False Dawn jl-3

by Paul Levine

  “It’s confusing. All this Russia stuff. Two men dead. Famous art popping up all over. I don’t know. It doesn’t add up.”

  Charlie sipped at a glass of wine. For the occasion, he had chosen something white, light, and French, believing, I supposed, that Matisse had joined us at the table. Between sips, he dug into his dried-out fish and asked, “Who’s in charge of the Crespo investigation?”

  “Socolow. You know that.”

  “Then, who was the gentleman in the trailer to whom Socolow showed such deference?”

  I love Charlie, but he can be a pain. Never comes right out and tells you anything. Always a bunch of questions, dragging it out of you. “I don’t know. He gave me his card.” I fumbled inside my wallet and found it. “Foley. He’s from out of town.”

  Charlie raised his chin, scratched his beard, and peered at me through the bottoms of his bifocals. I answered the question that wasn’t asked. “You’re right. We ought to find out who he is.”

  Tugboat Willie’s is not the kind of place to whip out a cellular phone at your table. It would interfere with the banjo music and peg you as an insufferable yuppie. I got up from the table, skillfully avoided two stray cats that hang around the porch, and made my way to the pay phone by the kitchen. I was greeted by steamy garlic smells and the clatter of pans. I studied the card again. Printed, not embossed. Black ink

  on white paper. Nothing fancy: ROBERT T. FOLEY (703) 482-1100

  It was after six o’clock. If it was an office, I might get the answering service. I dialed the number, putting the charge on a credit card. Where the hell was 703 anyway?

  “Good evening,” the sweet-voiced lady said. “Central Intelligence Agency.”

  13

  THE RABBIT JUMPED OVER THE MOON

  I spent all day Monday interviewing new clients, but my heart wasn’t in it. Some lawyers are great at bringing in business. Schmoozers and self-promoters, they are our rainmakers. They have an ability to terrify and mollify clients in the same conversation. First, in somber tones, they magnify the gravity of the harm if expert legal counsel is not immediately retained in this most complex and perilous of legal matters. Then they confidently explain how Harman amp; Fox recently extricated another wretched soul from a similar predicament, and for a small fortune, could work the miracle once again.

  A good lawyer is part con man, part priest-promising riches, threatening hell. The rainmakers are the best paid among us and have coined a remarkably candid phrase: We eat what we kill. Hey, they don’t call us sharks for our ability to swim.

  Bringing in business is not my strong suit. I have a small network of jailbirds, hospital interns, and bail bondsmen who send cases my way, but generally, I work for the firm’s clients. Like Atlantic Seaboard Warehouse and the legal problems therein. This morning, though, I was making a halfhearted attempt to build my own practice. Joaquin Evangelista, an ex-client who took a fall for grand larceny-parrot theft-had referred a young couple to me about a civil suit. A nice favor from a guy who was doing time, but Joaquin didn’t blame me for losing the case.

  After putting my virtuous client on the stand to swear that he’d never seen any cockamamie cockatoo, the prosecutor brought the bird into the courtroom for rebuttal. “Hello, Joaquin Evangelista,” the feathered witness announced brightly.

  Today I was staring out the window at a foamy three-foot chop curling across the reef at Virginia Key and pretending to take notes as Sheldon and Marilyn Berger told me they wanted to sue their rabbi. Sheldon owned a pet store, which probably explained how he knew Evangelista, who called himself an aviary consultant, rather than a bird thief. Sheldon was in his early thirties and had dark hair in that trendy short, brush look. He wore cordovan loafers with no socks, white slacks, a polo shirt, and a blue sport coat. Marilyn Berger, his bride of seven weeks, had streaked blond hair done in the wrinkled look. She let a cigarette dangle from the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t remind me of Lauren Bacall. I watched the cigarette flap up and down as she told me the story. As I listened, I drew two stick figures, a man and a woman, on my yellow pad.

  “The schlepp was an hour and a quarter late for the wedding,” Marilyn explained. “It was 5000 embarrassing. I mean all our friends were just wondering, like was Shelly getting cold feet.”

  “I was getting drunk,” Sheldon said with a sly smile.

  “So were half the guests,” his bride chimed in. “Daddy calculated that, at the prices the country club charged, the rabbi cost us an extra five hundred twelve dollars in liquor.”

