by John Griffin
“Oh, you know. Sleeping. I was fucking sleeping, Sol. I assumed you were dead. Is someone dead? I don’t normally get calls like this unless someone is dead.”
“You’re a coroner, Clive,” Solomon said. “Someone is always dead.”
“So they are. And I get this type of call frequently,” Clive said. “Coming over, or are we just going to talk?”
Clive filled Solomon’s glass with another shot of whisky as Solomon stood in front of the fireplace looking at a painting of a knight on a horse. “Truly spectacular,” Solomon said.
“You think so?” Clive asked.
“Truly. One of the worst paintings I’ve ever seen in my life. Did a teenager do this? Someone talented but stupid? I mean, it shows skill, but why this subject matter? It was done less than ten years ago. The only people who would paint a knight on a horse now are deluded children.”
“Or coroners,” Clive said.
Solomon stepped closer to the painting and noticed the CM in the corner. “Truly terrible, Clive.”
“Well,” Clive said, pouring himself another drink. “You said it showed some skill.”
“That was when I thought a child did it.”
“Now that you know I did it?” Clive asked.
Solomon sat down. “It’s shit, Clive.”
“But could you sell it?” Clive asked, sitting across from Solomon at his pair of club chairs.
“I probably could,” Solomon said.
“I’d pay you a commission,” Clive said. “Why don’t you go straight?”
“It isn’t about the money.”
“You have plenty, I know.”
“And I don’t have that much. None of the family money. Just the stuff from the force, a little here or there. I’m not wealthy.”
“Then why, Solomon? Why the robberies? Why get all caught up in all this shit?”
Solomon shrugged. “I had bills to pay.”
“Not your own?”
“No. That girl’s mother. That girl. Juanita.”
“How much?”
“A few million. It’s done now. They’re paid.”
“Then why keep going?”
“It’s not about the money, Clive. I found myself in a bad spot — off the force with time to kill and bills to pay. The guy I fell in with loves ex-cops or new cops or long-term cops. Loves cops. The system is easy to avoid if you have lived it. And he just does not let you go. You keep working for him or you die. So if I can get him caught … if I can get him in jail.”
“He can’t kill you,” Clive said, nodding.
Solomon put his right index finger to his nose and tapped twice.
“But doesn’t this guy have connections? He’ll be able to reach out from beyond jail. Any relatively good criminal mastermind should be able to, at any rate.” Clive took a long drink of whisky and finished his glass, pouring another drink.
“Not where I’m going,” Solomon said.
“And where’s that?” Clive said.
Solomon smiled.
Solomon sat at the desk inside the storage unit where he had laid out his plan for the robbery. He had erased the names and the corresponding dollar amounts from the whiteboard. Sitting around him were Reginald, Vince, and Sham. Everyone was looking at a large blueprint on the corkboard hanging from eight red tacks.
“This is the house,” Solomon said. “Circled in brown is the credenza. Mostly cash in there, Sham, but look for three diamond rings. Just three. They are small, not in boxes, might be easy to miss. Here they are.” Solomon handed Sham pictures of the rings.
“How did you get these?” Vince asked.
“We were inside. We had to catalogue everything for the insurance. It’s really that simple. Vince, circled in blue on the second floor is the bedroom with the wall safe. It’s the master bedroom. The safe is behind this picture.” Solomon handed Vince a picture of a vase.
“Picasso — I know that one,” Vince said.
“No, you don’t,” Solomon said. “You think you do — you’ve seen his other vases, but you’ve never seen this one. It’s Matisse, not Picasso. Very limited edition print. Not available for sale, and you’ve never seen a photo of it, I guarantee.”
“Should I take it, too?” Vince asked.
“No, fuck no. Inside the wall safe is probably the best stuff in the house. There’s a blue diamond in there.” Solomon handed him another picture. “Worth millions. A few hundred thousand in cash — Euros and US dollars mostly, but some Mideast currency because he travels there a lot, and a few pounds sterling. Take it all.”
“Clear out the safe?” Vince asked.
“Fuck, no, what’s wrong with you?” Solomon handed him another picture. “See this? Memorize this. If you remember nothing else about the night, this is what will keep you out of jail: do not take it. Do not touch it. Do not even think about it. It has a GPS on it, and if it leaves the house, it activates and all sorts of good guys will come and find you.”
Vince looked at the picture. It was an analog watch with a sapphire crystal face, gold band, and diamonds on the bevel. The face said it was a Rolex.
“Reggie, the black leather chest in the middle of the living room has a few small pieces that are very fragile. There is a sketchbook that belonged to Alex Colville. It contains some of his studies from his time at the front during WWII. There is also a small statue that is a study for Hiram Powers. Don’t fucking break it.”
Solomon handed Reginald the pictures. The picture showed a small statue of a naked man.
“What about the wang?”
“Be careful with the wang,” Solomon said, smiling.
“Wangs break. It is just sitting there.”
“Don’t break the wang,” Solomon said.
