“Miss Laboris?” he asks, scarcely believing that croak is his voice.
“Yes,” she says, “I am Ingrid Laboris.”
“You own this gallery?”
“Oh, no,” she says, laughing gaily. “That is Erica Laboris, my cousin. You would like to see her? She has just stepped out for a moment, but she should be back shortly.”
“Okay,” Cone says, “I’ll wait. Meanwhile I’ll just look around.”
“Please do,” Ingrid urges. “We have so many beautiful things.”
He watches her move away, knowing he could get twenty years for what he’s thinking. “Down, boy,” he tells himself, and resolutely makes a tour of the gallery, inspecting all those splendid antiquities locked within Lucite cubes.
There are urns, vases, plates, silver jewelry and golden bowls, lapis lazuli necklaces, clay rhytons in the shape of rams’ heads, volumes of poetry, miniatures, illuminations, scraps of textiles and calligraphies, book bindings and manuscripts. There is even a crouching sphinx in faience, and two terra-cotta monkeys copulating ferociously.
No prices are posted, but he knows he can’t afford a single item even if he wanted it—which he doesn’t. He abjured coveting things years ago, when he returned from Nam. But that doesn’t prevent him from recognizing museum-quality art when he sees it.
“May I be of service, sir?” she says, and once again he hears the hisses.
She has approached so quietly that he hasn’t even been aware that she was in the gallery. Her fragrance should have been the tipoff: the same rose-scented cologne Sven was wearing on Nineteenth Street. Cone figures the Laboris family is importing the stuff.
“Were you looking for something special, sir?” she asks, and he realizes all the cousins have trouble with their sibilants. A lot of spit there. Maybe, he thinks, it’s a genetic defect—like his own impulse to say “thoity-thoid.” His old man always called it a “horspital.”
“Not really,” he tells her. “You’re Miss Erica Laboris, the owner?”
She nods with a two-bit smile.
“I just stopped in by accident,” he explains. “I was down on Wall Street at Laboris Investments, and then came uptown and was walking by and saw your name. Is there any relation?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, the faint smile flickering again. “That is Ingmar, our cousin. I hope you invested.”
“I did. Do you think I did the right thing?”
“Absolutely,” she says firmly. “Ingmar knows all about currency trading. I’ve invested money with him myself.”
“Glad to hear it,” Cone says. “Tell me something: Where do you get all these great old things you have here?”
She starts telling him about her frequent trips to the eastern Mediterranean, how she buys from traders and private collectors, how she’ll have nothing to do with grave robbers and museum thieves, how every piece in the gallery is authenticated and has an impeccable provenance.
As she’s speaking, he’s staring. Erica is taller than Ingrid, older, and not as bloomy. But she is a striking woman, impressive, with the oiled Laboris skin, chalk teeth, and smoldering look that could be either unspent passion or dyspepsia.
From her polished spiel and slightly aloof style, Timothy figures her for a very brainy lady. And better a friend than an enemy. He notes her fingernails: long, narrow, and lacquered a deep indigo. Want those reaching for your carotid? No, thanks.
“That’s very interesting,” he says when her lecture ends. “To tell you the truth, I’m out of my depth here. I’m not a collector. I know from nothing about antique art. Maybe I better stick with Laboris Importers on Nineteenth Street.”
“Oh,” she says with her cool, brief smile, “you’ve been there, have you? Sven is another cousin. He carries some nice things. Very modern. But we have many casual visitors like yourself, Mr.—”
“Cone. Timothy Cone.”
“Casual visitors like yourself, Mr. Cone. But sometimes they return, captured by the beauty, the mystery, the allure. It is an introduction to a vanished world of great creativity. Perhaps you, too, will return.”
“Maybe I will.”
“If you would care to leave your address, I would be happy to send you an advance notice when we have a special exhibit.”
“That’s nice of you,” Cone says. He digs the battered wallet from his hip pocket and searches. Eventually he finds a dog-eared business card stuck to a small photo of Cleo that Samantha Whatley took with her Polaroid. The cat looks depraved. Cone peels away the card and hands it to Erica Laboris.