  “Plus the band’s overtime,” Sheldon reminded her.

  “Of course, darling.” She patted his arm as you might a puppy. “The band had to stay an hour longer. Another three fifty.”

  I drew a picture of a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. “Why was the rabbi late?”

  Marilyn leaned forward in her chair as if to share a secret. “He says we told him two o’clock, but I know we said one, because I told Sheldon to tell him one. If you ask me, the rabbi had another wedding at one. He just stacked us up, like the gynecologist.”

  I managed to draw fifteen miniature bullets streaking from the gun barrel toward the man and woman. “Anything else?” I asked. “Any other damages besides the liquor bill and the band?”

  Marilyn looked at Sheldon and exhaled a gray stream of smoke into his face. “Well, of course, it gave me a case of stress and severe mental anguish,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said sympathetically.

  Marilyn leaned toward me again. “I’ve read that stress can cause everything from wrinkles to bad breath.”

  “You don’t have wrinkles,” I said.

  Sheldon was fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “It practically ruined the honeymoon.”

  “Cancun,” Marilyn said.

  I scribbled some more, drawing sombreros on each of the bullet-riddled stick figures. “Did you get off?” I asked Marilyn.

  “What?”

  “Your wedding night? Didja come?”

  The color drained from her face. Her mouth dropped open. The cigarette stuck to her lower lip. Bright red lipstick covered the top of the filter.

  “I see this as a lost consortium case,” I announced gravely. “Now, if you couldn’t get off on your wedding night, or if Shelly here was so bummed out he couldn’t get it up, I see some big bucks.”

  Sheldon grabbed both of his wife’s hands. “Honey, that’s what it might have been…” She dipped a shoulder and shook him off like O. J. Simpson shedding a tackier.

  “We’ll get the best expert witnesses,” I continued. “Now if we’re talking the whole honeymoon, or better yet, continuing to this very day, we’ll get you into therapy, counseling, sex surrogates.”

  “Sex surrogates?” Marilyn Berger cried out, crushing her cigarette in a Miami Dolphins commemorative plate, circa 1973.

  “Sex surrogates,” Sheldon repeated, hitting a high note, nodding in my direction. Here was a man who understood the legal process.

  “You didn’t videotape, by any chance?” I asked.

  “The ceremony?” Marilyn asked, still dazed.

  “No, the honeymoon, if you get my drift. A lot of newlyweds these days get a camcorder as a gift and find a real quick use for it. But not too quick, eh, Shelly?”

  Marilyn Berger was straightening her dress and shooting sideways glances at her husband. “Darling, I think we should leave now.”

  He seemed to want to discuss the case further, but he stood up a split second after his bride.

  “Sheldon,” I said, pointing at him, “you might want to keep a bedroom scorecard if you’re serious about this.”

  “Scorecard?”

  “Balls, strikes, errors, that sort of thing.”

  “Sheldon!” she commanded, and he followed her out the door.

  I could have used the work, but I prefer cases that I believe in. Best is to have a client you like, a cause that is just, and a check that doesn’t bounce. Two out of three and you’r
e ahead of the game. There are a lot of frivolous suits these days, and I didn’t need to add to the bunch. I used to think that the courthouse was the little guy’s haven, the place where the multinational corporation stood on the same footing with Joe the shrimp fisherman. In the past, lawsuits have righted some wrongs. Product safety, civil rights, and consumer protection cases have all expanded individuals’ rights. But the pendulum has swung the other way. An inmate who killed five people including his two children sued the state for denying him rehabilitation after lightning knocked out the satellite dish that carried public television. He claimed the programs on commercial channels were too violent. Then there was the man who sued his father for failing to attend his grandson’s communion. He asked for one hundred million dollars for anxiety and depression. Parents whose seventh-grader came in second in a school spelling bee sued, claiming she had correctly spelled horsy, or is it horsey? And, in the time-is-of-the-essence department, concertgoers sued Latin heartthrob Julio Iglesias, claiming he was two hours late taking the stage. Maybe Julio and the rabbi were having drinks together.

  The courts are not equipped to handle all of society’s problems. They have enough trouble with a simple breach of contract to sell a hundred widgets from the Acme Corporation to the Zebra Company. So when I have a choice, I try not to add to the mountain of silly suits. Besides, today, I had a dinner date.

