Time and Again

by Brian D. Meeks

  Now they were all in awe of Henry. They talked for another hour or so and put away a second pitcher. Henry had won them over, and they promised to not let the father know, though they didn’t understand why.

  Henry left the bar and hailed a cab. Across the street, smoking and reading the paper, dressed in business attire, Arthur watched Henry leave. When the cab was out of sight, he went to a pay phone and called his boss Andre Garneau.

  “Boss, I did as you instructed. I tailed you all day to see if anyone suspicious was watching you. It may be nothing, but there was someone. I noticed him at the gallery and then at the church. While you were in with the padre, he left, and a few of Father Patrick’s boys were following him.”

  “That is interesting. Find out who he is. Well done, Arthur. See you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Patrick removed his collar. He was tired. The years of being someone else and playing the game were starting to wear on him. The last few days had been especially trying, and for the first time, it just wasn't much fun. He didn't like the people, he didn't like the solitude…he especially hated Garneau.

  Patrick reached up under his desk, pressed the exact right spot, and a tiny panel opened up on the side. From the secret hiding spot, he removed a journal. It had the numbers of his bank accounts in Switzerland and accurate accounting of every penny he had squirreled away over the years. He flipped through the pages and read the dates. It was four years ago when he reached his own magic number, the one where he planned on retiring and giving up the life. Now he had almost doubled the number, and with this last big score, would double it again.

  He turned on the radio and listened to the news. He couldn't focus; he just wanted to be done. After so many years, the thought of even one more day dealing with this last big score, was almost more than he could stand. He considered praying for strength, which made him chuckle. If the other priests only knew he was a fraud, and a damn good one, they would have a fit.

  There wouldn't be time for dinner – his daydreaming about leaving the life had run longer than he expected. Patrick needed to go out for the evening, without the risk of being stopped for a chat by a parishioner. He needed freedom to move unseen. It had been years since he had worn a disguise, but he hadn't forgotten how to do it right.

  From under his bed, he pulled out his case, opened it up, and set it on the kitchen table. In a moment of inspiration, he knew the perfect disguise: he would become a rabbi for the evening. It made him laugh to think about it. It wasn't the first time he had dressed as a Jew. Back during the early days of war, he learned Yiddish, to be able to sell the part.

  As he carefully added a substantial beard to his face, he remembered his days of breaking bread with the top Jewish families in Berlin. He spent a year cataloging the art and wealth in these homes. It was substantial. When the Nazis began to round up families, sending them to the camps, and ultimately to the gas chamber, Patrick changed his plan and took the opportunity to form a partnership with an enterprising sergeant and his colonel. He had originally planned on robbing the families. He figured he could get away with four to five masterpieces and they would never know. He would copy them and then switch his copies with the originals.

  The Nazis deciding to round up all of the Jews presented a different set of problems. There were countless Germans who took great pleasure in burning the paintings, books, treasured photos, and clothes.

  He was smart. He found two Germans, in the right position, who were far more concerned with greed than hate. Oh, they had plenty of hate, but they had much more greed. Since neither of them knew much about art, and both preferred diamonds and gold to paintings, it was easy for Patrick to divide up the treasure. The colonel was smart, very smart, and Patrick knew it. Patrick worked hard to educate his partners about the art, explaining what constituted great works and why. He then valued many of the pieces at 90% of their worth. The colonel frequently consulted others, who often knew less than Patrick, about the pieces, and the prices were usually pretty close.

  What Patrick did not do was teach him about the rare exceptions, which were often the most valuable pieces. Patrick was also excelled at making a list of items to burn, which kept the troops happy and helped to avoid suspicion from superior officers. Of course, the generals received much of the obvious wealth, but Patrick was able to create a steady flow of treasure, such that everyone was happy.

  He also considered his image among the most influential Jewish families. The first thing he did was to arrange for three of the most popular Rabbis to escape to France. This left fewer people to discover he was a fraud. Then he convinced the colonel to let him arrange for one of the moderately wealthy families to escape. He convinced the family to take only what they could carry. Before they left, they entrusted their most valuable possessions to their wealthy friends. Of course, Patrick knew where all of the best stuff went.

  Patrick occasionally thought about all of the people who died because of him. It never bothered him once. So tonight he put the beard on again. He was meeting his contact at the docks, who would also be in disguise. The Siena was one day late, owing to bad weather. The contact was paid $20,000 as a down payment for the work he had already done. Assuming the object arrived, there would be another $200,000 to house it in a secure area. The contact, a former magician, was able to work alone, because he didn’t use muscle for security; he used deception.

  Patrick had used him before, and never had anyone get a sniff of where the items were located. The job required six separate viewing areas located around the city, which could house the item for a day, then it would be moved to the next spot. If needed, the site transfers could take place in hours, but Patrick preferred to take a week for the viewing. Then there would be the auction, the item in a new place, which only the winner ever knew about.

