by Mike Knowles
I nodded. Ox had given me up. I wasn’t mad. For a year, the broker had acted as a middleman; he sat in the centre of a complicated web that connected everyone who worked the underground night shift. People reached out to Ox for information and connections, and he provided both — for a fee. He and I had worked well together and I liked the man; he liked me too. But like was for sixth graders, not criminals. Ox liked me; he loved his skin a whole lot more. The fault was all my own. I had let it become too easy for him to meet with me. I had made him able to jam me up. Again, reckless.
“I am sorry Ox did not inform you of my coming. He has disappointed us both, and I do not handle disappointment very well, I’m afraid.” Pyrros glanced at Ox and the old man went a shade of white usually reserved for dairy. “But,” he said looking me in the eye, “even though Ox has wronged us both, I am the one who is saying that he is sorry. Now may I sit?”
Ox didn’t wait for a response. He scrambled off the bench, turning his back to the three men, and put his ass up in the air while he cleared the ice cream wrappers off the bench and picked up the sticks he had let fall to the ground. “Just a second. Just a second. There you go, sir.” Ox even made a show of brushing off the slats of the bench with his hand.
The man Ox called Mr. Vogli sat down next to me. I noticed that only the toes of his shoes reached the ground. I shifted my body so that I could see both the man that Ox was terrified of and the two men that man paid to make sure the fear was justified.
The small man patted the hand concealing the knife as though he already knew what was there. “You have nothing to fear from me, James. I think I have proved that. Unless, it’s making money that you are afraid of.” He smiled again, but this time the smile was only formed by the mouth. The lips had pulled back enough to expose the whites in between. It looked more like a dog baring its teeth than a human smile. “Are you afraid of making money?”
“That depends on how it’s made.”
“How do you usually make your money, James? Is it only art that you steal?”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“For art? No, that was something my nephew came up with on his own. He thought that he was doing a good thing, a smart thing, but it was a silly venture. His heart was in the right place, but his brain was not.” Vogli slapped his knee. “Good one, eh?”
The three other men laughed heartily. I nodded. “So if the art wasn’t something you needed, why are you making all this effort to find the guy who got it?”
“Because the real art was the job, not the painting. Anyone can make a painting. Once, my wife bought me a paint-by-numbers set to help with my stress. For a whole day, I sat in my office putting paint onto that canvas. And at the end of that day, I had something that looked just as good to me as what you took off the wall.”
“You should have shared your opinions on art with your nephew,” I said. “It would have saved him a lot of money.”
Pyrros waved a hand. “That money taught him something about responsibility. It is a lesson we all must learn at some time. But the art wasn’t for me. Ilir thought that it would make a good gift for someone, but that someone does not care about old European paintings. From what I hear, he likes the kind that don’t look like what they are supposed to look like, but even then he only likes certain kinds. It’s all — what’s the word?”
“Subjective,” I said.
“Bullshit,” Vogli corrected. “Art is bullshit. What makes a painting of a cow that looks like a rectangle more valuable than the paint-by-numbers I did in my office?”
I didn’t say anything. I had been around enough mobbed-up guys to recognize the rhetoricals a mile out.
“What separates them, James, is that someone is willing to buy the four-sided cow, while my art is only a treasure to me.”
I looked at the man.
“It’s good. It really is. I think I could have done it without the numbers. But what you did in that gallery, that I could not have done myself. That was pure art. The kind that I appreciate. The kind I would pay for.”
“So what is your guy into, if it isn’t the art Ilir had me boost?”
“You see?” the small man said to the two bodyguards. “He already understands what I am here for. It is so refreshing to not have to explain every little detail. This man does not want art; he has too much of it already. What he wants is music.”
“Music?”
“A violin,” Vogli said.
“You seem like a capable man —”
“Thank you.”
“Why can’t you get this violin yourself?”
“Have you ever been to Beverly Hills?”
I turned my head, surprised by the question, and looked at the gangster beside me. “No.”
“I would have thought an art thief would be well travelled. They are in the movies and on TV.”
“Mobsters are tall on TV,” I countered.
There was no laughter from the man to my right. Judging from the looks on the faces of the two bodyguards, the topic was a sensitive one.
“Careful, art thief.”
“Right back at you, gangster.”
This got a laugh. “You are all balls, James. I’m surprised you don’t roll away. So Beverly Hills has all these stores. Places like Gucci, Prada, Hermès. All the European fashion that the Americans wear and pretend is their own creation. These places, they have marble floors, millions in merchandise, and money. My God, they have money. You know what they don’t have?”
I shook my head.
“Criminals charging them for protection. Now why do you think that is? Guys like us shake down titty bars, restaurants, and bars for nickels and dimes. Why would places that have enough money to put stone on their floors that most people can barely afford on their countertops go untouched?”