  I was dipping the crunchy Italian bread into the olive oil when he sat down, drew a vinyl notepad and a ballpoint pen from his suit pocket, and started talking.

  “Do you have it with you?” Robert T. Foley asked.

  “The antipasto is very nice,” I answered. “I’m particularly fond of the cold eggplant.”

  “Where is the rabbit?”

  “The veal porcini, too, and the pasta is very good. But no rabbit on the menu.”

  “Don’t jerk me around, Lassiter. Where is it?”

  I laughed and took a bite of the oiled bread. Foley removed his wire-framed glasses and cleaned them on the napkin. He was still wearing the gray suit, or its twin brother. Maybe they’re standard issue for federal agencies. He was in his late forties and looked in shape, a lean body and a creased, outdoorsy face. He stared hard at me. “The rabbit,” he repeated.

  “The rabbit jumped over the moon,” I said.

  “Do you find this funny?”

  The waiter brought the menus, but Foley waved him off before he could tell us the specials. I said, “You’re a spy, right? Like in the movies. A spook? And here we are at Domenico’s in Coral Gables, but the waiters are speaking Italian, so maybe it could be some place in Rome, and you ask, ‘Where is the rabbit,’ like it’s some code. So I answer… Oh, never mind.”

  Foley didn’t crack a grin. Maybe it wasn’t that funny after all.

  “I’m not a spy,” he said with apparent boredom. “I compile reports on subjects of concern to national security.”

  “Like a Marielito killed in a trailer park?”

  “I am not at liberty to tell you the parameters of the investigation.”

  “And I’m not at liberty to show you my gold bunny rabbit.”

  The waiter returned and I ordered the antipasto and the veal with mushrooms and pine nuts. Foley asked for coffee, black. When the waiter left, Foley lowered his voice. “You’re withholding evidence in a homicide.”

  “Out of your jurisdiction. That’s Socolow’s problem.”

  “I’m going to be your problem, pal, if you don’t cooperate.”

  “I’m willing. I just want to know what’s going on. That’s why I called you, and that’s why I told you about the rabbit.”

  He gave a little snort that was supposed to be a laugh. “That’s all you want? Information is my stock in trade.”

  “Okay, so deal with me. Who killed Crespo?”

  “Who gives a shit?”

  “I do. And so do you, or you wouldn’t have shown up at the scene.”

  He shrugged. “Crespo murdered a Soviet national we’d had under surveillance. It relates to an ongoing investigation of an international criminal conspiracy.” Foley grudgingly peeled off a piece of Italian bread and took a dry bite. “That’s all I’m going to say, got it?”

  “Crespo didn’t do it. He was set up to take the fall, and for a while, he went along. When he didn’t-”

  “Not my jurisdiction, remember? Go tell Socolow.”

  “But Crespo was innocent. Somebody else killed your Russian. Doesn’t that interest you?”

  The waiter brought the antipasto and Foley’s coffee. I sliced a piece of buffalo mozzarella that was relaxing on a sliver of juicy red tomato.

  Foley sipped at his coffee and said, “I’m more interested in what he was doing while he was alive.”

  “Then you should be investigating Yagamata. He called the shots. You’ve got to know that.”

  Foley looked at me over the rim of the cup. “Like I said, I’m through talking. You have something for me, give! If not, I’ve got other things to do.”

  I was nibbling at the marinated mushrooms when it dawned on me. “I get it. You are investigating Yagamata. That’s what you can’t tell me, right?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence or nonexistence of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Then I can’t tell you about the bunny rabbit…”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Or,” I said, dropping a line into the water, “the priceless artwork that should be in Russia but is showing up right here in Mia-muh town.”

  They may train them not to show emotion, but the central nervous system doesn’t always listen. His eyes gave a little blinkety-blink behind the glasses. “What art?” he asked, a mite too delicately.

  “A Faberge egg that’s supposed to be in Moscow, not in a mansion on Palm Island. A Matisse that’s in the Hermitage according to the guidebooks, but is hanging in an exilado ’s study in Little Havana. Not to mention the trinket I told you about, the gold rabbit once worn by an empress.”

  He screwed up his face, adding some new lines. He drained his coffee. “Okay, Lassiter, let’s take them one at a time. Did Crespo give you the rabbit pendant?”

