by Ace Atkins
I turned off the heat and pulled out two china plates from under the kitchen station. The chicken had cooled a bit, and I placed a breast on each plate along with the cherry tomatoes and white beans. A little sprig of rosemary on top.
“Fancy,” Susan said.
“Black-skillet cooking,” I said. “Getting back to my Wyoming roots.”
“Yee-haw,” Susan said.
“Gorgeous Jewish women don’t say ‘yee-haw.’”
“What do they say?”
“Oy, vey?”
Susan tossed a kitchen towel at me. I ducked.
I set both plates on the table, lit a small candle, and dimmed the lights overhead. Sarah sang about a flower crying for the dew. Susan guarded our food from Pearl while I retrieved another beer and popped the top. When I returned, she was staring out the window at the marina and Boston, the Custom House Tower shining gold and proud from across the harbor.
“I like it.”
“The chicken?”
“The view,” she said. “The move took some adjustment. But I like the space. Everything seems so wide open and uncluttered. The city almost looks peaceful from here.”
“The drive to Cambridge is about the same,” I said. “Maybe better in traffic.”
“You were welcome to stay,” she said. “We could have made it work.”
“Why mess with success?” I said. I drank a little beer.
Susan smiled. We ate for a bit, listening to Sarah and the rain. The lamps positioned around the open space of the condo blossomed with soft gold light. Rain sluiced down the windows, pricks of blue and yellow lights from atop moored ships.
“Why do you think Locke came to you?”
“Besides me being tough, resourceful, and smart as a border collie?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “Besides that.”
“He said he was concerned the museum might bring someone from outside Boston,” I said. “He told me he’s more sure than ever that whoever stole those paintings has roots here.”
Susan nodded. She forked a bit of chicken with some kale. Her face blossomed with a smile as she lifted a glass to her lips. “And what made you accept?”
“I haven’t accepted yet.”
“Oh, you will.”
I shook my head. I tried the chicken, thinking that perhaps the kale would have worked a little better with some lemon. When in doubt, always add a little lemon.
“How could you pass up working on the mystery of all mysteries?” Susan said.
“There’s a five-million-dollar reward.”
“Probably for those in possession of the paintings,” she said. “Not the Winthrop’s hired hand.”
“A shamus can dream.”
Susan nodded. I slipped some bacon pieces under the table for Pearl. They disappeared within seconds. I raised my hand aboveboard to a disapproving look from Susan.
“And for my next miracle,” I said.
“Do you think you can restrain yourself?”
“From feeding Pearl?”
“From smarting off to Topper Whosis, a board surely made of crotchety old flakes, and Large Marj long enough to get those paintings back.”
“As I know little to nothing about what I’m stepping into,” I said, “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“Just who do you know in the art world?”
“I know a guy at South Station who sells prints of dogs playing poker,” I said.
“What about Gino Fish?”
“A man of fine taste,” I said. “But in case you haven’t heard, he’s dead.”
“I know,” she said. “But this painting disappeared twenty years ago. Right? Wasn’t Vinnie working with him back then?”
“Indeed he was.”
“Well.”
“Vinnie and I haven’t been on the best of terms as of late.”
“Can’t you just hug it out,” she said. “Or whatever you mascopaths do.”
“Mascopaths?”
“It’s my own term for serially overly macho psyches. Overly masculine personalities.”
“Would you like me to perform one-armed push-ups before dessert?”
Susan tapped at her cheek. “While you perform, may I use your back as an ottoman?”
I thought about it for a moment and then dropped to my knees. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
3
THE WINTHROP MUSEUM LOOKED like a big wedge of Spanish wedding cake, lots of tan stucco with a barrel-tile roof and windows protected with intricate wrought-iron cages. A woman named Constance Winthrop had the place built sometime in the early part of the last century. She had so much money, she proclaimed she wanted the Alhambra brought to the Fens. Nearly a hundred years later, I walked up the marble steps before opening hours. A guard led me through an indoor courtyard with a bubbling fountain and lots of statuary. I felt a bit like Ferdinand the Bull being ushered into the ring.
Marjorie Phillips introduced herself from the head of a long oval table. Even though she didn’t stand, I could tell she was a sturdy woman. She had a thick, jowly face and a Buster Brown haircut. A reddish and green silk scarf wrapped what I imagined to be a neck thicker than an NFL linebacker’s.
I nodded and took off my PawSox road cap, dappled with rain.
“And this is Topper Townsend,” she said. “He speaks for the board.”
Topper eyed me from behind a rounded pair of black glasses but didn’t offer to shake hands. The round glasses made him look as if he’d just mugged Harry Potter off his Nimbus 2000. He was a gaunt man, thin and reedy, as he stood and offered a limp hand. He’d dressed as if he’d been auditioning for page seven of the J. Peterman catalog, with a red plaid shirt and sport green vest. His hair was long and silver, slicked tight against his skull and hanging loosely over his collar.
I took a seat on the opposite side of the table and waited. A pitcher of water sat in the center of the table.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Cream with two sugars,” I said.