“Simple,” I said. “They have money. Money doesn’t suffer the way everybody else does.”
“Correct, James. They would take one look at a gangster in the doorway and have some cop with bleached teeth inside the store before he made it to the register. That is my problem. I employ gangsters — criminals, thieves, smugglers, men who are good at threatening blue-collar workers and who are able to intimidate those people into giving them what they want. But what good are men like that in Beverly Hills?”
“The job is in Beverly Hills?”
“Close. Buffalo.”
It was my turn to laugh, but all I gave Vogli was a grin. “The only thing close is the B,” I said.
The gangster laughed loud enough to scare a woman wearing headphones who was walking her dog along the path running behind the bench. The bodyguards echoed the sound.
“Buffalo may not have a lot of movie stars and trophy wives, but it has what I want for a short time. This violin would not be out of place on Rodeo Drive. In fact, if it were there it would be the most expensive thing on the block.”
“And you want me to get it for you.”
“Correct, James.”
“What is my cut?”
“I will pay you a flat fee of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to get me my violin. If you need more people, it will come out of your end.”
“Expenses?”
“Your end.”
I stared out across the grass to the water of Lake Ontario. Out on the water, I could see a sailboat. The pregnant sail bound the wind inside and forced it to carry the ship along. Two specks that had to be people frantically moved back and forth on the deck trying to keep the craft going. I had spent a long time riding the wind. I had thought I was independent, but most of the time I was really just trying to channel something else’s momentum to get where I wanted to go. I felt that same feeling on the bench; like I was being pushed and I didn’t like it. The Albanian gangster had used the word reckless twice when he spoke to me. The word was bandied as though it was some kind of credential and not
a liability. I doubted that he got to where he was by being reckless. Most who grab the reins have a bit of that in them, but those who hold them do it through discipline. I rolled the word over in my mind a few times until I saw the push for what it was.
I broke the silence. “How long?”
Vogli turned his head just enough so that his eyes could see mine. He spent a moment in thought before he said, “A week.”
I shook my head. Maybe I was reckless, but I wasn’t stupid.
Vogli replied as though it was the answer he had expected. “I understand, James. But before you say no, take a look at the job and tell me what you think. If you won’t do it, then tell me how to do it and I will handle it. Ilir said your fee is ten percent. So, worst case scenario, you earn twenty-five thousand.”
I didn’t like how ready he was with a reply. He should have bristled at the refusal, not caved. There was another push there, this one more subtle.
“Fine,” I said.
Vogli nodded. One of the bodyguards moved to reach into his pocket. I pressed my palm down on the knife instinctively. Vogli’s artery would serve as a worthy replacement for Ox’s.
“Easy,” Vogli said. He was looking out at the water, but speaking to me. “It is just the information.”
The bodyguard had paused at the word easy; another nod from Vogli set him in action again. The man produced a thumb drive from his pocket and passed it to me.
Pyrros got off the bench and took his place at the head of the pack. “Look it over. There is a number for one of my people on the drive. Contact him when you are done.”
I nodded.
Pyrros started to lead the two men away before pausing to look at me. “But,” he said, fixing his two coal-black eyes on me, “don’t take too long.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Look, Wilson, I —”
I got off the bench and Ox flinched. I didn’t touch him; I didn’t try to hide putting the knife away either.
“It’s my fault, Ox. I got sloppy.”
“I had no choice, Wilson. You gotta see that. Pyrros Vogli is not a man who fucks around.”
“He’s not the only one,” I said.
Ox took a step back. I held out a hand to stop him. “It’s like you said, Ox. You had no choice. It’s my fault for making it so you had one to begin with.”
“What are you going to do?”
I had a feeling he was asking more in the what are you going to do to me sense.
“Don’t worry about what I am going to do. Worry instead about getting your end of the job done.”
“My end?”
“I’m going to be calling you later for some talent. Reliable people who are able to work on short notice and can get across the border without any friction. That is the most important thing. If you even think they might have something the border cops would pick up on, I don’t want them.”
“What kind of guys are we talking?”
“Every kind,” I said.
Ox furrowed his brow as though he was working out long division in his head. I made it easy on him. “I don’t know a thing about this pricey violin Vogli wants. What I do know is that if I decide to do it, I’ll need help, good help, and I don’t have the time to do interviews.”
Ox relaxed his brows; he’d gotten the answer — no remainder. “Okay, Wilson, sure. Whatever you want. I’m your guy.”