  Mr. Amazing, as Patrick liked to call him, had the perfect combination of brilliance and gutlessness, which meant he would get the job done and never once consider a double cross. Patrick would be the extra labor required to move the items from one place to the next. It was his favorite part of each auction, trying to figure out where the item was hidden. He had only detected the hiding place once, and that was after Mr. Amazing had given him three clues.

  So tonight they would meet, or more accurately, Patrick would head down to the docks and Mr. Amazing would find him. In most cases, despite his excellent skills at disguises, Mr. Amazing seemed to be able to find him. Tonight he hoped the rabbi garb would fool him, though he doubted it. The beard looked great. Now he only had to add about twenty years in age to complete the effect.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Henry rounded the corner. Bobby was just closing his office.

  "Hey, Henry, how are you doing today? Do you need any more help?" Bobby asked.

  Henry’s right hand was throbbing and his mood wasn't really conducive to a long, high-speed chat with Bobby, but the hopeful look on Bobby's face made him feel a little better.

  "Good to see you, Buddy. I am afraid my progress has been a little disappointing."

  "You got a good one, with that new secretary. I saw Big Mike and some guy old guy in a suit leaving today. Are they helping?"

  Henry wasn't in the mood to heal hurt feelings. "Yes, they are doing some legwork for me."

  "I may have short legs, but I know people, who know people. I can help. I know I can. Please let me."

  The rapid fire begging was more than Henry could stand and at that moment, he had an idea. Henry put on his best contemplative face, paused for effect, then patted Bobby on the shoulder. "I hadn't thought about it, but you may be able to help. Of course, you will have to keep anything you find between you and me."

  "Of course!" Bobby almost shouted, then lowered his voice. "Just you and me…got it."

  "I think Mickey was looking into something much more dangerous than he imagined. He had a way of smelling trouble, and would usually avoid anything too risky. But this time he got in over his hea
d, and it cost him. I don't even know all of the players yet, but I am getting there. There is one aspect of this case, possibly the most important part, which is so shrouded in mystery…"

  Henry's voice trailed off, and he looked up and down the hall, just to see if anyone was there. This was partially for effect, and it worked perfectly. Bobby was wide-eyed and listening with great intensity. "I’m having Marian at the library and Professor Brookert look into this, but I suspect you may have resources they do not.” Again Henry paused. “I need you to look for anything on ‘The Eye of God.’ I am not confident there is much about it, but if you can find anything, it may be helpful. Right now, this thing is at the center of this mess.”

  Bobby seemed suddenly composed. “The Eye of God…how interesting. You are right, Mr. Wood, I do have resources.”

  The change from hyper to formal seemed odd, even for Bobby, but before Henry could ask him about it, Bobby was back in his office.

  Henry saw there was still a light on in his own office. It was after 6:00, and he had imagined Celine would already be gone.

  “Hey. I am glad you came back. I don’t have a key to lock up.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about a key.”

  “It’s okay. I have been busy, and I used to stay late at my old job all the time. I don’t mind, but I would have gotten a little grouchy and hungry in a few hours.” She smiled.

  Henry walked over to Celine and removed the pencil stuck into her hair. He tilted her yellow pad, which had a massive two-column list on it, many of the items already scratched off. “Make Henry a key,” he said as he added Number 37 to her list.

  He tilted it back to her. While she read it, he took his own key off his ring and gave it to her.

  “Thanks, but what if you need to get in before tomorrow?”

  “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” He pulled his lock-pick set out of his pocket.

  Celine displayed a hint of being impressed, but it vanished quickly. She got her coat and said, “I will be in at 9:00 sharp, if that is okay with you? We hadn’t really discussed office hours.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “There are a couple of messages for you. They are on your desk.” She paused. “Mr. Wood?”

  “Yes, Celine?”

  “I really like my new job. Thank you.”

  “I really like my new secretary. Thank you.”

  She smiled and spun around with the grace of a ballerina. The click of the closing door, which was not too loud or soft, seemed to punctuate her first day.

  The top note, which was stuck on the metal spike for holding such things, was from Professor Brookert. It just said he would call tomorrow. The second note was from Katarina. It had a number, and just said “Call ASAP.”

  Henry dialed the number, and the desk clerk at her hotel answered. Henry asked to speak with Katarina, and he put the call through.

  “Henry?!” came the voice on the other end, sounding a little shaken.

  “I got your message. I meant to call earlier, but I have been out most of the day.”

  “I need to see you. I need your help. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  “What’s wrong?” Henry said, concerned about her tone.

  “I can’t talk now. Meet me at The Dublin Rogue, in an hour.”

  “Just tell me what’s going on?”

  There was a few moments of breathing and sighs. “Henry, I need to see you in person. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Henry was about to ask again, but the click on the other end said “No more.”

  Henry paced a bit, holding the message. He had tried to find out what had brought her back into town, but each time he did, she deftly changed the subject. Henry didn’t like waiting – patience wasn’t one of his virtues – but he had no choice.

  The other notes were from Luna and Big Mike. They would wait until morning. Henry sat down and rubbed his sore right hand. His knuckles were bruised, and it reminded him why it was better to do battle words than fists.

