Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic (Spenser)

by Ace Atkins

  He set the boards down on the folding table and began to unsnap the clamps, finally pulling the top layer of the boards off and revealing a painting.

  The light wasn’t the best in the unit, but I recognized the face. It wasn’t Benny Ricardo. It was Juan de Silva y Ribera, third marquis of Montemayor and the warden of the Alcazar of Toledo. The Gentleman in Black.

  “Holy moly,” I said.

  “Is this what you’ve been looking for?”

  “Indeed.”

  He carefully turned the painting so I might see El Greco’s scrawl on the back. The signature was all Greek to me. “I’ll give you some paint chips for the Winthrop to verify,” he said. “But my client wants a response within twenty-four hours.”

  “You still haven’t told me what they want.”

  “Ten million,” he said. “No questions asked.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “The good things in life seldom are,” he said. “Have you seen enough?”

  I looked at the El Greco again. I touched the frayed edges of where it had been cut from the painting. It was very worn and cracked. The eyes of Juan de Silva y Ribera stared right at me from across the centuries.

  I nodded and we drove back to Boston.

  33

  YOU HAD A GUN,” Locke said. “Why not just turn it on Garner and take the painting?”

  “He gave me his word,” I said. “And I gave him mine. I’ve known Garner for a long time and he trusts me. Besides, my loyalty to the Winthrop board has withered a bit in the last few days.”

  “I heard what they did,” he said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  Locke was living out his last weeks on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise apartment in the West End, right around the corner from the Whole Foods. The apartment was spare, with a smattering of corporate furniture and no pictures on the walls. I had the feeling he’d only recently rented it. A nurse had opened the door when I arrived and helped Locke take a seat on a sectional sofa with large plump cushions.

  I walked over to the window as he got comfortable. If you looked straight down, you could see a pool and women sunbathing.

  “Nice view,” Locke said.

  “You can see the river, too.”

  “You can?” Locke said. “I’ll be damned.”

  I turned to look at him. “I’ve seen the painting, Locke.”

  His weathered face lit up. He asked his caregiver if she might bring us some whiskey. I wasn’t sure if that was ethical or not, or if it even mattered a damn when you were dying. Either way, the woman went to the kitchen and poured out a couple bourbons over ice. We drank from short glasses.

  “Was he wonderful?” Locke said. “The Gentleman.”

  “It was odd,” I said. “He seemed to look right at me.”

  “The great ones always do,” he said. “Their eyes implore us.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I think he just wanted out of that crummy storage room.”

  “Was the painting still in good shape?” he said.

  “As far as I could tell,” I said. “You could definitely see the edges were frayed where it’d been cut from the frame. But the painting itself, despite some cracking, looked intact.”

  “And they gave you paint chips?”

  I patted my shirt pocket, where I kept the small plastic bag.

  “Good,” he said. “You must turn them over to the museum immediately. And make sure this painting is authentic.”

  “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “The Feds said there was some concern the original might not be real?”

  Locke took a sip and nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “But they may not have understood the context. There was an American scholar in the 1950s who claims The Gentleman in Black wasn’t painted by El Greco but instead by a protégé. He said he’d unearthed paperwork in Madrid that showed the original commission. This was mentioned in some work of scholarship, but neither I nor anyone else at the Winthrop have ever been able to substantiate this. Even if the painting came from El Greco’s studio during his lifetime, it’s still a singular piece of art.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Have you ever seen F for Fake?” he said. “The Welles picture?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  “It brings into question if a work is still important if it’s a fraud,” he said. “There was one man who painted Picasso as well as Picasso himself. So well, in fact, that Picasso once verified the forger’s work as his own.”

  “Not my job,” I said. “I’m only a facilitator.”

  “Let the museum and the scholars sort out the lineage,” he said. “But you must go immediately to Marjorie Ward Phillips right now and tell her what you’ve seen.”

  “She fired me,” I said. “If I turn this over, they’ll count me out. I don’t care for Marj, but I do like money.”

  “Since you hold the keys, so to speak, you are now in charge.”

  I shrugged and took a seat in a plump chair across from Locke. I hadn’t slept a bit since seeing the painting. All I’d accomplished that morning was going for a short run along the waterfront while I’d waited to hear back from Locke. I made it three miles and then headed straight over. I was still dressed in running shorts and shoes, a navy sweatshirt with the arms and collar cut out.

  “Maybe I should change first,” I said. “Marj is all about appearances.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not in the least,” I said.

  “However, I would recommend you getting some protection.”

  “I keep a .357 in my desk drawer,” I said. “That’d be enough to stop a water buffalo or a person of similar build.”

  “I was thinking more of a lawyer.”

  “I know a few.”

  “Pick the toughest one you know,” he said. “And make sure he gets the arrangement in writing.”

  “I’ll make sure she does.”

