There. He’d said it, and he was glad.
Silence descended and stretched, becoming oppressive. Finally MaryLynn said, “You agree with that, Henry?”
“Well. Yes.”
Artie suppressed a smile. God, he’d missed Henry.
“Why didn’t you tell me before? When I first showed you Claud’s work, you said you were impressed,” MaryLynn raged. She stamped her foot and raised her fist. “You just patted me on my little head and patronized me. I hate being patronized, Henry. At least your friend was honest from the start. Now you can both leave, thank you.” She turned and stomped away.
Henry looked stricken. Artie took his arm. “Come on. She’ll cool off.”
They walked outside into bright sunlight that bounced off the cars parked along the street and the plate glass windows of the shops. They strolled along aimlessly, kicking a few fall leaves from trees planted in the space between street and sidewalk until Artie spotted a deli. He led Henry inside. It was past lunchtime, and Artie had enough money to eat out all he wanted now, as long as he broke up Henry and MaryLynn. And he thought he’d found a wedge.
Henry ordered a pastrami sandwich listlessly, and Artie did the same with more enthusiasm. After they were settled at a table, Artie asked, “What do you really think of the rest of the artwork MaryLynn displays?”
Henry shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Anything you’d want in your own home?”
“Maybe a few pieces.”
“Hmm,” Artie said. “I imagine she’ll want to have total control of any decorating of anywhere she lives.”
Henry put down his sandwich, and stared bleakly at Artie. “I guess so. Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Has a bit of a temper, doesn’t she?” Artie asked in what he hoped was an innocent tone.
“Not so I noticed until today,” Henry said and took a sip of his Coke.
“Well, she asked for my opinion, and I’m sorry if my giving it caused any problems between the two of you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Henry sounded discouraged.
“Perhaps we should go back and apologize, now that she’s had a chance to cool off.”
“Can’t change what we said, and I’m positive she believed us. She’s been banking on this Claud to make a name for herself.”
“Maybe he will. Can never tell in the art world. Others might not see his work like we do.”
“No,” Henry said. “It’s silly. Contrived. A few people might fall for that, but most won’t.”
“A few people like MaryLynn?” Artie couldn’t resist asking.
Henry frowned but didn’t answer.
“So, what’s this Claud like?” Artie asked. He took the final bite of his sandwich and wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“You think he’s the stereotypical insufferable, pretentious artist, don’t you?” Henry laughed softly.
“That’s what came to mind, yes,” Artie admitted.
“Well, you’re right. Not only that, he wears a cravat.”
“No!”
“Yeah. He must have a dozen of them.”
“And MaryLynn is taken in by this guy?” Artie asked.
Henry sighed. “She thinks he’s acting—playing the part of an artist to get noticed—but underneath, he’s an okay guy.”
“And you think?”
“I think she’s deluding herself. But that doesn’t matter, Artie. I’m crazy about her.”
Back to square one.
Henry stood up, threw a couple of bucks on the table and walked toward the door. Artie followed, deep in thought. He guessed he’d have to approach this from a different angle. He and Henry parted on the sidewalk, and Artie walked back to the art gallery.
MaryLynn eyed him cautiously when she saw him enter.
“I came to apologize,” he said as earnestly as he could.
“That won’t help. I know you meant what you said. And so did Henry.”
She turned to walk away.
“Wait! Please. I didn’t mean to do anything to come between you and Henry.”
She turned to face him again. “Why do you care? And this is only a small disagreement. Henry and I will be fine.”
“Well, with Henry, small can get big in a hurry,” Artie said.
MaryLynn glared at him. “Again, why do you care?”
“Henry is one of my oldest friends,” Artie said, trying for an aggrieved tone.
“He never mentioned you until today,” MaryLynn said with a sneer.
“We had a parting of the ways after college,” Artie said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know Henry inside and out.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Artie sighed. This wasn’t working. He’d have to try something else.
“Just trying to help,” he muttered and turned to leave.
“Oh, you’ve been a huge help,” MaryLynn said spitefully. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out.”
Lovely woman, Artie thought. Wonder what she’d be like if she were really angry.
And what would make her really angry? Artie could think of only one idea.
*
That night, around midnight, Artie took the bus to the gallery and scoped it out. The security system was state-of-the-art, but that didn’t bother him. The back alley was deserted, and he picked his way inside the building within ten minutes. In another hour, each one of Claud’s paintings had been cut out of its frame and rolled into a tube. He was careful. Even though unappreciative of Claud’s work, Artie would never deliberately harm his art. The work probably would be even more valuable after the publicity about the theft hit the news. That thought gave him pause. He didn’t want to do MaryLynn any favors.
He was committed now, so he cut the last painting from its frame, rolled it tight and slid it into the tube, put the cap on, and hightailed it out the back door. He made it to the bus stop without any problems and arrived home before one a.m.
He hadn’t told Josie what he had planned to do, but she saw him come in with the tube. Her fine eyebrows lifted, and she pointed at it. “A new container for the loot, Artie? That doesn’t look too smart. Jewelry will rattle in that thing.”