  In a manner of speaking, he handed it to me, I thought. “Later. First, tell me what’s going on.”

  He sat there thinking about it. Finally he said, “You know anything about art?”

  Now where had I heard that before? “Sure, I’ve been taking a crash course.”

  “Yeah, well, it better include some arithmetic.”

  I gave him my big-dumb-guy look. It isn’t hard to do.

  “Dollars, Lassiter. Very major dollars. At Christie’s in New York not long ago, a Japanese industrialist named Ryoei Saito paid eighty-two million dollars for Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Cachet. A few days later, at Sotheby’s, he bought Renoir’s At the Moulin de la Galette for seventy-eight million. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. Vinnie and Pierre must really be pissed.”

  “Two paintings, Lassiter. A hundred sixty million dollars! And legitimate sales are just the tip of the iceberg. You know anything about the international trade in stolen art?”

  “Only what I read in the papers. There was a story about a guy on a tour in a Paris museum who cut a Renoir out of the frame, rolled it up, and walked out. Then, there was that soldier from Texas who picked up the German stuff during the Second World War.”

  “Child’s play. I’m talking about the organized theft and distribution of two billion dollars a year in art and antiquities.”

  “Billion with a ‘b’?”

  “Everything from a Roman sarcophagus that was on loan to the Brooklyn Museum, to the Decadrachm Hoard, two thousand Greek coins that date from 500 B.C. Plus classical paintings by the masters.”

  “Who would buy that kind of stuff? It doesn’t sound as marketable as a stolen CD player or a set of steel-belted radials.”

  He looked at me as if I had cut a few too many classes. I had.

  Foley said, “The museums
buy stolen art all the time. Sometimes, they know. Sometimes, they close their eyes. Once in a while, they even give stuff back. The Getty did it recently with a sarcophagus of Hercules. The San Antonio Museum was loaned a marble statue of the goddess Demeter that was smuggled from Istanbul to Munich, which is the headquarters of the stolen art trade. Private collectors like Yagamata don’t care where they get the stuff, as long as it ends up in their house.”

  “I still don’t understand the CIA’s involvement,” I said. “Why isn’t it the FBI, like with stolen securities?”

  “When a foreign government asks for our help…” He let it hang there.

  “You’re not talking about Roman antiquities here, are you? You mean the Russians.”

  He managed to smile without breaking his face. “One of the ironies of the liberalization in the Eastern bloc is the increase in Western-style crime. Before, with travel restrictions, smuggling was virtually impossible. Now, Karl hides priceless paintings in his suitcase when he goes from East to West Berlin to visit his cousins. There are criminals with shopping lists from Western collectors. Do you know Table with a Goblet by Picasso?”

  “No, but if you hum a few bars…”

  “A couple of months ago, thieves broke into the National Gallery in Prague. The security there was laughable, simply no experience with sophisticated, organized crime. Anyway, the wiseguys made off with four Picassos, estimated value thirty million. In Czechoslovakia, there were over five hundred burglaries of churches in the first twelve months after the Communists fell. Chalices, paintings, candlesticks, Stradivariuses, everything that wasn’t nailed down. In East Germany, it’s just as bad. You’re probably not familiar with the sixteenth century statues of saints at the Church of Saint Nicholas in Prenzlau.”

  “Not intimately.”

  “Well, don’t go looking for them, because they’re gone. Same thing with the bronze nymph and seahorses from the gardens of Sans Souci in Potsdam.”

  “Russia,” I reminded him. “What about Russia?”

  Foley looked around the restaurant. If there were any KGB agents, I didn’t see them. Just the usual suspects-expense account lawyers, overweight accountants, and real estate developers entertaining members of the zoning appeals board. Foley seemed to be trying to figure out whether to say anything else. Finally he sighed and said, “The biggest enchilada of them all. With the market economy, some of the new Russian capitalists are petty thieves, and some not so petty, including a helluva lot of government officials. After the failed coup, then the fall of the Union, it got worse. Corrupt old bureaucrats were replaced by corrupt new bureaucrats who didn’t fear the KGB anymore, now that it’s been reorganized and renamed, and morale is worse than the Pentagon’s after ‘Nam. The new regime looks good on paper, but it’s no controls, no holds barred for the wiseguys.