by Ace Atkins
“Did they offer you a raise?”
“Actually, they fired me.”
“But you’re still on the job?”
“Yep,” I said. “You know me. Ol’ Spenser. Loyal as faithful hound.”
“You’re loyal,” she said. “But not to those dusty old relics at the Winthrop.”
“True.”
“Did you speak to Locke?”
“No,” I said. “He has more pressing matters than my relationship to the board. Or Large Marj.”
“Call tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s go for a run. We can talk, clear our bodies and minds.”
“I’d prefer our bodies.”
“Rain or shine, buster.”
I asked her to describe what she was wearing at the moment, but Susan hung up too soon. Conjuring different mental images of Susan naked, I watched the front door of the row house. And much to my amazement, Alan Garner magically appeared more than an hour later. He wore a khaki-colored suit and a pink shirt, and carried a bright blue umbrella.
As he drove off in the Mercedes, I started the car and followed. Garner turned up on Dedham, crossing over Tremont to Dartmouth, heading toward Copley Square. Tony was now singing “On the Sunny Side of the Street” as it rained like hell in the South End.
Can’t you hear that pitter-patter. I tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel as I tailed Garner three cars behind. I kept an eye on the distinctive shape of the taillights. I checked my rearview many times to make sure no pesky Brits tailed me.
Garner didn’t seem to be in a hurry, slow off a stoplight by Copley Place, moving on toward the square and past the public library, where the front doors and windows were golden and warm. He continued over Boylston and finally turned into a public lot on Newbury Street.
I kept driving a block over and illegally parked on Comm Ave. If I got a ticket, I’d mail it to Topper Townsend.
I grabbed an umbrella and doubled right back to the parking lot. I nearly missed Garner, walking west on Newbury toward Mass Ave. Besides the bar at the Ritz in Paris, Newbury Street happened to be Susan Silverman’s very favorite place on earth. When she entered any of the many boutiques, salespeople would genuflect in her presence. Sometimes the streetlamps dimmed upon her arrival. Luckily, no such signs alerted Garner to my presence. Just a big, middle-aged man in a ball cap. Nothing to see here. Situation normal.
Garner walked past the brick row houses. Shoe shops, tanning salons, nail parlors, and Ben & Jerry’s occupying the storefronts or down in the old cellars.
At Exeter, he crossed over Newbury to a brownstone, mounting the steps. A hand-painted sign in the window identified it as Haut de Gamme. I’d stayed awake long enough in French class to know that meant very fancy stuff. Subtle.
I waited five minutes, standing next to a fire call box. I watched as Garner passed by the window. A woman took his raincoat and umbrella, and he disappeared from view. I figured he’d be settled in by now and not expecting me.
When I walked in, Garner was straightening the sleeves of his khaki suit jacket.
“I’m looking for some early Thomas Kinkade,” I said. “Something from his rare Christmas period.”
Garner stared at me. Sensing a problem, a woman in a short black dress looked to him. And back at me. She still held his umbrella in hand, coat draped over her forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We only deal in—”
Garner leveled a hard look. “He is well aware.”
“There’s a poster shop down the street,” she said. “At the comic-book store.”
I nodded, watching Garner. He didn’t have a fleck of rain on his suit. His blondish hair had been combed straight back, big and bold. Garner was a slim man, clean-shaven, with dark tanned skin and bright green eyes. He was tall and unathletic, his shoulders more hunched than I recalled. A few lines around his eyes and mouth. The skin under his jaw had grown soft. But vanity didn’t let the clothes and style go. He’d kept that.
“How about a Picasso, then?” I said.
“Sir,” she said. “We don’t deal in prints. We sell only originals. Many of the museums sell prints of popular paintings.”
Garner tapped his index finger on his chin. He continued to stare.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’d like an original. Maybe just an etching. About yay big.”
I mimicked a box with my hands. I was getting pretty good at it.
“Sir,” the woman said. “We do not have any Picassos. Not at the moment. We do have a wonderful collection of New England landscapes. Most are surprisingly affordable at under twenty.”
“Twenty bucks?” I said. “That’s a bargain. I’d been prepared to pay half a million.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I’m confused.”
“Alan?” I said.
Garner nodded, making a cradle of his chin with his thumb and index finger. “That work has already been sold.”
I pulled out my cell phone. “Glad to inform the police,” I said. “I’m sure they’d like to hear all the details. Paperwork and all that.”
The woman’s face drained of color. She put a hand to my elbow and told me I’d have to leave. She didn’t have much success in budging me. I had a distinct weight advantage.
“I understand time has run out,” he said, smiling. “On any complaints.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m sure The Globe would love to print the whole story. From the Common to the Winthrop. And all parties involved. Especially the exclusive Haut de Gamme.”
This time Garner’s face drained of color. He looked at me, up and down, before nodding. “May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” he said.
“Read my mind.”
“But Mr. Garner,” the woman said.