  “The Winthrop board tried to fire me several times,” he said. “Topper Townsend accused me of padding my expense account even though I always flew coach and stayed at quite modest hotels.”

  “I don’t think Topper could spell modest.”

  Locke smiled. “Was there any mention of the Goya?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “It’s a wonderful piece painted during his dark period. Witches and blood. Skulls and bones. It was a meditation on the occult and of our own mortality.”

  I nodded. I played with the ball cap in my hands. “How are you doing?”

  “I am sitting down and having a cocktail before noon,” he said. “It’s a fine day. I wish I’d been more aware of them in the past.”

  “Any words for Marj or Topper?”

  “As a veteran investigator and friend of the arts?”

  “Sure.”

  Locke nodded. He had to use both hands to put the glass to his lips. He took a sip and returned the glass to his lap. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up.”

  34

  AT FOUR O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON, Rita Fiore took a seat at the edge of my desk and looked around my modest office. I sat in my office chair, fresh and ready for the meet, in khakis, a white linen button-down, and wing tips without socks. As a gift, she’d returned my .40-caliber Smith & Wesson without explanation.

  “Just what do you want out of this?” Rita said.

  “I want to be paid for my time.”

  “And the reward?”

  “A former employee of Winthrop has a steep medical bill,” I said. “His name is Locke and his expenses should be paid in full.”

  “That’s it?” she said. “There’s a thin line between nobility and being stupid.”

  “The reward was never going to be mine,” I said. “That money will pay for the return of the painting. It
may be more than they can raise.”

  “Those kind of people?” she said. “I doubt it. They can raise twice that much in one night. One of those fund-raisers with cheese and crackers and smooth jazz.”

  “Make sure we won’t attend.”

  Rita swung her bare legs back and forth, gently kicking at the side of my desk. “Done.”

  Twenty minutes later, Topper and Marjorie Ward Phillips wandered inside. Marjorie had on a gray blazer with a white silk top and black pants. Topper looked as if he’d just escaped from a backwoods campsite, with a loose red shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and hiking boots. He had gray socks pulled to his skinny knees. As always, he carried the cane.

  “This better be something good, Spenser,” Topper said. No hello, no greetings. “I was on a family vacation. Today is my anniversary.”

  “My condolences to your wife,” I said.

  Rita snorted. Topper did not smile.

  I introduced her as my attorney. Marj and Topper shook hands with Rita and took a seat, and a second later Paul Marston sauntered in. I began to doubt my detection skills. I hadn’t smelled him coming. He was suited, well coiffed, and more full of himself than ever. He smirked while standing at attention.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” Topper said.

  “Not him,” I said. “This is a private conversation.”

  “Anything that needs to be said about museum business can be said in front of him,” Marj said.

  “You’re welcome to whisper into his ear later,” I said. “In the meantime, he can go sing ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’ down on Berkeley Street.”

  Topper used the silver-topped cane to stand. “If that is all.”

  “Sit down, Slick,” Rita said. “And get rid of Dapper Dan. Unless you don’t want to get back your painting.”

  Topper and Marj exchanged glances. Marj inhaled a deep breath and let it out with a lot of force. Topper’s face brightened and proceeded to engage me in some kind of staring contest. I willed my hands not to quiver from fear.

  “I don’t care for games,” Topper said.

  I didn’t say anything. I looked over at Rita, still sitting on the edge of my desk, and smiled. She didn’t show a bit of emotion.

  “Paul,” Marj said. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a moment?”

  “Actually—” Paul said.

  “Paul,” Marj said, actually being Large Marj now. As she spoke, the windows behind me vibrated a bit.

  Marston left but didn’t shut the door. We sat looking at each other as I heard him walking down the hall. After a minute, I stood and spotted him down on Berkeley Street. He didn’t seem to be singing or dancing. I was in no way disappointed.

  “Spenser has seen your painting,” Rita said.

  Marj lifted her head and wet her lips. Topper leaned onto his cane from where he sat.

  “When?” Marj said.

  “Last night,” I said. “They’re ready to make an exchange.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Gentleman in Black,” I said. “Don’t ask me where because I don’t know other than it was an hour away. Or it took an hour to get there. But it appears to be intact and in decent shape.”

  “How on earth would you know?” Topper said. “How would you even know what you saw was genuine?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “But I do have this.”

  I tossed the paint chips in a Ziploc bag onto the desk. Marj scooped them up, examining them, and then passed them along to Topper. I was pretty sure his circular Harry Potter glasses started to fog from the excitement.

  “Good Lord,” he said. “Who has it?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I said.

  “How can you not know if they showed you the goddamn painting?” Topper said.

  “Why don’t you take out the chips and taste them,” I said. “You being a man of the arts.”

  “Ridiculous,” he said. “You have to tell us everything you know and everything that happened. You are under a legal obligation.”

  Rita coughed into her hand.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” Topper said.