“There’s a pot by the sink,” she said. “I’ll warn you. Topper makes disappointing coffee.”
Topper gave a practiced droll look like Paul Lynde sucking on a lemon. I walked over and poured a cup and returned to the seat. I noticed a slick black cane with a silver handle resting near his chair.
“I understand you’ve already met with Locke?” Topper said.
I nodded.
“Poor Locke,” he said.
I didn’t say anything, stirring my coffee with a plastic spoon. Waiting for them to start discussing details of the paintings and the letters. Topper leaned back and tapped a finger to his lips.
“How much do you charge, Mr. Spenser?” Topper said.
I told him.
“Good Lord,” he said. “You must be kidding. That’s more than I’d pay my family attorney. And completely unreasonable.”
I set down my mug, grabbed my cap, and stood.
“Enough with the bullshit, Topper,” Marjorie said. “Let’s please get on with this. Sit down, Mr. Spenser.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I draw the line at begging and rolling over. That costs extra.”
“Oh,” Topper said. “We’ve been warned of your dry wit. And that you often find yourself very amusing.”
I shrugged, trying to look modest. I flicked off some raindrops that had gathered on my cap.
“What all do you know about what happened here twenty years ago?” Marjorie said.
“Only what I read in the papers,” I said. “Two men dressed as cops knocked on the door of the museum. A guard let them in through a side door, where he was quickly pistol-whipped and told to call the second man on patrol. Both men were wrapped up in duct tape and handcuffed to pipes in the basement. All surveillance equipment and the tapes were destroyed. The th
ieves cut the two paintings from the frames, stole a small sketch, and made off clean. Since then, no one has heard a word.”
“Until now,” she said.
Topper harrumphed. It had been a good long while since I’d heard a harrumph. It was as annoying as it was nostalgic. He took off his round glasses and cleaned them with a white hankie. “The first letter arrived last month,” he said. “The others every ten days. Right now we have four and have been told to expect more.”
Marjorie didn’t react. She exchanged a quick glance with Topper, who sighed heavily and turned to look at the far window, where ivy had grown wild against the glass. Rain tapped against the windows, the trees and gardens of the Fens obscured by the ornate black iron grating.
“Whatever we discuss must stay in this room,” she said. “The authorities have warned us about using outside help. But Locke was insistent. More than insistent. He wouldn’t let us speak to anyone else.”
She opened a legal-sized file and pushed a piece of photocopied paper to me. “The originals are with the FBI,” she said.
The first typed letter was quick and to the point. It ran about a half-page, offering to broker the safe return of the El Greco. The author claimed to be only an intermediary for those who had the painting and that the painting was still in good condition and in this country. The last few lines quoted El Greco’s words on the back of the canvas. Or what I assumed to be the words. It might have been a recipe for baklava.
“Wouldn’t people know about this?” I said. “The Greek wording?”
“The writing was hidden beneath the frame,” Topper said. “Only discovered after Miss Winthrop purchased the work in 1921 and had it restored. I’ve never seen it mentioned in any scholarship of the work. It’s mainly known by curators and Spanish art historians.”
“But still known.”
“Precisely,” Topper said. “See? Smoke and mirrors. More lies. More misdirection. This is another waste of time and a great expense to this museum.”
I was starting to dislike Topper even more than I thought possible. I stared at him. He swallowed and folded his long bony fingers in front of him.
“Mr. Locke told me you have extensive resources with many unsavory characters in Boston,” Marjorie said.
“What can I say?” I said. “I’m a people person.”
Topper leaned back, crossing his arms over the hunting vest. Marjorie eyed me, tilting her head slightly to the side, studying me for all the little details. I started to raise my arm and flex my biceps to demonstrate my worth.
“The FBI was convinced the theft was arranged by a foreign collector,” she said. “But we don’t believe it. Anyone with connections in the art world would find the Dr. No theory to be outlandish and unrealistic.”
“Dr. No?” I said, attempting my best Sean Connery. My Scottish accent was a little off. I sounded more like Scrooge McDuck.
“A mega-wealthy criminal who wants to hang priceless art over his gold-plated toilets,” Topper said. “Something in a basement to unveil only to his close personal circle. If someone had an El Greco in his possession, the word would’ve gotten out in the last twenty years. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know many people with gold-plated toilets.”
“I believe this was a job committed by locals,” she said. “Boston thugs who wouldn’t know an El Greco from an El Dorado. I believe it’s still close by, stored somewhere in a dank closet or buried deep underground. I can feel it in my bones, Mr. Spenser. Whoever has it has had it for years and hasn’t a clue of what to do with it. It’s too big, too valuable, and too known for them to sell off.”
“Do we have anything stronger to go on?” I said. “Other than your bones?”
“You don’t rely on instinct?” Marjorie said. “I’ve been working in the art world for most of my adult life. The Gentleman in Black is a massive loss for the museum and for the art world as a whole. It was the centerpiece of the Winthrop. I am due to retire at the end of this year, and unless I get that painting hung back into that vacant frame, I will consider all I’ve done for the memory of Miss Winthrop to be in vain.”
