"You're amazing," Raleigh said. "You're an utterly amazing liar and four-flusher."
Nigel then began wheezing and reached frantically for his inhaler, but Raleigh said, "Move those Joan Crawford hands very slowly, Nigel."
Nigel said, "I ... I ... can't... can't catch my breath!"
"Slowly," Raleigh said, and Nigel complied, taking two puffs from the canister and inhaling deeply.
When his breathing improved, he said, "We can still make this work, Raleigh. There's no real harm done. You can't turn back now. Let me do what I was going to do. Half a million, Raleigh. Tax-free!"
"Very carefully, toss me the van keys," Raleigh said.
Nigel took his key ring from his pocket and tossed it ten feet across the storage room to the floor. Raleigh picked it up, returned the flashlight to the toolbox, carried the toolbox to the van, and put it behind the passenger seat.
"Get in the van behind the wheel," Raleigh said.
"This is madness," Nigel said. "Madness!"
"Get in!"
Nigel scurried to the van and got in the driver's seat.
"How do you open the sliding door?" Raleigh asked.
Nigel's voice was nearly inaudible when he said, "I have a remote here in the van."
Raleigh sat in the passenger seat and said, "Open the door." Nigel pressed a remote clipped to the visor, and the door slid open.
"Drive," Raleigh said. "I think you know where."
"Madness!" Nigel Wickland said.
Jonas Claymore started his engine the minute the storage room door slid open. He saw the cargo van drive out and the door slide shut again. Darkness was arriving sooner now that Los Angeles was experiencing its version of autumn weather. It was too dark for Jonas to see if the gallery owner was alone in the van. The other man in the office could have gone out the front door, for all he knew. Alone or not, the gallery owner would be coming back for his little red car, but Jonas opted to tail him rather than just to sit there. There might even be a better place to confront the sissy and make him give Jonas what was coming to him. And anyway, the crystal had made Jonas feel too supercharged to wait.
Jonas had to control himself as he drove in the early nighttime traffic. He didn't figure that the gallery owner would be looking for a tail, so he could get close, but in the heavy traffic he couldn't get close enough to see if the man was alone in the van.
He almost lost the van on Sunset Boulevard when it turned north on Fairfax. He picked it up again going east on Hollywood Boulevard but lost it for a moment when it made a left turn on Sierra Bonita. He picked it up again when it was eastbound on Franklin, and he lost the van completely when he was stopped by a traffic light on Outpost Drive. Jonas sat meth-crazed in his VW bug, and he banged on the steering wheel and kept his other hand on the horn, screaming out the window at the cars, at the traffic light, and at life in general.
A man next to him in a new Lexus lowered the window and said, "What's wrong with you, buddy?"
Jonas pulled the kitchen knife from his waistband, waved it, and said, "Nothing if I could cut your fucking eyes out, you rich cocksucker!"
The Lexus sped away and Jonas turned onto Outpost Drive, moving northbound aimlessly until a thought occurred to him. If he kept on going to Mulholland and veered left, he'd be climbing high into the Hollywood Hills on his way toward Woodrow Wilson Drive. Could the van be going back there? Back to the big house where all this had started in the first place? Where his betrayal had begun?
***
Raleigh Dibble made Nigel Wickland remove the bundles from the van at gunpoint while he carried the toolbox into Casa Brueger. Once inside, Raleigh turned on the foyer and corridor lights, and he sat on the carved antique chair with the needlepoint seat cushion, and said, "Go to work, genius."
Nigel sighed, removed his suit coat, opened his collar, loosened his tie, and took down the framed replica of The Woman by the Water. He unwrapped the original painting and worked silently, trying not to think about the fact that he'd given away $112,000 of his own money to be right back where he'd started days ago. He was a ruined man now. He saw no way to save his business, not with both his savings and commercial accounts looted. The only silver lining was that there was no more fear of going to prison. But to Nigel Wickland at this moment, prison didn't seem as terrifying as facing old age penniless.