I turned my back and left Ox standing by the bench. My guy — he couldn’t have been any more wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spent ten hours on the contents of the drive Pyrros Vogli had passed to me in the park. He hadn’t lied about the violin — the instrument was easily worth something in the high seven figures. It was hard to believe something made of wood could surpass most things made of diamond. The violin, and its relatives, followed the same principles as diamonds. They were rare commodities and that rarity made them expensive. A quick search told me that there were dozens of classical musicians lugging six- and even seven-figure instruments around with them. Google even turned up two stories of million-dollar violins being misplaced by their owners. One was left in a cab, the other on the subway. If it had been an iPad, no one would have ever seen it again. But iPads were easy to fence; violins were considerably harder to move. The instrument itself looked similar to every other violin I had ever seen. The one thing it didn’t look like was something that was a few centuries old. The maple it was constructed out of was polished to a high shine, making the arced rings on the back stand out like stripes on the body of a bronzed zebra.
I knew that I would say yes to Pyrros after the first hour. If I was going to have reservations, or get cold feet, it would have happened way before the long hand on my watch circled the dial. The violin had the same potential benefit of the painting I had cut off the wall two weeks earlier. The violin, like the art, was worth a lot of money, but, unlike other high-value items, diamonds for example, the security was lax. People wanted diamonds. People often tried to steal diamonds. The same could not be said for violins. The reason for the disparity was the black market. It was easy to unload diamonds for cents on the dollar. It was much harder to move an instrument. There were few men who ran in the right wrong-kind of circles who could move such an item. And it wasn’t like the kind of people who would spend millions on a violin were advertising that they would be interested in a stolen masterpiece. Pyrros having already agreed to buy the violin solved that problem.
The extra nine hours were spent on the internet researching the names and places that were on the drive. I coaxed Google into giving up everything it knew about the information I was given. It was just after two in the morning when I called the number Pyrros had left for me. One of the Albanian’s people answered on the third ring.
“I’m in,” I said.
“Alright.” The voice was cool and if the time of morning bothered the man it belonged to, it didn’t show. He gave me an address and told me to show up at nine the following night.
“There will be three of us,” I said.
“Only three?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure that will be enough?”
“You think I should run it by you to make sure that it meets the high standards of the Albanian mafia?”
“I just want to be sure that you aren’t trying to keep the numbers small so that the pieces of the pie stay big.”
“Listen: the midget came to me, not the other way around. If he thought you had a clue, you would be doing more than waiting for me to call.”
“Do me a favour, asshole, try out that midget shit when Pyrros is in the room.”
“If I do, I’ll make sure that someone gets you away from your secretary’s desk to see it.”
I hung up on the Albanian and entered the address he had given me into the GPS app on my phone. The place was somewhere out in Scarborough. Google Maps put the location in the middle of an industrial park. The out-of-season satellite imagery showed the snowy roof of the building. The long rectangle was similar to many other buildings positioned around it. I was due at a warehouse in nineteen hours.
My next call was to Ox. It took him longer than the Albanian to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“I need two men,” I said.
“Wilson? Jesus, what time is it?”
“Early for you, evening for me,” I said.
I heard a click that was probably a lamp and then a snort followed by a phlegmy cough as the professional middleman roused himself. “What is it?”
“I need two men.”
“Just two? Are you sure?”
Everyone was an armchair quarterback these days. “I’m sure. I need a driver and a grifter.”
“No problem.”
“I’m not done. They need to have clean records. And the grifter needs to be a talker. Sell snow to Eskimos kind of
thing.”
Ox groaned and smacked his lips. “I know a guy. He’s good.”
“Not done,” I said. “They can’t have ever worked for Pyrros Vogli or any of his people before.”
“I’ll need to check into that, but it shouldn’t be a problem. The Albanians do most of their stuff in house. Anything else?”
“I need them by four.”
“Twelve hours? Wilson, that could be a problem. Guys like this aren’t always the most reliable about calling me back.”
“Ox, the only words out of your mouth after what you pulled today should be ‘no problem.’”
“Hey, I’m just being realistic. But you’re right, Wilson. You’re right. I owe you.”
It was the other way around, but I didn’t say anything. Ox was unreliable and his lips were less than watertight, but he had a Rolodex of bad people in his head. If I spooked him, he might use that Rolodex to find a couple of hitters to meet me instead of the kind of people I needed.
“Tell them there’s two hundred and fifty grand in it for them if they like what they hear and sign on.”
A long pause stretched out into an uncomfortable silence. Ox broke his own interlude when he said, “That wasn’t the number Pyrros told you.”
“It’s the number I’m telling him,” I said.
“Wilson, this isn’t the kind of guy you haggle with. If he sets a price on something, you do the smart thing and thank him twice before you knock a few dollars off.”
“Name one business out there in the real world that lets the customer set the prices?” I asked.
“The kind that has clients who might decide to kill you for fucking around with them.”
“The price is the price,” I said. “If Pyrros doesn’t like it, he can shop around. Hell, he can make it a DIY project if he wants to.”
“You want my advice?”
“No,” I said. “I want two men ready to meet at four, and two more waiting on standby.”
“Two more?”
“Another driver and another grifter in case the first two you set me up with are flakes.”
