . . Well, you know.”
I knew. I did not want to officially know, though, because that might make me an accessory to fraud and grand theft. This was a problem I encountered frequently in my life, which was one reason I was trying to learn yoga. “Would you happen to know where I might find Brooks?”
“You have something lined up, do you?” Anton’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “If your uncle Anton can be of service, you just give the word. Anything, anything at all—Oh, your grandfather will be so proud!”
“No, Anton, I don’t have anything lined up.” Old folks today—where are their morals? “I need to talk with Brooks, that’s all. Just a quick little thing.”
Why was I even bothering? Michael X. Johnson—the X allegedly stood for Xerxes—was no doubt thousands of miles away at the moment.
“—track him down. Not too hard since he lives here.”
That caught my attention. “Where?”
“Here.”
“Here?”
“Annie, are you all right, dear? Maybe you should have your hearing checked. Do you need money?”
“No, I’m fine—there was just some static on my end.” I lied with ease, thanks to a genetic predisposition and a lifetime of practice. “So let me get this straight: Colin Brooks is in San Francisco?”
“Why, yes, dear. I saw him recently at the Brock Museum.”
“What do you mean you saw him at the Brock Museum ?”
“Annie, is everything all right? You sound upset.”
Wait until I got my hands on that no-good, lying, thieving, son of a—
“I was taking in the Brock’s new exhibit of botanical prints and early depictions of New World flora and fauna,” Anton continued. “Have you seen it yet?”
“Unghh—” My mind reeled at the thought of Anton and Michael, career criminals who had recently stolen the jewel of the Brock’s collection, casually taking in the museum’s latest exhibit. For years I had been afraid to set foot in the place and all I had done was get fired from a crappy internship.
“It’s marvelous. Simply marvelous,” Anton went on. “You really must take time to see the exhibit, Annie. It’s those sorts of pre-photographic, detailed depictions that remind us of a time before technology, when—”
“Anton!” Once Anton or my grandfather started philosophizing about art they were like runaway freight trains: impossible to stop without inflicting a lot of collateral damage. I feared I was becoming the same. “Tell me about Michael—Colin—whatever his name is. You say you saw him at the Brock?”
“He’s grown a beard and was wearing eyeglasses. I scarcely recognized him.” He paused, his tone thoughtful. “He was leading some kind of tour. Odd, that. A first-class art thief turned museum tour guide? One never knows where the money goes, does one?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said glumly. “I let millions slip through my fingers every day. So, any idea how to get in touch with him?”
“Not really, darling, no. Your grandfather might know. Otherwise, I would try the usual haunts—fine restaurants, wine bars, that sort of thing. You know how the takers are.”
In the lingo of the art underworld, the “takers” were the thieves while the “doers” were the forgers. The caste lines were clearly drawn, with the takers usually younger, brasher, and free with their money. The doers, with some legitimacy, thought of themselves as more artist than criminal and were often content to live fairly abstemious lives in exchange for the chance to create their art.
“I’ve got to run—take care of yourself, okay?” I said. “And if you speak to Georges, tell him to give me a call.”
“Of course, Annie. You take care too, dear. Bye-bye!” Anton rang off cheerfully. He had been in high spirits since the successful forgery scam last spring, which had put to rest his concerns about living well in his golden years. Retirement was a worry for many of the self-employed. Even criminals.
I was beginning to nod off, my head resting uncomfortably on my knees, when the creaky iron elevator finally pinged its arrival. As I struggled up from my ungainly position on the floor the elevator door slid open to reveal not only Mary and Sherri but also our strapping Bosnian friend Pete and Sherri’s husband, Tom, an ex-linebacker with a blond buzz cut and a skull and crossbones tattoo on the side of his neck.
“We’re just along for the ride. You never know what could happen,” Tom said as he deposited several large canvas tote bags on the scuffed linoleum. His eyes darted suspicious glances up and down the empty hallway, and his broad, freckled hands twitched at his sides. Pete stumbled out of the elevator, bumped into Tom, and nodded solemnly at me.
The air was suddenly full of free-floating testosterone. Mary and Sherri seemed to relish the display of machismo, but somewhere around my thirtieth birthday I had developed immunity. Now it just annoyed me.
“This isn’t an armed invasion, guys,” I protested. “He’s a sculptor, for heaven’s sake. Just a little old sculptor who—” I halted midsentence, distracted by the aromas wafting from the wicker picnic basket in Pete’s arms. “What smells so good?”
“For you, my dear, I went all out,” Tom replied, beaming.
Two years ago a motorcycle accident had landed Tom in a La-Z-Boy for six weeks with five broken ribs, a punctured lung, and nothing to do but pop pain pills and watch cable television. The combination had turned him into a devoted Martha Stewart fan. He and Sherri had recently bought a home in nearby Pleasant Hill, and Tom spent his spare time transforming the bland tract house into a shrine to gracious living. He had also become a wickedly good chef.
Tom spread a freshly laundered blue-checked tablecloth across the floor, knelt, and started unwrapping foil packets.