“What if I break the wang?” Reginald said, laughing.
“I’ll break your fucking wang.”
“So what are you taking, boss?” Sham asked.
Solomon pinned three pictures to the basement on the blueprint. “In the red chest in the basement is about twenty pounds of gold.”
“Holy shit,” Sham said. “That’s almost four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Not for this gold,” Solomon said. “Three quarters of the gold is traditional coin; the rest date from between 1500 and 1850.”
“Pirate booty?” Sham said.
Solomon nodded. “Pirate booty.”
“All this talk about booty and wangs,” Vince said. “Anyone else think we should hit a strip club to relax?”
“We can relax after,” Solomon said. “First the job.”
“I thought you said after we drive out of there, we won’t see each other for months, if at all,” Vince said.
“We won’t,” Solomon said. “I won’t be doing my relaxing with you.”
“And he sure as fuck isn’t going to drop any money at a strip club, Vince. Sol is the cheapest motherfucker in the world.”
“I’m not cheap.” Solomon said.
“I’m frugal,” Reginald and Sham answered in chorus.
“We’re all set,” Solomon said to Captain Bell.
“Any word from Psycho since you stopped following him?” the captain asked. Roger and Thomas sat forward to listen as the group was gathered around the captain’s desk.
“Not a peep. Not a word,” Solomon said.
Bell nodded. “We appreciate that you kept him talking for so long. We checked out that high rise and like you didn’t find a thing.”
“The girl?” Solomon asked.
“We’re going to find her, Sol. It isn’t your fight,” Roger said, putting his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “We never should have let you stay involved.”
“He might have just killed her,” Solomon said. “It’s our game, in his head.”
“Only in his head,” Roger said.
/> “And it’s there, in his head, where the decision about whether she lives or dies is going to be made,” Solomon said.
“You know the price of admission,” Roger said. “You know that getting involved means you can’t take blame.”
“I know.”
“See your psychiatrist, Sol,” Bell added. “Talk to her. Unpack this. You need to talk about it and if it goes badly…”
“It’s not your fault,” Thomas said.
“I know it won’t go badly,” Solomon said, smiling. “I know she’s going to be okay.”
“We’ll find her,” Roger added.
“I know she’ll be okay,” Solomon said. “I have faith.” He took a pill bottle out of his jacket indiscreetly and popped a single pill, swallowing dry. The three cops turned away as he did so.
October 2, 2014
Solomon sat waiting at the diner counter eyeing a cup of coffee that cost him a dollar. He had been waiting for an hour. The waitress behind the counter was wearing a blue dress with a broad white apron. Her hair was gray and long, tied up in a high ponytail. She came up and asked if he wanted anything else. “Just waiting,” Solomon said.
“Me too,” she replied, eyeing him cautiously and then moving on.
Lisa arrived ten minutes later. She sat on the stool next to him and ordered breakfast before her ass hit the seat from the same waitress: “Two eggs once over hard with white toast and bacon as burned as the kitchen will allow. And so much coffee.”
Solomon took a sip of his coffee. “You’re late. I almost left.”
“You have anything other than coffee?” Lisa asked.
“Not a damn thing,” Solomon said.
“It’s a dollar.”
“And bottomless. Great place to wait for someone who might be an hour and a half late.”
“Got it. Don’t need the lecture. You know how it is, Sol.”
“I get it.”
“So what’s happening?”
“We’re set. You can pick the kids up on the New York side of the Lincoln tunnel around three in the morning.”
“Vince?” Lisa asked.
“You’re going to have to let him walk.”
“I know. Know where he might walk off to?”
“A dumb kid like him with a quarter million dollars?”
“Vegas?”
“No, a dumb kid.”
“AC.”
“Yeah. Just watch him.”
“I know, Sol.”
“If you pick him up, Captain Klepto won’t take delivery of the goods, and you’ll never trace him.”
“I know, Sol.” Lisa’s breakfast arrived, and she started eating quickly. “So where are the bags going?”
“We go in. We turn off the alarms. We break into the safes. We clear them out into the bags. We get into the car and drop the bags off with the skinny guy in black. He fences almost everything — the gold, the jewels, launders the money, takes his cut, and the rest flows back to the real boss.”
“And what are we looking for? Does he touch anything?”
“One thing,” Solomon said, sliding a picture across the counter, not looking at it as Lisa picks it up. “It’s a Francis Bacon.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Lisa said, putting the picture in her purse.
“He wants it. It’s the only thing he’s wanted in the five jobs I’ve done for him. I’ll slide the tracer into the tube carrying the painting. The skinny guy will find a way to get it back to our employer.”
“If they find the tracer?” Lisa asked.
Solomon shrugged. “Then it is over. They’ll come looking for the kids, Vince and I. They’ll kill us. And he’ll go back underground. But they won’t find it. It is sewn right into the fabric, looks and works like a snap-button, and Kevin set it up so that it won’t even turn on for three days. So if they do a scan, they’ll find nothing. It’ll work, Lisa.”
