by Angela Zeman
Guilt. Now that things had gotten better, INCREDIBLY better, B.J.’s conscience had returned and kicked into high gear. He arrived at the horrible determination that somehow, by selling the painting, he’d made an implicit deal with the Devil that material prosperity was worth more to him than anything. More than his integrity. His honesty. His self-respect. His…soul.
B.J. began to cut bloody notches into his jaw in the mornings from being unable to look at himself in the mirror while he shaved.
Joyce thought all this integrity stuff hilarious. She chuckled as she informed him that his mental struggles were going to work extremely well in her next book—which was, she added smugly, a comedy.
It didn’t help that she often mused that they owed all their good fortune to that painting…grinding the memory into B.J.’s aching head how Mrs. Bachrach had told him, and Brian had repeated, that B.J. had been her dearest, best friend. A man among cats…and thieves. So what if she’d left all her money to her cats, inadvertently enriching the rotten Dr. Sams? She’d done exactly what she wanted, and what she wanted was to leave everything to that cat hospital. She’d had faith in B.J.’s honesty, and where was that honesty now? Gone. Eaten up by greed. He was as bad as Sams.
One evening, after Joyce had broiled B.J. a particularly tender swordfish steak, B.J. brought up the subject to Joyce about the painting. After she heard him out, she stated that he was insane. She called him a neurotic crackpot and emphasized her belief by letting him spend a chilly night in bed that reminded him of the old days. The good old days when he never cut himself shaving.
A few more days passed, but B.J. found that now every time someone new subscribed to his newsletter, his stomach hurt. Since subscription requests were flowing in, antacids became a steady diet, spoiling his enjoyment of Joyce’s newfound cooking skills.
Time did nothing but reinforce his determination…he had to get the painting back. It wasn’t, had never been, his to sell, or to profit from. Even if his current profit came from his own efforts, it was based on the security bought by that painting. And if he forfeited all his good luck because of this new action, so be it. At least he wouldn’t bleed to death someday from a cut throat.
But to find the painting, first he had to find Joe.
Since B.J.’s forte was research, he used logic. After some thought, he decided that a fellow like Joe, getting on in years, probably hadn’t strayed too far from his home area to conduct his break-ins. So very likely Joe lived close by the Maxwells, in or near Wyndham-by-the-Sea. And if he’d chosen the Maxwells to rob, he must be clinging to the bottom rung of the success ladder. He called the village jail to check whether Joe had gained entrance there since last seen. No Joe.
Next, remembering Joe’s shrewd estimation of Joyce (and her coffee), B.J. decided that Joe obviously possessed a fair knowledge of, and thus probably a strong affection for women. Furthermore, Joe, having made what B.J. considered somewhat relaxed lifestyle choices, probably frequented night spots that featured female entertainment. The kind that didn’t cost much. Places like that thrived a few miles down the highway, safely out of reach of village ordinances. B.J. decided to start his search there.
He picked the biggest place first, the one advertising the most exotic dancers. ‘FLO’S!’ screamed the flashing purple neon.
With his heart in his throat and wire-rimmed glasses tucked into his breast pocket (for a more macho appearance), B.J. stepped into a stripper bar for the first time in his life. The noise! The percussion pounded his chest, the bass hummed in his knees, and all of it deafened him. The energy level was as high as the noise level, and he had to take a seat suddenly to orient himself.
“Hey, cutie! What can I get you to drink?” asked a girl so young he couldn’t believe she should be allowed to work. But he asked for beer, and when she whirled to take his order to the bar, he stared dazedly at the shortest shorts he’d ever seen inadequately covering the roundest cutest behind he’d ever seen.
A beer or so later, B.J. caught his head bobbing in time to the music. He discovered himself feeling more relaxed than he had in years. He was even smiling!
Just when he sternly reminded himself that his mission didn’t include having a good time, the music came to an abrupt halt—interrupted by crashing cymbals.
An electric guitar let out a sinus shattering riff. Then whining, grinding, rock music with a slow throbbing beat filled the room and a line of girls began snaking out from behind a curtain onto a stage. They wore high heels, a few sparkles, and little else. One after another, they came out, and kept coming.