I nodded and waited. Topper lifted his chin. “I still think his daily rate is unreasonable,” he said.
“Oh, put a sock in it, Topper,” she said. “I like him. He’s tough. Look at that neck, that nose. And he has a good reputation and knows the city. What else do we have? Some candy-ass Brit who spends most of his days eating lunch on the pad of Sotheby’s and Christie’s?”
“His references are excellent,” he said, “but I believe the only way to find that painting would be a time machine. It’s long gone, Marjorie. The sooner we all just admit it, we can all move on as a museum and fill the hole in the collection.”
“Do you really want us to quit?” she said. “Stop looking. After everything?”
Topper swiveled in the office chair. He reached for the cane and leaned onto it as if contemplating a soft-shoe routine. “I will make my stance known with the board,” he said. “It’s a waste. A foolhardy scheme at the very best.”
I looked at Marjorie and shrugged. She adjusted the scarf and folded her chubby little hands before her. She stared at me while I drank some coffee. She was right. Besides being an ass, Topper made horrible coffee.
“Well?” she said finally. “What do you say, Mr. Spenser? Will you help us find The Gentleman?”
“Well,” I said. “I often make a habit of tilting at windmills.”
4
VINNIE MORRIS RAN, among other ventures, an aging bowling alley in Cambridge, not far from the Frozen Pond Rotary. The building hadn’t been updated since the Eisenhower administration and could be described as either run-down or kitschy. Vinnie seemed to relish the Rat Pack feel of the upstairs lounge, with the blond wood paneling and horseshoe-shaped bar. Except for Friday and Saturday nights, the bar was closed, and Vinnie did business near the cash register with several phones, a calculator, and an old-fashioned leather ledger. I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell.
I walked through the front door and spotted the same beefy guy in the Hawaiian shirt working the front desk. I made a shooting gesture with my thumb and my forefinger and bounded up the curving staircase to the bar.
Vinnie looked to be dressed for the country club. Yellow polo shirt, navy pants, and boat shoes. He had a pair of half-glasses hanging around his neck from a sports band. His salt-and-pepper hair, as always, recently barbered.
He was talking on the phone with someone in a very unpleasant tone.
I helped myself to some more coffee and took a seat at the end of the bar. I was halfway through the B section of The Globe, reading a column by Tom Farragher, when Vinnie tossed the cell phone down.
“Do I have to do everything around here?” he said. “Christ. A simple thing. Nothing to it. But no. Christ.”
“What was the job?”
Vinnie just smiled, snapped his ledger closed, and walked behind the bar. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit up. It had been a while since I’d seen smoking in a bar. I figured if you owned the place, no one would complain.
“When you get to be our age,” Vinnie said, “you get tired of being hired help. It’s time you ran the show.”
“How’s the new wife?” I said.
He made a so-so gesture. “She burned all my old tracksuits,” he said. “Can you believe it?”
“Yes.”
“She likes me to look sharp,” he said. “Like I used to back in the day. A younger woman will do that. Make you clean up your freakin’ act.”
Many framed photographs of professional bowlers hung on a far wall, aged and yellowed with time. I didn’t bowl much and couldn’t recognize a single one of them. They wore polyester pants and tight sport shirts. Lots of them had mustaches and bad hair. I drank some coffee and turned to watch the cars race along the Concord Expressw
ay. It was midday and they moved fast and free, unencumbered by traffic.
“Okay,” Vinnie said. “What do you want?”
“I need to ask you a few questions about your previous employer.”
“Broz?”
“The other one.”
“Gino?” he said. “In case you hadn’t heard, he’s dead. Some nutso killed him. Sorry to hear it. But can’t say I was surprised. He’d gotten sloppy in his old age.”
“And he didn’t have you to protect him.”
“Exactly.”
“I know about the antiques,” I said. “But what about art?”
“Sure,” Vinnie said. “He sold art, too.”
“I’m working for the Winthrop Museum,” I said. “Looking for three paintings. One of them called The Gentleman in Black.”
“What is it?” he said. “A velvet painting of Johnny Cash?”
“Actually, it’s the Juan de Silva y Ribera, third marquis of Montemayor and the warden of the Alcázar of Toledo.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “That son of a bitch.”
“Know anything about it?”
“I remember someone hit the museum,” he said. “But c’mon. That was like freakin’ twenty years ago.”
“It was exactly twenty years ago.”
“And they’re just hiring you now?”
“I know,” I said. “Incredible.”
“Well,” Vinnie said, tapping his ash into an empty coffee mug. “I don’t know nothing about a man in black or Gino having anything to do with that job. Twenty years ago, I was in the thick of it. I would’ve known.”
“If not Gino,” I said, “then who might’ve pulled a job like that? It was a small crew. Two guys dressed as cops overpowered three guards. Late night. Good Friday.”
“And the driver.”