When he removed the replica, he tossed it onto the mover's blanket and replaced the original painting in its frame. Then he removed the framed replica of Flowers on the Hillside and did the same. It was slow and tedious because he loved and respected the Impressionist pieces too much to do anything less than his best for them. He felt a sudden sentimental wish that someone who appreciated them as much as he did might possess them someday.
When Nigel was nearly finished, he said, "Could you at least get me another of those Vichy waters?"
Raleigh said, "It was tap water, you supercilious snob. You can have all you want when you're done."
Jonas Claymore had let out a howl of triumph the moment he'd seen the van in the Brueger driveway. He couldn't imagine why the man had come back to the house unless he was making another attempt at selling them the two paintings now that Megan had returned them for 12K. His 12K. Gone!
Jonas was getting itchy now. The meth was producing all sorts of side effects that he hadn't felt before, at least not to this extent. His whole body was twitching. He felt like his teeth were twitching. It was all he could do to stand there peeking through the junipers again and not run down and kick in the door and put the knife at the throat of that art dealer who'd double-crossed him with Megan. He could only hope the fucker knew where Megan was holed up. He would make him talk, oh, yes.
Jonas took a piss on the junipers and then passed the time fantasizing about climbing into the window of wherever Megan was staying and cutting her tits off. But they were so small it would be no big loss to her.
"Can you please put the gun away now?" Nigel said when he had both worthless replicas loosely wrapped in the mover's blankets.
Raleigh tucked the gun in his pocket and picked up the toolbox, saying, "You carry the replicas. Maybe you can get a few bucks for them somewhere. They're almost as beautiful as the originals. You might try craigslist."
"I couldn't get enough to pay for the lab work we did," Nigel said. "I'll just use them as remembrances of things past. When I'm residing on skid row."
"You'll be all right, Nigel," Raleigh said. "An English gentleman of your quality can easily get a job doing what I do. I can see you as a domestic servant for a rich old man who needs someone cultured to wipe his ass."
Raleigh Dibble walked outside with Nigel Wickland, who tossed the blanketed replicas onto the floor of the van. "I won't ask you for a ride back to my car, Nigel," Raleigh said. "I'll taxi down and pick it up tomorrow. I think we've seen enough of each other."
Nigel said, "Perhaps I'll have to see you again if Leona still plans to use me to supervise the storage of her artwork. But I certainly hope not."
Raleigh said, "Good-bye, Nigel. Sorry how things have turned out for you. I guess you'll just have to face old age as irrelevant as the rest of us."
Nothing else was said. Raleigh watched the van drive away over the fake cobblestone driveway for the last time. He turned and entered the house, not seeing the one taillight of the little VW bug following the van, and winking at him just as before.
When Raleigh Dibble fell into bed, he knew he'd be able to sleep soundly at last. He didn't have great prospects for a successful future, but he thought that perhaps he'd get a good reference from Leona Brueger before she sold the house and moved away. He thought it would be wonderful if the new buyers of this house needed a butler chef with his skills. He wanted to stay in this house. He liked it here with or without all the artwork.
He was lying in bed with the window open watching moonbeams fluttering across the wall of his bedroom, and he was content. Before drifting off to sleep, he thought of the fragile, charming tulip of a girl with
alabaster skin who had kissed his cheek. She was so wistful, so delightfully young. Raleigh Dibble would always remember her as the girl in the candy-striped dress.
Chapter Twenty-Six.
HE DIDN'T NEED to take the trouble to stay behind the cargo van. Jonas knew where it was going and he wanted to be there before the van arrived. He drove so fast that he didn't make the yellow and blew through a red light on Sunset Boulevard. He looked around frantically for a black-and-white but saw none. When he reached Beverly Hills, he pulled onto the side street next to the Wickland Gallery and ran into the alley, relieved to see that he had not been wrong about the red BMW Roadster. It belonged to the fairy art dealer, he was sure of it. The man would be back.