“So glad to meet you, Mr. Cone,” she says. “Do stop by again. We’re always getting in new things. New old things. Who knows—you might find something that you must have. To make your life complete.”
“Yeah,” he says, “that could happen.”
He leaves the gallery and trudges slowly south on Madison Avenue. A miserable December day. A sky that looks like beaten lead, and an icy wind that just won’t quit. He stops at a corner phone booth and calls Sam.
“Wanna eat Chink tonight?” he asks. “I’ll spring for it. Your place. Around seven o’clock.”
“Why, Mr. Cone!” she carols. “Ah sweah you sweep a gal right off her feet.”
“Stuff it,” he tells her and hangs up.
They’re sitting on the floor, on one of Samantha’s oval rag rugs, surrounded by cardboard containers of pork lo mein, shrimp with lobster sauce, sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, barbecued ribs, egg rolls, wonton soup, and six bottles of cold Tsingtao beer.
“You bought enough to feed a regiment,” Sam says, gnawing on a rib.
“Well, whatever we don’t finish, I’ll take home. Cleo can live off the leftovers for a week.”
“So?” she says, slurping wonton. “How you coming with the Hepplewaite case?”
“Okay,” he says, stuffing his face with an egg roll.
“That’s all you’re going to say—okay?”
“That’s all.”
“Jesus,” she says disgustedly, “you’re at it again. I’m your boss—remember? Is it too much to ask that you keep me informed?”
“I’m in a mulling mood,” he yells at her. “You know what mulling is? It means I don’t know my ass from my elbow.”
“All right, all right,” she shouts back. “I should have known better than to expect any cooperation from a crotchety bum like you.”
“Screw you,” he says.
“Fuck you,” she says.
They glower at each other, then go back to the pork, chicken, and the shrimp, spooning it over the rice and gobbling the mess with soy sauce squeezed from little packets.
“You going home for Christmas?” he asks, not looking at her.
“Yes, I’m going home for Christmas. What are you going to do?”
“Who the hell knows? Make a tree for Cleo. Deck the halls with matzo balls. Get drunk. You’ll be back for New Year’s?”
“Sure,” she says, “I’ll be back.”
“Good,” he says. “Then I can drink champagne out of your combat boots.”
She tries not to smile, still sore at him. They finish most of the food, and what’s left is spooned into a plastic bag for Cleo. All the empty containers are dumped in the garbage can, and they settle down with the remaining beer.
“Why are you such a prick?” she asks him.
“Because I enjoy it. Why are you such a bitch? Hey, I’ve got something for you.”
He rises from the floor and goes over to the cretonne armchair where he’s tossed his parka. He pulls a brown paper bag from underneath and hands it to Samantha.
“What’s this?” she demands. “A bomb?”
“It’s for you. Open it.”
“My God,” she says, “don’t tell me you bought me a present. For Christmas?”
“Hell, no. I’m going to put it on my expense account. It’s part of the Hepplewaite case. Go ahead, look at it.”
She unwraps the tissue paper, holds the carved, grinning Buddha in her hands.
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“From Laboris Importers,” Cone explains. “Cousins to Laboris Investments. If you don’t want it, give it to your folks when you go home.”
Sam inspects the statuette, turning it around and around, then looks at the little sticker on the bottom.
“Made in Burma,” she reports. “You know, I like it. It’s cute.”
“Cute, for God’s sake? Well, it’s hand-carved teak. One solid piece of wood.”
“I definitely like it,” she says, nodding. “I’m not giving it to anyone; I’m keeping it. How much did this little gem cost?”
“Twenty bucks, plus tax. The greaseball who sold it to me claims that if you rub the belly all your wishes will come true.”
“Hey,” she says, “that’s cool.” She starts rubbing the plump belly of the Buddha.
“What are you wishing for?” Cone wants to know.
“That’s between me and Izzy here.”
“Izzy?”