B.J.’s eyes snapped wide open and without conscious decision, he picked up his beer and drifted, mesmerized, towards the last remaining seat at the bar. The bar stretched from one end of the stage like a long wide ribbon, making the shape of an exaggerated horseshoe in the vast room before rejoining the stage again on its opposite end. In minutes, the first girl would pass right in front of B.J.’s beer.
And then they were here. Satin high heels in neon colors shifting and stepping, swiveling and tapping in front of B.J.’s tightly clutched beer mug—a slow march of female feet, slim ankles, and knotty muscled calves… B.J.’s gaze was just daring to lift itself higher when a gnarled hand clamped onto his shoulder. B.J. nearly snapped his backbone, jumping from guilt.
“Man, I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were a man I could get along with.” The hot breath of Joe Alvione’s hoarse chuckle tickled B.J.’s ear. B.J. wrenched his gaze from the swiveling, dipping knees to face Joe.
With his arm looped over B.J.’s shoulder, Joe wedged his thick body between B.J. and his neighbor, nearly shoving both from their stools. B.J. glared, but Joe exclaimed, “Don’t waste those eyeballs on me, lookie there!” He pointed up and B.J. followed his instructions.
Time lost all meaning for B.J. as the heavenly line backed and twisted, kicked and squatted, dipping perilously close to his glasses (which he’d replaced for clearer vision), pirouetting, then dipping again. The music screamed and whined, and blended with B.J.’s heartbeat somehow. His mouth became dry, and he realized it was hanging open. He gulped down some beer and understood suddenly what ‘wetting your whistle’ was all about.
When the last girl disappeared behind the curtain again, B.J. shrugged his aching neck and, remembering his image, removed his glasses again. “How do they expect you to stare straight up all that time?”
“You managed all right,” Joe said dryly. “You get it, dontcha? Flo? Flo Ziegfield? The guy that used to make all the beautiful girls dance in lines?”
B.J. stared at Joe blankly, until his brain cells cooled down and he could think. “You mean, Ziegfield’s Follies?”
“Yeah! Great, ain’t it?”
B.J. gulped. “They’re lucky he’s dead, or he’d sue.”
Joe howled with laughter.
Then B.J. explained what he wanted, and Joe didn’t feel like laughing any more.
“You lost your marbles, kid.” He shook his head in grave concern. “You need to talk to somebody. Get counseling.” He patted B.J. on the arm.
B.J. jerked his arm away. “You’re going to help me, or you’re going to the police with me now, either dragged or walking, I don’t care.” He panted furiously through his nose.
Joe began patting B.J.’s chest. B.J. pushed his hands away. “What’re you—”
“Oh, calm down.” He found B.J.’s glasses and put them back on B.J.’s nose. “Now you look more like yourself. You shouldn’t worry about impressing these guys. They don’t care if you got eyes on your elbows.” He took B.J.’s arm and continued making soothing conversation, and they left the place without B.J. immediately registering the fact.
Suddenly B.J. realized he was sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. “I’m being kidnapped! You’re kidnapping me!”
“B.J., if I wanted to kidnap you, wouldn’t I ‘of knocked you out first or something? You’re screaming like a woman, for God’s sake. Just shut up.”
B.J. shut up.
“That’s better. I’m takin’ you to an expert.”
“Your expert art fence?”
“Naw, an expert fixer. Relax. She’ll get the bugs outta your brain for you. The price is right, too. She works for free.”
“Free?”
“Yeah. By the by, how many beers you had tonight?”
“Uh—I don’t remember.”
“Cripes. Then just shut up.”
B.J. shut up.
“Sit there, B.J., and don’t say nothing until she asks.” Joe pointed to a soft chair by the fireplace. When he was obeyed, he turned to Mrs. Risk.
“He’s a nice enough fella, or I wouldn’ta brought ’em. Sorry about his beered-up condition, but it’s kinda urgent. Do you want me to go or to wait?”
Mrs. Risk, a tall lean woman whose body was draped in a dark flowing material like a long dress, eyed him narrowly. “If you leave, how will Mr. Maxwell get home?”