“And you?”
Solomon raised his cup of coffee, and Lisa did the same, clinking glasses. “This is the last time you’ll see me, kid.”
“Sol, I’m not a kid. I’m older than you.”
Solomon smiled. “I’m not telling you where I’m going. That was the deal.”
“You’re leaving New York? You’ve lived here your whole life.”
“I used to have a life here. I don’t anymore. Just got an apartment I used to own and a job I used to love. Now everywhere I go I see the kids Psycho has killed, and I see the jobs I’ve done and I don’t want to be here.”
“Where are you going?” Lisa asked again.
“Myanmar. Yemen. Oman. Wonsan. Nigeria. India. Samoa. Latvia. Argentina. Niger. Denmark. You know, somewhere I can get lost.”
Lisa threw twenty dollars on the counter and wiped her face with a napkin. “Sol, you couldn’t get lost anywhere hot. You stick out like a sore thumb.”
She put her hand on Solomon’s shoulder and then smiled, walking out of the restaurant.
Solomon took the twenty-dollar bill and waved down the waitress. “What’s the damage?” he asked.
“Twelve,” she said.
“Can you get me six-twenty in change?” Solomon said.
Solomon was walking through Central Park. It was cold and slightly wet but otherwise agreeable. His phone rang. “Yeah?” Solomon asked.
“You all set for today?” Justin said, excitedly.
“All set,” Solomon said. “Just let me know where.”
“There’s a Starbucks on Shuter.”
“I know it. You picked up Francine there.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Justin said. “And just so you know, if I’m not back here in the same hour I pick you up, the new girl dies. So no fucking games.”
“The game is over,” Solomon said.
“Then say it.”
“When you do it. If I’m awake, I’ll say it.”
“You’ll be awake.”
“So you’ve decided how you’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Justin said with a forced cackle.
“Fair enough. And then you’ll let her go?”
“Her, yes,” Justin said. “But you know I won’t stop.”
“I know. But that’s not my problem.”
“It’s Roger and Tomas’s, and that Captain Bell.”
“No, Justin, it’s yours.”
Justin laughed again. “You have no sense of fun or accomplishment. I’m doing something no one has ever done.”
“You guys all think you are unique and original. But you’re not.”
“So you ready for your instructions? You need to be at the Starbucks in an hour.”
“No,” Solomon said.
“No?” Justin replied angrily.
“No. I’ve got things to do. You won’t see me until after sunset.”
“Fuck you! I’ll kill her,” Justin said.
“No, you won’t.”
Justin said nothing.
“I’ll be there after sunset, and that’s final, Psycho.”
“Fuck you,” Justin said before pausing and adding, “I’ll wait.”
“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“I’m not giving you a number you can trace.”
“Then text me after sunset, and we will make arrangements.”
From the park, Solomon walked west to Temple Beth Sholom. He went inside and was welcomed by someone at the door and given a tallit. He walked to the third row and on the right sat in an empty seat surrounded by other people observing the Kol Nidrei. He listened and prayed and participated in the service. Towards the end came an appeal for charity, and Solomon looked up from his feet and locked eyes with the rabbi. The service finished, and Solomon stayed in his seat.
The Rabbi came to him after the service, and the two men embraced. “Solomon!” the rabbi said.
“Josef,” Solomon said, patting the man’s back. Josef sat, largely ignoring the other people who came to say their goodbyes to him as he spoke with Solomon.
“Solomon, it is so good to see you,” Josef said. “We haven’t see you since your father…”
“I know.”
“Will we see you tomorrow?” Josef asked.
“Not likely,” Solomon said.
“Then it is good you came today.”
“I have something for you,” Solomon said. He reached into his pocket and took out a check. “It is everything that is left from my father’s estate.”
“Solomon, no,” Josef said. “Your family has done enough. Your father and grandfather helped to build this place. They were pillars of the community. We owe you so much. We cannot accept more. Not since your father…”
“Take it,” Solomon said, pushing the check into the rabbi’s hand.
“What will you do?” Josef asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Solomon,” Josef started before stopping. He took a deep breath and continued. “Solomon, I’ll take this. But you have to tell me. What happened to your father?”
“He lost almost everything,” Solomon said. “He trusted Friederick with millions, and it all disappeared.”
“And after? He just left and poof, nothing, not a word.”
“He’s dead,” Solomon said.
“This we guessed.”
“He had nothing but the apartment — now also gone — a few paintings and this money.”
“Yes, but where did he go?”
Solomon leaned in. “You know those paintings my father and grandfather were always talking about?”
“The eighteen that were stolen from them before they fled Germany?”
“He found one. Maybe two. So he went to get them back. My father didn’t care about the money. Didn’t care about losing it all — it wasn’t the first time in his life he lost everything. But those paintings represented something more. A debt the world owed his family, you know? A debt he took on from his father and a debt he wishes I took on from him. He went to get those paintings back. And I never saw him again. But I know he got caught, and I know he was killed. I know.”