“That’s what I’m going to call him—Izzy.”
“You’re gone,” he tells her. “You should be committed. Izzy! That happens to be a religious statue.”
“What the hell do you know about religion?”
“I’m religious,” he protests. “I worship.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Let me show you.”
They’re out of their clothes like a shot and snuggling under the quilt on her bed.
“You son of a bitch,” she says, “why can’t you be nice to me.”
“Come off it,” he says. “Niceness you don’t need. It would just turn you off.”
“You’re right,” she says, sighing.
They’ve given up trying to understand the pleasure they derive from their obsessive hostility. They’re able to remain lovers as long as they remain adversaries. They hide their fears with bravado and think bullying will mask their vulnerability.
Perhaps the enigma is what keeps them socked together. Mystery adds spice when the glands take over, and in their lovemaking there is always the sinful excitement of coupling with a stranger.
But that night, under the quilt, randy as all get-out, neither is concerned with self-analysis. Trading wonton breaths and soy sauce kisses, they come together as if the third week in December were the rutting season in Manhattan, and each must prove a holiday passion.
With grunts and groans, sighs, and yelps, they make great sport of demolishing each other, their bodies fevered and agile. If they could slam foreheads and lock horns, they would. For when the hormones gush, they become insensate to tenderness, love, or compassion, and know only the glory of their sweaty struggle.
What a game they play! With coarse oaths and sweet whimperings, they deflower each other for the nth time. The contest ends a draw; no winner, no loser; just two exhausted and loony combatants staring at each other with wild and wondering eyes.
Until Samantha reaches out languidly to touch the belly of the Buddha she has placed on the bedside table.
“You know,” she says softly, “it really works.”
Cone gets to the office a half hour late, as usual, and sits at his desk without removing his parka or cap. He lights his third cigarette of the day, coughs, and calls Neal Davenport.
“My God, Sherlock,” the NYPD detective says, “I haven’t heard from you in two weeks. I was afraid you were mad at me.”
“Nah,” Cone says, laughing, “nothing like that. Whatever happened to Martin Gardow?”
“Made bail and took a powder. We’re not even looking for him. We’ve got Guiterrez on a homicide rap. He’ll probably bargain it down, but he’ll still spend a few years in the slammer where he can play pick-up-the-soap in the shower with guys bigger and tougher than he is. Is that why you called—to get caught up on my caseload?”
“Not exactly. There’s something else.”
“No kidding?” Davenport says. “I never would have guessed. What do you want now?”
“There’s an art gallery on upper Madison, the Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art. I thought there might be someone in the Department who could give me a rundown on the place.”
“What are they doing—fencing?”
“I don’t know,” Gone says, frowning at the phone. “I went up to talk to the lady who runs the joint, and before I know it, she’s telling me how she will never have anything to do with grave robbers and museum thieves. When someone tells me how honest they are, the first thing I do is count my rings and check the fillings in my teeth.”
“Yeah,” the cop says, “I know what you mean. What’s your interest in this art gallery?”
“The owner is a cousin of a guy who runs an outfit I’m investigating: Laboris Investments on Wall Street. They’re paying out more than anyone could reasonably expect. I think there’s a scam going on there, but I have no idea what it could be.”
Davenport sighs. “You really come up with some dillies. I know a sergeant who works out of the Special Robberies Division. He’s supposed to be a hotshot on art thefts. His name is Terry MacEver. I’ll give him a call and tell him what you want. If he’s interested, he’ll call you back. If he doesn’t, forget it.”
“Fair enough,” Cone says. “I’ll be in the office all morning.”
Then he takes off his anorak and cap, and wanders down to Apicella’s office. Sidney looks up indignantly, and Cone holds up a palm.
“Don’t get your balls in an uproar, Sid,” he says. “I know it’s too soon to hear from your foreign contacts about Laboris. I just wondered if you had anything at all on the case.”
“A little,” the CPA says grudgingly. “Laboris Investments has a nice bank balance. They’ve also got a special fund set aside for redemptions. As far as I can tell from the first look, they’re solid.”