Artie shook it. Of course, it didn’t rattle. “Paintings by Claud.”
Josie smiled. “Really. Why? They’re not valuable, are they?”
“I don’t think so, although they may be after the publicity of the heist.”
“So, why’d you do it?”
“To make MaryLynn mad. I want Henry to see her dark side, and from what I saw of her this afternoon, she has one.”
“Won’t Henry guess who stole them?” Another frown. This time Josie looked worried.
“Probably, but he can’t prove it.” Artie’s stomach did a flip. He didn’t want to think about Henry’s reaction.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I’m torn.” Another flip in his gut. He could hire it out as an acrobat. “The robbery might make them more valuable, but I hate the thought of them being considered any good. I think I’ll hang onto them for awhile.”
Artie set the tube down in the corner of the room, giving it a pat. Dark thoughts of losing Josie and going to prison crossed his mind, but he pushed them away. Surely this would work, and Mrs. Henderson would give him that tape.
*
The phone woke him the next morning. He snatched it up and recognized Henry’s voice.
“You stole Claud’s work, didn’t you? Why?”
“What are you talking about?” Artie asked, hoping his voice sounded normal, but his heart was doing funny things in his chest.
“You know perfectly well. MaryLynn’s beside herself.”
“Start from the beginning, Henry. What’s going on?”
“Someone broke in last night and took all of Claud’s paintings. They’re not worth that much, Artie. I want to know what the hell you’re up to!”
“Wasn’t me, Henry. Maybe someone liked Claud’s work and didn�
��t have the money to pay for it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one would like his work enough to take such a chance.”
Artie heard MaryLynn screaming at Henry in the background. “How could you say such a thing? Claud is a fabulous artist. And you’re an idiot.”
“I gotta go.” Henry banged down the phone.
Artie hung up slowly, not sure if his plan was working or not. He’d assumed Henry would guess he stole the paintings, but hoped Henry wouldn’t have any idea why.
Josie took his arm and led him to the kitchen. “What was that all about?” she asked.
Artie sat at the table and put his head in his hands. He told her about Henry’s reaction, his voice muffled by his hands.
Finally, he looked up at her. “I hope Henry won’t tell MaryLynn what I do for a living. This whole thing is getting me in deeper and deeper.”
Josie sat down. “You don’t think Henry would break that trust, do you?”
“Why not?” Artie asked bitterly. “I’m just a common thief.”
“There’s nothing common about you, Artie.” Josie kissed him on the cheek and stood up to make breakfast. “Things will work out,” she said. “They always do.”
Artie put his head in his hands again and left it there until Josie put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. She poured coffee and sat down to eat her own breakfast.
“What are you going to do next?” she asked.
“I think I’ll return the artwork to the gallery tonight.”
“If you do that, Henry will know you took it, won’t he?”
“He’ll suspect. But he’ll never be able to prove it.”
At loose ends for the rest of the day, Artie channel surfed, went for a walk, and came back to the apartment to watch TV some more. Josie retreated to the bedroom to read because she couldn’t stand to see him so restless. He half expected Henry to call again, but he never did.
*
With relief, Artie left the apartment around ten to take the bus to the gallery.
The bus stopped one block away, and Artie could see police cars and emergency vehicles down the street, lights flashing. He debated with himself about getting off the bus to see what was happening or sitting past his stop. His curiosity got the better of him, and he climbed down the stairs into the crowd.
All the lights were on in the gallery, and he could see police moving around inside before someone hung up some kind of drape over the big plate-glass window. Artie turned to the gawker next to him and asked, “What’s going on?”
“I heard some shots. Called the police.”
“Do you know if anyone was hurt?”
Before the man could answer, the door burst open and the EMTs pushed a gurney toward the ambulance. Artie saw a glimpse of long blonde hair. Artie swallowed with difficulty. MaryLynn. Shot?
Henry came out the door and walked alongside the stretcher. “Get away from me,” she shrieked at him. “I never want to see you again!”
His shoulders slumped, Henry stood by the ambulance as they put MaryLynn inside. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle left the scene. Henry looked up and spotted Artie.
“What happened?” Artie asked as Henry got close enough to hear him.
Henry took his arm and guided him away from the crowd. “Claud shot MaryLynn, then himself. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Artie’s hand tightened around the cardboard tube.
Henry ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. MaryLynn should be okay, though. Shot her in the upper arm. Painful, they told me, because it passed through the muscle, but she’ll be all right. But our relationship is shot to hell as well.”
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Artie said, wishing he could ditch the tube before Henry noticed.
They walked down the street to an all-night diner and sat in a booth. After they ordered, Henry asked, “That Claud’s stuff?” He pointed at the seat where Artie had placed the tube.
“Of course not,” Artie said.
“Artie, you’re a jewel and electronics thief. You wouldn’t use a tube to carry that stuff around in.”
“Okay, you got me,” Artie said. “You want the goods?”
“Hell no. Keep ’em. They’ll be worth a lot in awhile.”