’Course, his house ain’t an awful long walk from here. He lives in those apartments this side o’ Wyndham, by the school. The walk’d sober him some, too, before he gets home to that dragon of his.”
Mrs. Risk considered the by now extremely alarmed B.J. “He looks sober enough, Joe. Wait in the kitchen. Rachel left some butterscotch cookies on the counter.”
Joe brightened. He bent towards B.J., said confidingly, “Rachel, that’s a friend o’ Mrs. Risk’s, now there’s a gorgeous female! Puts them at Flo’s to shame!” He disappeared around the corner.
B.J. stared fixedly at the woman and squeezed his hands together so she wouldn’t notice their trembling. Her hair, as dark as her dress, hung like a silk curtain as she bent to pour tea from a pot that had been steeping on the hearth. Attractive for middle-age, he thought, but couldn’t quite figure which decade she belonged to. He looked around, searching for something, a homey detail, anything to reassure him. Her house was really a log cottage. Old, with plastered walls and low ceilings. As he inhaled the slightly tart fragrance, he suddenly felt himself relax. Then, mysteriously, the urge to talk overwhelmed him. He told her everything.
Afterward, he heaved a great sigh.
“Feel better?” asked Mrs. Risk, amused.
“NO,” B.J. said passionately. “I realize more than ever that I’ve done a really bad thing.”
“Yes, you have.”
Joe wandered into the room, brushing crumbs from his broad front. B.J.’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. He steals for a living, yet he’s a friend of yours? And you’re telling me I’ve done wrong? Who are you, anyway?”
Joe said, “Fine time to ask, after you spill your guts to the lady.”
B.J. reddened. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Joe roared with laughter. “You won’t be the last guy to say that where the Witch o’ Wyndham-by-the-Sea’s concerned!”
B.J. pursed his lips and peered up at her through his glasses. “That’s you?”
Mrs. Risk nodded.
“Well, I’ve heard of you, of course. But I don’t see…well, how can you help me?”
Joe grinned. “She’s done some things you’d have a hard time believing. Helped me, once’r twice. No shame in it.”
B.J. squirmed. “I wasn’t feeling shame, I—uh…”
Mrs. Risk raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps you’d already decided on a course of action?”
“Well.” He sat up straighter. “I thought Joe could tell me the name of his fence, and then I intended to ask the fence who his customer was…”
Joe’s eyes popped wide. “And you thought that a big-time art fence would just…TELL you? Not if you was James Bond, with the Marine Corps to back you up.” He wheezed in dismay. “Never mind the fact that if anybody revealed ANY info, me’n the fence’d both be out o’ business. The REAL problem is, this particular fence, see, ain’t a regular guy like you and me and Mrs. Risk, here.”
B.J. eyed Joe and Mrs. Risk, startled at the idea of considering either of them ‘regular’. “Yes, well—”
Joe shuddered. “Nooooo, B.J. He’d skin your privates just for findin’ ’im, let alone talkin’ to ’im. Mine’r crawlin’ up inside my guts right now at just the thought of it. He ain’t nobody to bother. That’s why we need Mrs. Risk, you moron!”
“I can do this MYSELF, YOU MORON!” B.J. leaped to his feet, but then swayed light-headedly. Joe grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Just let the lady talk, okay? Sorry I called you a moron. You don’t know no better, I realize that. Really. I’m sorry. Go on, Mrs. Risk. He’s ready to listen.”
Mrs. Risk considered B.J. carefully. “I don’t think you’re correct, Joe.”
She began to stride slowly back and forth in front of the two men. B.J. started to speak, only to be shaken roughly into silence by a stern Joe.
Finally, Mrs. Risk looked up. “Well, first, let’s discover who purchased your painting. There may be nothing I can do after all.”
She picked up a phone, and turning her back to the men, murmured during her call in a voice too low for them to make out the words.
Once again B.J. tried to speak.
“Shut up, will you?” snapped Joe.
B.J. snapped back, “You know, I’m getting sick and tired of being told to shut up!”