  “In case you don’t know, Mr. Spenser was fired,” Marj said. “As former contract labor for the Winthrop, we are entitled—”

  “Lady,” Rita said. “You are entitled to jack shit. Spenser is offering you those pieces as possible verification of the missing painting. If they turn out to be fake, then no one is out anything. But if they do turn out to belong to the El Greco, you and I need to come to some kind of terms.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard your name?” Topper said.

  “Ever heard of Cone, Oakes?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I’m a partner,” she said. “Ask your friends. Or at least their wives.”

  I stood up and stretched. I leaned against the windowsill and crossed my arms.

  “They want ten million,” I said. “No questions, no Feds, no fuss. They guarantee it.”

  Being good at harrumphing, he gave it the old college try. It didn’t have much weight to it. Rita and I had their full attention. I turned back to look out the window but didn’t see Marston.

  “We will need current photographs,” she said. “And we will need to examine the painting before a dime is turned over.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll let them know.”

  “But if you think you’re going to get any of the reward, think again,” Topper said. “You are just a bearer of information, Spenser. It’s those who hold the painting who will get the money.”

  “I didn’t figure you’d have it any other way.”

  Rita reached down and patted Topper’s shoulder. She smiled at him the way a pit viper looks at a cornered rat. “You will pay Spenser for all his expenses,” she said. “Plus a bonus.”

  “What kind of bonus?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I’ll think up a good one.”

  “All this is very speculative,” Topper said. “I will insist that any exchange be handled by our security consultant, Mr. Marston. We appreciate the work here, Spenser, but you weren’t asked to be involved. In fact, your involvement complicates matters.”

  “By helping you get the painting back?” I said. “Sorry to inconvenience you.”

  Marj shot Topper a look. She nodded with the slow realization that the painting could be close at hand. Looking up at me and no one else, she said, “You will get everything you need.”

  “Marj,” Topper said.

  “Oh, shut up, Topper,” she said.

  “Yeah, Topper,” Rita said. “Pipe down.”

  I smiled.

  “This is everything,” Marj said. “I hope you know that. Returning the El Greco to its rightful place in the museum means so much to not only patrons of the Winthrop but to the greater art world. Filling that void is immeasurable.”

  “I’m not doing it for the greater good,” I said. “I’m doing it for Locke.”

  “Oh,” Rita said. “We also want all his medical bills paid.”

  Topper rolled his eyes. “This just gets richer and richer.”

  All three of us turned to Topper to make sure he shut his mouth. He tried his best to grimace and sputter. Finally, not being able to handle it, he said, “The board won’t be shook down. This isn’t some back-alley deal. And we are not your common hoodlums.”

  “No,” I said. “You are hoodlums with funny accents and bony knees. Miss Fiore will make sure the details are put into writing. Then I’ll reach out to the broker.”

  “See,” Topper said. “See. He doesn’t even know who has the painting. If it exists at all.”

  “Check out the chips,” I said, looking at Marj. “And then call me.”

  “You and Locke,” he said. “The painting and Locke. This doesn’t have a thing to d
o with Locke, and I’ll make sure that’s a completely separate conversation. His medical issues are none of our concern.”

  I walked back toward my desk, resting one hand on the edge, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rita. I nodded at Topper. “Why exactly do you carry that cane?”

  “If you must know, I have a handicap,” he said. “I was badly injured in college playing field hockey.”

  “Mister,” I said. “You don’t know what handicapped is if you try and screw Locke.”

  Rita looked at me, pursed her lips, and grinned. “It’s hard to walk with a silver-tipped cane stuck up your ass.”

  Topper clenched his jaws, muscles flexing in his face. Marj stood up to leave. She placed the plastic bag into her purse and offered her hand. I shook it, and then Rita did. Topper had already gotten up and disappeared down the hall without a word.

  After Large Marj left, Rita turned to me and smiled. “Wonderful people,” she said.

  “Delightful,” I said. “Boston’s elite.”

  35

  I CALLED ALAN GARNER on his cell and left a message.

  Being one who disliked sitting on his hands, I drove over to the Harbor Health Club to perform a more useful action. I could shower and shave there, and I kept a spare change of clothes in a locker. As I loaded a squat rack, I whistled “Blue Skies” and waved over at Henry, who was training a young couple. He pretended not to know me.

  The sun was shining. I’d nearly wrapped up my case. Rita would make sure there was money ahead. As I squatted, I smiled, taking each rep to its proper depth and watching my form in the mirror. I continued to whistle until I spotted Henry’s diminutive reflection behind me.

  “You finally gone nuts?” he said. “What are you, a freakin’ dwarf? Whistling while you work. This is a gym, Spenser. If you’re whistling, you’re not working hard enough.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t make a joke about little people,” I said. “You also look like you could use a hug.”

  “Try it and I’ll knock you flat on your keister,” he said. “But I will join you. I’ve been training people all morning and haven’t done crap for myself.”