“Today’s luncheon selection includes watercress salad with Italian mountain gorgonzola, organic walnuts, and balsamic vinaigrette—that’s for you, my sweet,” he said, winking at his wife. “There is also a warm casserole of boneless chicken breasts stuffed with sweet onion confit and topped with a wild mushroom glaze—I know that’s your favorite, Annie,” he said with a nod toward me.
Mary looked at him expectantly. “For the nuts-and-granola set, we have marinated baked tofu and curried brown rice. And for Pete, a loaf of rosemary sourdough bread, truffled mousse pâté, and three kinds of imported cheeses. Enjoy them, my friend.”
“Thank you,” Pete said gravely. “I am a man of the cheese.”
“You had all of this food lying around the kitchen?” I asked, trying not to drool as I helped myself to generous portions of everything except the tofu. At my house, unexpected visitors were lucky to get canned tuna on stale saltines.
“He’s been trying out new recipes,” Sherri said, biting into a wedge of peppered brie. “We can’t fit anything else in the fridge.”
Tom was pouring the wine when my cell phone rang.
“Oh, Annie,” Bryan sniffed loudly. “What am I gonna do?”
“Bryan, you’ve got to hang in there. What did the police say?”
“I’m a ‘person of interest.’ Can you believe that? They told me not to leave town. Can you come over? Ron’s at work and . . . I don’t want to be alone.”
“Oh, Bryan, I can’t,” I s
aid. “I’m on a stakeout—”
“Ooo!” he squealed, his voice taking on its usual upbeat tone. “Can I join you, honey pie? I’ve never been on a stakeout!”
Having the flamboyant Bryan Boissevain on a stakeout was tantamount to inviting the proverbial bull into the china shop, but how could I say no? Besides, it seemed increasingly unlikely that Pascal would show his face, so I gave Bryan directions. I was about to sign off when Sherri grabbed the phone and asked him to bring a CD player and music, some pillows, and more wine. When I protested she tossed the phone to Mary, who pitched it to Tom, and by the time I wrestled it away from Pete, Bryan was no longer home.
“This isn’t a social gathering, guys,” I said sternly as Pete giggled. “This is business. Serious business.”
“Yeah, we can tell,” Sherri snorted. “You always conduct serious business like this?”
“Pascal probably escaped down the fire escape, anyway,” I muttered. “And now I have to pee. How come that never happens to TV cops on stakeouts?”
“Because they’re men, and men are superior to women,” Tom announced with a belch. “We only need a jar.”
“That is right,” Pete added. “We are men of the jar.”
“Yeah, peeing in a jar is the absolute pinnacle of human evolution,” Mary interjected.
“Try the Internet company on the first floor,” Sherri suggested sensibly. “I’ll bet they won’t mind.”
When I returned ten minutes later Mary said Frank had called my cell phone, and over Pete’s vociferous objections she had invited him to join us.
“You invited him here?” I squeaked.
“Give him a chance, Annie. I mean, when’s the last time you even went on a date?” Mary said. “And hey, I’ve been meaning to ask: what’s with all this powder? It’s like a cocaine lab exploded in here. Which reminds me—Bryan’s bringing more wine! We can party hearty!”
Great, I thought. This ought to impress Frank with my professionalism.
Chapter 5
Unlike writers or musicians, who keep copies of their art, the fine artist must forfeit her or his one-of-a-kind works in order to make a living. It is like giving up a child to the care of strangers.
—Georges LeFleur, in Parents magazine
Half an hour later Bryan burst out of the elevator accompanied by his friend Levine, another of the Stendhal fainters. After distributing pillows and wine, Bryan announced that he and Levine had PTS.
“But you’re guys,” Mary objected. “Y’all don’t get PMS.”
“He said PTS,” I corrected her. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“It’s dreadful,” Bryan said.
“Hideous,” Levine whispered.
“Too bad you’re not Norwegian,” Mary asserted smugly, popping an organic cherry tomato into her mouth. “We don’t get PTS or that Stand All thingee. Faint in a snowdrift and see how long your genetic line lasts.”
Leaning back on a red satin pillow and pouring a glass of an Oregon Pinot Noir, Bryan launched into a colorful, comprehensive, and almost certainly exaggerated account of the faint-in at the Brock, from the first tingles at the sight of Gauguin’s painting to the moment he was awakened by Brock security guard Carlos Jimenez. In answer to my questions he described their tour guide, Michael Collins, as “Fine, finer than fine, if you get my meaning,” adding that Collins sported two of the greenest eyes Bryan had ever seen but was frustratingly committed to heterosexuality.
That clinched it. Michael Collins was the art thief I knew as Michael X. Johnson, aka Colin Brooks, aka the X-man. My mission was clear: find Michael, retrieve the stolen Chagall, and kill him for once again complicating my life.
By five thirty p.m. the rays of the setting sun were sifting through the grimy window at the end of the hall. The bad news was that I had given up all hope of seeing Pascal anytime soon. The good news was that it was Saturday evening and we had ourselves the beginnings of a first-rate party. Bryan cracked open a bottle of smooth Nicaraguan rum, Tom packed up the wicker picnic basket, Mary practiced palm reading on Levine, and Sherri taught Pete a Latin dance step. When the salsa music ended a skirmish broke out over control of the airwaves: Mary wanted to play a homemade CD of a friend’s punk band while Pete made a heartfelt plea for Willie Nelson.