“You don’t want MaryLynn to benefit from them? She discovered him, after all.”
Henry laughed, but it sounded hollow. “She blames me—me!—for him shooting her.”
The waitress brought their coffee, her expression blank. Artie couldn’t tell if she heard them or not.
“Claud came in while she and I were arguing about his work. He’d been out of town and didn’t hear about the robbery on the news. He heard MaryLynn repeat what you and I had said about it. When he saw all the empty frames, he went berserk. He pulled out a gun, shot MaryLynn, then put it against his forehead and fired.” Henry shuddered. “I called him a crazy artist while trying to help MaryLynn. I thought she might kill me. I never knew she had such a temper.”
Henry put his head in his hands for a moment. When he raised his head again, his expression was bleak. “Mother was right. She never did like MaryLynn.”
A long-legged woman walked into the diner, her stride sexy and smooth. Artie would recognize those legs anywhere now.
“Henry!” his mother said as she reached their table. Artie remembered she’d told him she kept an eye on Henry.
“Mother? What are you doing here?”
“I heard about what happened and thought you’d need someone to talk to. I see you already have someone, though. Artie, how are you? I haven’t seen you since when—five or six years ago?”
“Hello, Mrs. Henderson,” Artie said. “How are you? How’s Mr. Henderson?”
“We’re just fine,” she answered and slipped into the booth next to Artie who moved the tube to its upright position in the corner so they’d have room.
The waitress came over to ask Mrs. Henderson what she’d like to order. “Coffee and a regular bagel with cream cheese.”
While Henry watched the waitress walk away, Artie felt Mrs. Henderson slip something into his hand. Realizing it was the recording of him in her store, he flashed her a smile and patted her thigh. He’d always wanted to do that but then remembered Josie at home, waiting for him, and took his hand away.
As he slipped the recording into his jacket pocket, he resolved to avoid beautiful women in the future. They were an obvious danger to his marriage and his career.
Josie. He would think about Josie.
Artie and the Brown-Eyed Woman
The scream brought Artie to the window. He looked out and saw a woman being dragged down the street by an angry-looking man.
For a brief moment, a streetlight illuminated her terrified face, her dark eyes liquid with tears. They looked exactly like his wife’s eyes when he did something to upset her.
The struggling couple turned the corner and vanished from Artie’s sight. He looked down at the DVD player as it fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Grabbing his athletic bag, he stuffed the burglary tools inside while running out the front door, forgetting the active alarm. He had disabled the one at the back to get in and expected to leave the same way.
As the signal clanged behind him, Artie took off down the street and around the corner.
What are you doing, he asked himself as he caught sight of them again. He didn’t need to get involved in something that would call attention to himself from the cops. The woman’s struggling had slowed the man down, and Artie was only a city block away when the man tried to push the woman into the back seat of a limo. A hand reached out from inside and pulled the woman in. The abductor jumped into the driver’s seat. Artie rushed up, panting, his hand just touching the back fender when the car took off, tires jittering on the pavement.
“No!” shouted Artie, as he stood there, watching it disappear.
Dropping the bag at his feet, he sank slowly to the curb and put his head in his hands.
“Hey, buddy. Could I borrow a
buck for a cup of coffee?”
Artie looked up at the beggar and slowly shook his head.
“Aw, come on,” the wino whined, his head bobbing up and down. “You look like you got a spare buck on ya.”
“Go away,” Artie said and put his head back into his hands. It seemed the best place for it at the moment.
The homeless guy kicked at Artie’s shoe. “I need a cuppa coffee. Come on.”
Slowly, Artie stood up and glanced around. The street was deserted. He saw a layer of cardboard in a doorway with a couple of gray blankets. Two huge black trash bags, stuffed so tight they looked like baby beached whales, leaned against the wall. Must be where the guy slept. The light bulb clicked on in Artie’s brain. Maybe because he wasn’t holding his head in his hands anymore.
“You see that guy manhandle that woman into a limo a few minutes ago?” he asked.
The man took a step backwards, his head bobbing faster than ever, but not in a gesture saying, “Yes,” but from nervousness. “What if I did? What’s it to you?”
“You know them?”
“Never seen ’em before in my life.”
“Ten dollars says you have. Who was the driver? They were on your patch.” Artie pulled out his wallet.
The homeless guy licked his dry lips. Artie noted that he looked to be about forty or so, although it was hard to tell when someone had been on the streets awhile. He had some gray in his beard and hair, blue eyes not yet clouded by too many drugs or too much booze, and wore the usual assortment of clothing. Artie could almost believe the ten would go for food and coffee. Almost.
He held the ten spot out invitingly, just far enough away so the guy would have to step forward to get it. The beggar hesitated, frowning at the money and looking between it and Artie. Then he shrugged and grabbed the bill with a grimy hand and shoved it into one of the many pockets of his jacket.
“Driver’s a bozo called Jetso. He drinks at Harry’s. You know Harry’s place?”
Artie nodded. “You’re doing good. How about the other guy?’
The Artie Crimes Page 2