He squeezed his bony body behind the Dumpster in the alley, but since the container was full of trash, he couldn't budge it, and he had trouble folding his tall frame so that his head was not protruding. It was miserable there, and he was still flashing on paranoid thoughts. His discomfort made him ever more furious at what this sissy and Megan had conspired to do to him. He was bent over in an angular squat, listening to all the nighttime traffic on Wilshire Boulevard, when he heard the van enter through the alley. Jonas took the knife from under his sweatshirt, pulled up his hoodie, and got ready to attack.
Nigel thought he'd need to sleep around the clock to recover from this horror. He touched the remote-control button and the door slid open. He drove the van into the storage room, turned off the headlights, and pushed the button to close the door. When he stepped out of the van, the interior van lights stayed on briefly, and he used the light to open the side door and remove the blanketed replicas. He tossed them contemptuously onto the workbench. And then he felt the knife at his throat.
Jonas Claymore, who was even taller than Nigel, grabbed him from behind by the collar of his suit coat and pressed his cheek to Nigel's, saying, "Don't fucking twitch."
"Oh, my god!" Nigel said. "Oh, my lord!"
"Right now I'm your lord," Jonas said. "And you better do what your lord says."
"Anything!" Nigel said, his hands in the air just as before. "Anything!"
"Turn on the lights in here."
"The switch is by the door to my office," Nigel said.
"Move over there real slow," Jonas said.
Nigel could smell the hooded man's body odor. It was foul. He moved awkwardly to the light switch, like a dog whose master had him by the collar, and he switched on the lights.
"Where's my paintings?" Jonas said.
The voice! Yes, it was the thief who'd called him with his demand for a reward. Nigel said, "Sir, please release me and take away the knife so we can talk."
Jonas tightened his grip on Nigel's collar and stayed behind him, saying, "We're gonna talk, but first, where's my paintings?"
"Sir," Nigel said. "I truly don't know what you're talking about." Jonas said, "I'm talking about cutting your head off like a fucking Eye-raqi dune coon, that's what I'm talking about."
It was too much. Too much terror for one night. It was so unbelievable, he felt like screaming himself awake. But he didn't scream. He peed. Jonas saw it running from under the cuff of Nigel's trousers onto the concrete floor of the storage room.
"You fucking dick-drip," Jonas said. "You pissed your pants."
Nigel Wickland hadn't heard him. The sweat poured from him and he was sobbing, his body heaving so hard against the knife that the blade broke the skin and his throat burned. He managed to say, "Don't hurt me. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything!"
Jonas moved Nigel sideways until they were standing beside the workbench. And he said, "Pull the cloth off those paintings."
Nigel reached over and gave a yank on the mover's blankets, and Jonas stood looking at The Woman by the Water. "My paintings!" he bellowed.
"Oh, no!" Nigel said. "Dear god, this can't be happening!" "Get in there and turn on the light," Jonas said, shoving Nigel forward from the storage room into the office.
"May I sit at my desk?" Nigel said, and he concentrated on one thing: the pistol in his middle drawer. But the drawer was locked! Jonas said, "Sit!"
Nigel recognized the hooded young man now. He was the panhandler who had come into the gallery just before he and Raleigh left in the van for the Brueger house.
Jonas was feeling omnipotent. He was in total control. He was powerful. He kept moving the blade of the knife twelve inches from Nigel's face, and he enjoyed the naked terror he saw there.
Nigel reached up and ran his fingers across the burn on his throat. He saw the bright blood on his fingers and said, "Sir, I'm hurt."
"You ain't hurt," Jonas said. "Yet."
Nigel's wheezing sounded like radio static, and he said, "Sir, I'm asthmatic. Please let me use my inhaler. I can't breathe."
"Go ahead, but take care," Jonas said.
Nigel drew the inhaler from his pocket, took two puffs, and held his breath.
Jonas looked at him and said, "Hurry the fuck up or it'll be your last breath."
When he could breathe again, Nigel said, "I paid the young woman the twelve-thousand-dollar reward you wanted. I did everything you asked me to do. Why are you here now? Why am I being treated like this?"