Neither alternative appealed to me in the slightest, so I suggested a sing-along to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” Bryan took lead vocals; Levine played the spoons; Mary, Sherri, and I sang backup and attempted a few coordinated dance moves; and Pete and Tom pounded out the bass line on any and all hard surfaces.
That Flor de Caña rum really packed a punch.
All things considered, it was just as well Frank seemed to have stood us up.
While the rest of us debated our next choral selection, Tom and Pete huddled in a corner, gesticulating wildly. “What’s going on over there?” I demanded.
“We have A Plan,” Tom said, his blue eyes shining. Pete giggled and Tom shot him a severe look.
“Uh-oh,” Sherri said, perusing a box of chocolate truffles. “This has the earmarks of a Truly Bad Idea.”
“Listen, you guys . . .” I began.
“Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing,” Tom said, flexing his muscles and pounding his right fist into his left palm. “Bryan, Levine: You men keep an eye on the girls. I’ve got something in mind. Pete and I are going to check it out.”
“Yeah,” Pete echoed, mimicking Tom’s flexing and pounding. “We’re going to chicken out.”
Tom sent Pete a withering look. “Check it out, Pete. Check it out.”
“Yeah,” Pete murmured. “Check it out.”
“C’mon, dude. Time to rock ’n’ roll!” Tom roared and thundered down the stairs, his arms and legs pumping furiously.
“Yeah, rock ’n’ roll,” Pete repeated less maniacally. At the top of the stairs he sketched a wave and proceeded down cautiously.
“Call me crazy,” I said as Bryan topped off my glass of rum, “but I’m getting the distinct impression those two are a bit liquored up.”
“Don’t you worry none, baby doll,” Bryan volunteered, a plate of hors d’oeuvres perched on one hip and a crystal goblet of wine in one hand. “Levine and I will protect you.” He popped a shrimp canapé into his mouth and delicately brushed away an imaginary crumb.
Bryan was gym-toned and gorgeous, but the thought of his going toe-to-toe with anyone, even a little old sculptor, seemed ludicrous. Levine, meanwhile, was decidedly elfin and looked as if he could be blown away by a strong gust of wind. On the distaff side, Mary could likely inflict some real damage, and there was no telling what I could do given the proper motivation. After all, I had once knocked out a bad guy with a bronze garden elf. And Sherri, though petite, had a cooler head and more common sense than all the rest of us put together. If a brawl were to break out in the hallway, it seemed to me the women were likely to carry the day.
For several moments the hallway was quiet as we watched the sky outside the window change from a gaudy pink to a bright orange to a flaming red. Then Bryan started humming the overture from My Fair Lady, and before long we were performing “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly,” starring Bryan as Eliza Doolittle and featuring the rest of us as assorted street people, skipping up and down and singing off-key in atrocious cockney accents. We collapsed on the floor, laughing, and had just swung into a rollicking rendition of “I Could Have Danced All Night” when Pascal’s studio door smashed open and a short, balding, unshaven man in a dirty white sleeveless undershirt and baggy cargo pants stepped into the hallway. So pale that his skin had a bluish cast, Robert Pascal was covered in stone dust and quivering with rage.
“What in the name of God in heaven is going on out here!” he screamed. “Will you people please shut the fuck up!”
“Mr. Pascal, I—” Scrambling over the detritus from our picnic, I knocked over a glass of wine and stumbled on a satin pillow. Bryan leaped up to steady me but stepped on a plate, sending shrimp canapés skitteri
ng across the linoleum, stomped heavily on Levine’s sandal-clad toes, slipped on a rind of brie, and landed on the floor with a splat. Levine began hopping around screeching, holding his injured foot in the air, and when Sherri and Mary leaned over to help him they knocked their heads together with an audible thunk that made even Pascal wince.
“Oh my gawd! Are you all right?” Bryan cried and, rubbing his bruised flank, dragged himself over to the wine bucket and started distributing ice to the wounded.
Mesmerized by our antics, Pascal failed to notice as I sidled up and placed my foot on the threshold to prevent his slamming the door shut.
“Mr. Pascal,” I said, ignoring the moans and groans behind me. “I’m Annie Kincaid, Harold Kincaid’s daughter. We met years ago, do you remember?”
The sculptor’s gaze was unfocused. Was he sick? Drunk? Appalled?
“Mr. Pascal?” I repeated more loudly. Seeing him now with the eyes of an adult I realized he was not nearly as old as I had imagined, probably only in his early sixties.
“Annie Kincaid?” he said vaguely. “Well, well. How long has it been?”
“I think I was about ten when we met.” I smiled ingratiatingly, as if to say what’s a mere twenty years between passing acquaintances?
“That’s right,” he replied, watching Bryan apply ice to Levine’s foot while Mary and Sherri rubbed their heads. “What in holy hell are you doing in my hallway?”
“Um . . .” I glanced at my tipsy and injured friends, the spilled wine, the scattered food, the general air of debauchery, and ignored the question. “Why don’t we talk in your studio?”