“Cream,” he said. “Two sugars. Mr. Spenser and I are old friends. We have so much to catch up on.”
21
SO,” I SAID. “How’s life? How you been?”
“How in the world did you find me?” Garner said. We were seated at a small antique table with two high-backed chairs. He crossed his legs and picked up a china cup. Steam rose from the edge, rain falling outside the window that looked onto Newbury Street.
“I can’t divulge trade secrets.”
“My association with the gallery isn’t widely known,” he said. “I’m just a consultant to the owners.”
“Ah,” I said. “A consultant.”
“Spenser,” Garner said. He set the cup back on the saucer. “What the fuck do you want?”
“The El Greco,” I said. “The Gentleman in Black.”
Something flickered in his eyes. He pursed his lips and tilted his head. “And what makes you think I would know what you’re talking about?”
“Because you ransomed off the Picasso,” I said. “I figured this art would be a package deal.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “And for the sake of argument, why do you think I had any connection to some Picasso? I mean, really. That’s a bit outrageous.”
I smiled and shook my head. It was good to see Alan again. Brought back so many unpleasant memories of Gino Fish. I watched the rain out on Newbury, all the colorful umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalk. Somewhere out there I could imagine Catherine Deneuve and Nino Castelnuovo dancing.
“I heard some rumors about a Picasso being returned to the Winthrop,” he said. “But I have absolutely nothing to do with that. If you even attempt to tie my name, or that of this gallery, to that business, I’ll have my lawyers crawling all over you.”
“Yikes,” I said. “Lawyers. Plural.”
“I have made many mistakes in my life,” Alan said. “My association with Gino Fish was one of them.”
“A big one.”
“Yes,” he said. “But I was a young man then.”
“And now?”
“I am a legitimate a
rt dealer,” he said. “Take a look around. This is one of the finest galleries in Boston. Don’t you smell it?”
“What’s that?”
“Wealth.”
“I can smell the bullshit.”
He rolled his eyes and sipped at his coffee, his leg rocking back and forth over his knee. I looked around. Lots of oil on canvas, tasteful dim lights. Antiques and Oriental rugs.
“Very high-end,” I said. “Did I tell you I took French in high school? B-plus.”
“Well, if that is all,” he said. “I have some very important calls to make.”
Satisfied, he stood and welcomed me to do the same. I kept on drinking the coffee. I liked the coffee. I liked the view of Newbury Street in the rain. I liked the feeling of watching Alan Garner squirm, not knowing what I know. But knowing I knew something.
“You should have sent someone to pick up the sketch at the Four Seasons,” I said. “Going back was sloppy.”
Alan’s self-satisfied grin crumpled. He straightened his tie and swallowed. His assistant peeked around a corner and he fanned his hand to send her away.
“I don’t mind the rain,” I said. “In fact, I kind of like it.”
“Who told you?”
“No one told me,” I said. “You showed your face on their security cameras.”
“Shit,” Alan said.
“As they say in the old movies,” I said, smiling, “the jig is up.”
“Do you have any idea how much Gino disliked you?” he said. “You gave him physical hives when you appeared. You got under his thick old skin like no one else.”
“Gee,” I said. “That means a lot.”
Garner sat back down. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He pulled out a thin little smoke and set fire to it. He tilted his head back and spewed smoke out of his mouth in a very theatrical way. I couldn’t help but think of Clifton Webb in Laura. So charming and so damn guilty.
“Did Fish have the art when he died?” I said.
He shook his head. “Will you really go to the police?”
“Faster than you can say Jackie Robinson.”
“I believe it’s Jack Robinson.”
I shook my head. “Never heard of him.”
“This has nothing to do with Mr. Fish,” Garner said. He tapped the ash off his thin little cigarette. “This is my business. And my business alone. I went out from under his wretched little shadow some time ago. If you happened to pay attention to what goes on in the art scene.”
“I’m more into the hoodlum arts,” I said. “And a fancy front on Newbury Street can’t change that.”
“What exactly is it that you want?” he said. “The deal was made. Money exchanged and the item returned.”
“I want them all,” I said. “Everything.”
“I’m afraid I don’t represent the other items,” he said.
“And I’m sorry if I don’t believe you.”
“The museum’s other representative offered me quite a sum of money,” he said. “Don’t you think I’d agree to that arrangement if those paintings were in my possession? Do you think I could just hang a Goya and an El Greco in my window and make a sale? I know you’re very new to this, Spenser, but wealthy people don’t buy hot paintings. Who would want to place their position at risk by owning stolen art? And in this case, two pieces of very famous stolen art.”
“But you could find it.”
“You think far too much of me.”
“You learned from one of the craftiest, most devious, back-stabbing fences ever to set foot in Boston. I have faith in you, Alan.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Take it.”
“Are you, or are you not, working for the museum?”
“Just like always,” I said. “I work for myself. Times don’t change.”