  In the third drawer was a bottle of vodka. Henry pulled it out and poured some into his empty and, he noticed, cleaned coffee cup. As he sipped it, he noticed that Celine had added four more coffee cups to the stack. He smiled.

  Why did you have to get yourself killed Mickey? he thought. Another sip, and he felt the rage boiling down in his stomach again. Henry said, as he raised his cup, “Tell you what, Mickey. I will find your killer, and you keep an eye on my friends. Whatever it was you were looking into, sure seems to have a lot of powerful people involved. You keep them safe.”

  It was sort of a prayer, but not really. He finished the vodka, put the bottle back, and then wiped out the cup and placed it with the others. Perhaps he would go to the bar now and a have a round or two, before Katarina arrived.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Henry walked to The Dublin Rogue. It was just as he remembered it. He had spent more evenings here with Mickey than he could count. Though it had been years, the faces were the same.

  One by one, the familiars came over and gave their condolences. Henry appreciated each one. The peanuts on the bar were salty. Henry's tussle with the leather jackets had caused him to work up an appetite. It would have to wait.

  Katarina walked in and Henry stood up to meet her. She threw her arms around him. “Oh Henry, you came…I am in so much trouble.”

  Henry led her to a booth in the back. Her breathing was shallow, with slight shudders, fighting back the tears. It wasn’t at all like her. Henry motioned for two drinks and sat down next to her. He put his arm across Kat’s shoulder.

  It took her a while to get going. She stuttered, stopped and started, and then just sighed. The drinks arrived.

  “Tell me what is going on.”

  She took a long drink and steadied herself. Henry swung around to the other side of the booth. She fiddled with her empty glass.

  “The war was tragic in so many ways. The years after the war may have been worse. There are a lot of bad people in the world; they started the war. Many of them died. Those who remained carried on. Now I am one of those people.”

  Henry took her hand. “I don’t believe it.” The words and the voice were kind. She wanted to stop there, take back what she had said, but she couldn’t. It was true.

  “Dear Henry, let me tell you what I have become.”

  Henry took her other hand and looked into her eyes…and waited.

  “There are lines, black and white, which we don’t cross. Wars blur those lines, greed blurs them, and in the end, my own weakness whipped them away. I don’t know what is good or bad anymore. But let me start at the beginning.

  “The first few years after the war, the art world was trying to regain its footing. Some painters, like Henri Matisse, had worked throughout. Others had been in hiding. The end of the war signaled the beginning of a new energy. Talented people, those who had survived, had so much pain, and they took it and put it in sculptures and paintings in ways that brought tears to my eyes.

  “I learned more about art in those first few years, than I had in all my years before. I could separate wheat from the chaff better than most of the so called ‘experts.’ So I started to promote a few young talents, and made some nice commissions. I get to know some of the collectors. It wasn’t long before I knew every major player in the art world. At least, that is what I thought. There is another world, one which is much darker, one which doesn’t get written up in glossy magazines. It is the world of the private collection and their collectors.

  “Because most of Europe had been looted, pillaged, and then looted again, there were lots of pieces hidden in secret places. The most talented painters, the ones who didn’t catch a break, turned to forgery. They were good too, but I was better. In a three week span, I cleverly uncovered two such forgeries, and my reputation among the shadow collectors was secured. I was a straight shooter. I felt like I was doing some real good. Ninety percent of the time I could tell if it was real or forged, and my explanation would s
teer the buyer down the right path. On a few occasions, when I didn’t know, I told them so. Then I told them who to contact, to find out for sure. Even this furthered my reputation.

  “Then a man came to me, he was hunting for a particular piece, which was rumored to be hidden in Romania. He asked that I go check it out. The piece was famous and had gone missing during the war. Before we went to Romania, we went to Vienna. He took me to dinner, introduced me to some wealthy people, and then I got to see a ‘private collection.’ As we were walking down the long hallway to the secret room, which housed the treasures, he reminded me that I was not here to validate any pieces. I should just smile and gush.

  “It was an impressive collection, to say the least. I won’t bore you with the details, but there were three pieces which I knew had been stolen during the war. One of them was the very piece we were on our way to see in Romania. Our host knew of my vocation, and stood next to his prize. He asked if I would mind, as a courtesy, to give it a quick look. The brushwork was perfect, the frame was of the right age, even the canvas was beyond reproach. When the host looked away, I took a tiny straight pin, and poked it through the corner of the canvas. The oils were not yet dry. This was not a 300 year old painting, probably closer to three months. He asked me for my opinion, and I said honestly, I had never seen anything like it.

  “I didn’t lie; it was the finest forgery I had yet seen. My benefactor seemed concerned, until I explained my findings to him.”

  Henry ordered another round when the bartender stopped by the table.

  A beat cop came in and talked to a few of the other cops in a hushed tone. Most of the bar was getting up and putting on coats, girlfriends and wives were being kissed goodbye, and out they filed. Henry grabbed the arm of a young one who had just gotten his coat from the back, and asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Some rich guy, a friend of the mayor, just got his head bashed in. It’s all hands on deck.”