Joe nodded sympathetically. “I don’t blame you. Shut up anyway, just this one last time. Honest, you’ll be glad you did.”
Fuming, B.J. shut up.
Mrs. Risk turned around. She wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to B.J. “Here’s where your painting is hanging now.”
B.J.’s mouth dropped open. “Wha—how—”
She smiled gently. “I deduced who the fence must be by Joe’s fright, and from your description of the painting. Art fences specialize.”
“And you got him to tell you—after what Joe said he was like?”
She nodded. “Now, if you’d like to listen—”
B.J. jumped up. “Hey, thanks. Joe’s right. You’ve been a great help, but this’s all I need. I can handle things from here, myself…” Still muttering excitedly, he ran out the door.
As the door slammed behind him, Mrs. Risk looked at Joe. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Thought he had more sense, but the poor guy—he lives with such stress.” He shrugged. “You’re a sport, an’ I owe ya one. Hey, tell Rachel her cookies were outrageous, will ya?”
She nodded and showed Joe out.
Later that night, freshly showered and sober, B.J. told the taxi to let him out half a block from his destination, which turned out to be as close as the cab could get, anyway. The neighborhood was choked with parked cars, mostly of the luxury class.
As he approached the mansion on foot, he saw that a party was underway. At this late hour, most of the partygoers were already inside, and having a terrific evening, judging by the music and laughter.
B.J. paused next to a dark blue Rolls. He worried how rich and/or powerful the man might be who owned a house like this, but concluded finally that it didn’t matter. Whoever lived here had bought stolen property, and was undoubtedly a crook. B.J. flushed in the darkness. At least as big a crook as he himself was for selling it.
He shivered nervously and almost turned and ran. But instead, somehow he forced himself to slip in through the nearest side door. No one even glanced at him. He darted upstairs, deciding to begin his search in the bedrooms. That’s where he expected to find the fewest people, and his courage needed a rest. He also paused a moment to use the master bathroom facilities.
It was while zipping himself afterward that he spotted it in the bathroom mirror. He whipped around with a gasp. For a second, he thought he was hallucinating—after all, he’d been obsessed for weeks with his need to find it.
Then he gasped a second time. The steam from the shower and the tub—this was the way to treat a rare art treasure?! He had to get it out of here, no matter what else happened.
With indignation, he reached up and with both hands tried to lift the heavy painting away from
the wall…and tugged in vain.
He frowned. Someone must’ve used bolts to attach it to the wall…then dimly he registered the thudding of running footsteps. It must’ve been wired it to a well-monitored alarm system, he realized with resignation. Within seconds, his arms were pinned tight by the grip of uniformed guards. Curious party guests followed and soon a crowd of spectators were peering into the bathroom at B.J. and his captors.
To B.J.’s surprise, he noticed the badges pinned to his guards’ chests were from the genuine police, not a hired security service. He gave the crowd of well-dressed witnesses a speculative glance and decided the time had arrived to confess. The thief couldn’t deny evidence screwed tight into the wall of his own private bathroom!
Just as he reached the part about Joe Alvione fencing the painting, an older gentleman thrust his way to the front of the spectators. To B.J.’s stupefaction, it was State Appellate Court Judge Arthur Parmdell…fuming as if he owned the place.
At first B.J. thought to ask for the judge’s help in apprehending this high society criminal. But then the peculiarity of the expression on Parmdell’s face began to filter through B.J.’s confusion. He gasped. “This is YOUR house! YOU bought this stolen painting!”
Judge Parmdell’s eyes popped open wide—much the same way B.J.’s had.
Then B.J. got mad. He started yelling about ‘integrity of public office’, and ‘receiving stolen goods’, and how he’d come to retrieve the painting, to make restitution.
The guards began howling at B.J. to shut up, shut up, but B.J. decided he wasn’t going to shut up any more for anyone and began yelling even louder…
The third time B.J. pronounced the words ‘stolen Old Master,’ the judge clutched his chest, croaked ‘MY SENATE CAMPAIGN!’ and fell into a heap on the cold marble floor.
One of the guards bent down, touched the judge’s chest, then stood up hastily, saying in a hushed tone, “He’s dead!”