“Yeah,” Cone says, “and I’m Queen of the May.”
“That’s possible, too,” Sid says.
Cone goes back to his office and lights a Camel, dreaming up loopy criminal connections between Laboris Investments, Laboris Importers, and the Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art. But none of his fantasies work; it’s all smoke.
He spends almost an hour working on his swindle sheet and weekly progress report to Samantha. They’re smoke, too. When his phone rings, he grabs it in a hurry, hoping.
“This is Sergeant Terry MacEver, Special Robberies Division, NYPD. I got a call from Neal Davenport. He told me what you do and gives you high marks. That’s the only reason I’m calling, d’ya see.”
“Yeah, well, Neal and I have helped each other out on a couple of things.”
“So he says. You’re interested in the Laboris Gallery?”
“Sort of.”
“Got anything on them?”
“Nothing,” Cone says fretfully. “But when I was up there, I was the only customer in the place. If they own that building, it must have cost a mint. And if they’re renting, I don’t see how they’re making it.”
“They’re renting,” MacEver tells him. “From a cousin named Leif Laboris.”
“Another cousin,” Cone says, sighing. “That figures. Listen, can I buy you dinner or a drink? I’ve got an expense account I can fiddle.”
“Not dinner,” the sergeant says: “I’ve got to get home to walk my dachshund, d’ya see, and then get uptown for an art auction. But I’ll take you up on the drink.”
“Good enough. Where and when?”
“You know Pete’s Tavern?”
“Sure I do. East Eighteenth Street.”
“Right. I’ll meet you at the bar there at four o’clock. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“How will I make you?”
“A little under six, about one-seventy, spiky hair, dirty parka, black leather cap. I’ll be drinking vodka, and I’ll have a pack of Camels on the bar in front of me.”
“That should do it,” MacEver says. “If I’m a little late, don’t get antsy; I’ll be along.”
“I’ll wait,” Cone promises, and hangs up, feeling a lot better. If a hotshot cop who specializes in
art thefts knows about the Laboris Gallery, there must be some action there.
He gets to Pete’s about twenty minutes early. He sits at the bar, still wearing his parka but with his cap off, rolled, and jammed in his pocket. He puts his pack of Camels on the bar and treats himself to a Finlandia on the rocks.
He’s just started his second, and it’s almost four-fifteen, when someone taps his arm.
“Timothy Cone?”
“That’s right.”
“Terry MacEver. Sorry I’m late.”
“No sweat,” Cone says, and they shake hands.
The sergeant isn’t dressed like a cop, even one in mufti. He’s wearing an Irish field hat, an unbuttoned Burberry trenchcoat, a suede sport jacket, tattersall waistcoat, doeskin shirt with a paisley ascot at the throat. Trousers are pinkish cavalry twill. Shoes are oxblood loafers with tassels.
MacEver sees the Wall Street dick eyeballing him, and laughs. “You like the threads? No, I’m not a fagela. This is my working uniform, d’ya see. I spend most of my working hours at art galleries and auctions and in antique shops. If I went in dressed like your average harness bull with a gravy-stained brown suit off plain pipe racks, I’d get nowhere. Listen, I’m going to have a gin martini straight up with a twist. Then let’s take a booth where we can have a little privacy.”
They sit across from each other, parka and trenchcoat off and folded on the bench seats alongside them. MacEver takes a gulp of his martini and squints his eyes with pleasure.
“First today,” he says. “Plasma.”
He’s small for a NYPD cop, but Cone notes that the shoulders under the suede jacket are hefty enough, and the guy moves well. He’s got a neatly trimmed chestnut mustache and a lot of wavy chestnut hair that looks like it’s been styled and blow-dried. Everything about him is so neat and well-groomed that he makes Cone feel like a slob.
“Neal Davenport says you’re a screwball,” MacEver says briskly, “but a valuable screwball. So when you mentioned the Laboris Gallery I figured I’d take a chance. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
Timothy Files Page 26