“I can’t have the gallery’s name connected to this,” he said. “The owners took great steps at—”
I held up a hand. “I get it,” I said. “Confidential.”
“Let me ask you something,” Garner said. “Just for the sake of argument. Would I share in the reward?”
“If you led to the recovery of the art?” I said. “And the art was still in good condition?”
Garner nodded. He’d finished the cigarette and started a new one. I took great enjoyment at his jittery fingers fumbling to light the end. Always come armed with the facts and everything will fall right in line.
“This is, as they say, some very hot stuff.”
“How’d you come by the Picasso?”
Garner laughed, spilling smoke out of his nose. He waved the smoke away with his hand and shook his head. “The lineage of the art isn’t important,” he said. “Even Sotheby’s doesn’t name their sellers. It could damage the name of some very important families.”
“Or in your case, some VIHs.”
“Excuse me.”
“Very important hoods,” I said.
“That’s not terribly original, Spenser,” he said. “Surely you can do better.”
I shrugged. I finished up the coffee. This time I stood and left Garner staring pensively out the window. The chair was a deep red, with dark wood arms shaped like the heads of eagles. He had his legs crossed at the knee and ashed the cigarette in his hand.
“I may be able to locate El Greco,” he said. “The Gentleman.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“And if I did?”
“I’ll see what I can do about the reward.”
“And the other man?” he said. “The Brit. What do I say if he finds me, too?”
“He won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he’s not me,” I said.
“Oh,” Garner said. “Thank God.”
“Gotta thank someone,” I said. I left a card and walked back to the front door. I winked at the receptionist. She did her dead level best not to smile.
I admired her restraint.
22
IT TOOK ONLY THREE PHONE calls to locate the right Crazy Eddie Ciccone.
But it took four more to arrange a meeting with him at Cedar Junction, the max prison formerly known as Walpole. He was serving time for armed robbery and possession with intent. I figured he’d welcome a visit, as he was not two years into a twelve-year stretch. A greeting from the outside world might really brighten his day.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
We sat across from each other on uncomfortable stainless-steel seats, thick plexiglass between us, speaking on a telephone. He was a big guy with a fat stomach and thick arms. He had a big head and a wide nose and a dimpled chin. His hair was black and close-cropped, silver on the sides. Something or someone had placed a nasty gash over what had been his right eyebrow. His lip was busted and his eyes bloodshot.
“You’re missed at the Top Hat lounge,” I said. “Very fondly remembered at happy hour.”
“Come on,” he said. “What the hell is this? I ain’t got time for this shit.”
“You got a lot of time, Eddie,” I said. “Or are you too busy crafting newer and better license plates?”
“I don’t press no plates,” he said. “Do your homework. I work in the fucking laundry.”
“You in a rush to get back?”
“Whattya want?”
“You know a guy named Chad Hartman?”
“Nope,” he said. “Never heard of him.”
“Oh, sure you do,” I said. “Think back twenty years. When you were young, free, and running with the DeMarco crew. He was a security guard at the Winthrop Museum. Protecting pieces of priceless art from bad people.”
He folded his meaty arms over his chest and leaned back. He gave me a hard eye from behind the glass. They were dark, nearl
y black, but it was hard to scare someone from behind three inches of plexi. Only a gorilla at the Franklin Zoo had instilled fear at that distance. His name was Kit, a three-hundred-fifty-pound silverback.
“You set Chad up with a fine, upstanding girl,” I said. “Called herself Charity. I’m betting she went to parochial school. Our Sister of Absolute Mercy.”
“Come on,” he said. “What is this, a gag?”
“Charity had talent,” I said. “Chad said she could tie a constrictor knot with her tongue.”
“Funny,” he said. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who sent you?”
“I came on my own volition.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you and me need to talk.”
Crazy Eddie touched the wound over his eye, contemplating who I was and exactly what I wanted. He didn’t look like a guy who did a lot of quick processing.
“I need some direction,” I said. “You’re just the man to help.”
“Yeah?” he said. “In case you ain’t too fucking smart, the guards monitor these things. They hang on every word like it’s Days of Our Lives.”
I leveled my gaze at Crazy Eddie to let him know I was serious. He stared back and started to pick at a tooth with his little finger. His big black eyes round and protruding like a cod’s.
“I’m looking for a friend,” I said. “I believe you can help me find him.”
He didn’t say anything, only stared. He had that raspy, uneven breathing of a guy way out of shape. He scratched at his neck and leaned back from the glass, peering again over his shoulder at the guard by the locked door.
“Just like you,” I said. “He had a nickname.”
“Yeah?”
“They called him The Gentleman in Black.”
“Never heard of him.”
I explained the black coat, the frilly white collar, and the severe black beard. “Ever heard of Benny Ricardo?”
“Nope.”
“Placekicker for the Lions,” I said. “Looks just like him.”
“I don’t know no Benny Ricardo,” Eddie said. “And I don’t know that man in black. I ain’t got time for this shit. I got shit to do.”