"You and that cunt scammed me," Jonas said. "You made a special deal that I didn't know about. She gave you the paintings behind my back. Did she give you a blow job, too?" Then Jonas said, "On second thought, you wouldn't want one from a girl, would you ?"
"Sir," Nigel said. "She did not give me my ... I mean your paintings. Those pictures in the storage room are replicas. They're not the originals."
"Listen, butt-lust," Jonas said. "Don't talk to me like I'm straight-up stupid. I got eyes. Those're my paintings on the workbench. And if you wanna keep your eyes, talk to me like I got some brains in my head."
Nigel was weeping now and he cried out, "Dear god! Why won't anyone believe me?"
"Stop your bitch-bawling and talk to me while you still can," Jonas said.
Now Nigel didn't know what to say. How could he be logical with an obviously doped-out maniac? Everything he said would be rejected as a lie. He decided to say what the thief wanted him to say.
"Here's what happened," Nigel said. "Your friend Valerie came here --"
"Megan."
"Right, Megan," Nigel said. "She came here a second time. She said you sent her to give me back my ... your paintings to complete our deal. How was I to know she didn't tell you about it? I assumed you were waiting for her in the car or something. Sir, I did everything you wanted."
"How do I know you didn't give her more money the second time?" Jonas said. "I know those paintings're worth way more than you said."
"They're not, sir," Nigel said. "I haven't been able to sell them." "Have you tried lately?" Jonas said, eyes narrowing.
"No, I just keep them in my van in case a client seems like a prospect."
"You lie!" Jonas said. "You took them back to that same house tonight. I tailed you, you fucking rump ranger. You got something going with that house and these paintings. They're worth a whole lot, ain't they?"
The sweat had soaked clear through Nigel's shirt. He could only stare at the knife blade floating in front of his face. This gaunt, hooded specter with the menacing eyes would surely begin slashing him if he didn't say the right thing. He said, "Sir, that client wanted to see them again, but he said the same thing as last time, that they're not good enough. But I have an idea. May I share it with you?"
"Go ahead," Jonas said.
"Why don't you just take them with you? I'd be pleased if you would. If perhaps you could sell them and make a few dollars, more power to you. Would you do that, please? Just take the paintings and go. My heart can't withstand this kind of tension. I'm not a well man. I have asthma and a heart murmur."
Jonas said, "You got no shame in your game. So, okay, maybe I'll call your bluff. Maybe I will take my paintings back. But you're still gonna come up with something for all you and that bitch put me through. Now where's Megan at?"<
br />
It took Nigel a moment, but he could think of nothing to say except the truth: "I don't know. She didn't say where she was going."
"I think she did," Jonas said. "Your twitchy eye tells me you're lying. And I think she got more money outta you. But me? I got shit for all I went through. You and that cunt thought you could jist hoop my flow and kick me to the curb, didn't ya?"
Nigel opened the expansion band on his wristwatch, tossed it on the desk, and said, "Here, this is a Rolex. Take it. And I've got about a hundred dollars in my wallet. May I get it for you?"
"Yeah, get it," Jonas said.
Nigel reached into his pocket and removed his wallet, tossing it onto the desk next to the Rolex.
Jonas put the wallet and the watch in the pocket of his jeans and said, "The paintings're worth a lotta money, ain't they?"
Nigel sighed and paused and finally said, "Yes."
"I knew you didn't wanna give them back to me. How much're they worth?"
"Thirty thousand, maybe more," Nigel said. "You can get that much from any art dealer in L. A. Take them with you and go. Please go."
"Now we're finally getting at the truth," Jonas said. "So let's have all of it, you fucking pole climber. Where did Megan say she was going to?"
And that did it. Nigel Wickland decided that he was at the end of this night's terrible journey. There was nowhere else to verbally run and hide. He concluded that drug-crazed paranoia trumps logic and lie and everything in between. So he summoned courage born of despair and said, "I've got about three hundred dollars in the petty cash drawer. You can have that, too. May I get it?"
"Get it," Jonas said.
"The drawer's locked," Nigel said.
"Get the key," Jonas said.
Hollywood Hills (2010) Page 31
