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  “I know, Sammy. I’m asking for you to make an exception. I’m asking for you to go through your logbook, flip to day before yesterday, and see who hired the car on Sunday. It will take maybe thirty seconds. Fifty dollars for thirty seconds is, let’s see…”

  “Six thousand dollars an hour,” Sammy says, like in a whisper. “Why do you want to know this thing?”

  “The fifty bucks is also so I don’t have to answer that question. Look, I’m not asking for the name of your driver or anything like that, and I’m not going to hurt anybody. I want to find out where the woman went in the car, the destination. What harm could come of that?”

  “The TLC and police would not like it. I should call the police.” The smallest of smiles pushed at the corners of his mouth, like knowing what he should do gave him the upper hand.

  “You could do that. But will the police pay you six thousand dollars an hour for the trouble?”

  There was nobody else in the place, no drivers, no customers.

  So Sammy looks at the logbook, looks at me, and says, “I cannot help you, and am going to the bathroom. Please be gone when I return or I will call the police.”

  Grant went with him. As soon as I heard the bathroom door latch I spun the logbook around and flipped it open.

  I was gone before he returned.

  For fifty bucks I’d bought a drop-off address and the last name French. The car wasn’t hired by a company, wasn’t on an account. Cash.

  The address was the Williamsburg Savings Bank Building, an Art Deco skyscraper that is to Brooklyn what Big Ben is to London. There’s a glowing clock at the top with red hands. The building gets thinner as it goes up, in steps, until just above the clock there’s this tiny dome. The dome looks kind of stupid, like a tiny yarmulke on a giant. Brooklyn has a downtown area with some big buildings, but Billy Bank is still the tallest building around, and the clock could be seen from miles in all directions, even from my neighborhood.

  Ms. French may or may not really have offices at Billy Bank, and she may not really have used her real name. Doubtful on both counts. The Grant in Sammy’s pocket may not have bought me much.

  In one week, the following Tuesday, I needed the last payment for Vince. Fifteen grand. If I didn’t come up with it, I’d owe twenty-five grand the following week, a ten-grand late fee. After that, the pink monkey would firebomb my apartment and remove the nose of my closest family member or friend. I needed those paintings, those goodies Huey lost. Max said he’d pay fifty grand for them. I was supposed to get forty percent, that’s standard for the setup, netting me twenty grand, but the crew would never stand for splitting thirty grand. Huey would take his forty percent, leaving Frank and Kootie with only nine grand. That’s way below scale. So if I only got thirty I’d have to lower my percentage to keep the troops happy, which would make me unhappy. I’d have to negotiate that fifty up. I was expecting Max to offer one hundred, which would put me square with Vince with plenty to spare. Of course, I could try to finesse some money out of Huey’s end from that, but not another ten. This sucked.

  If Billy Bank was a dead end on Ms. French, my next connection was Huey, Frank, or Kootie. If they didn’t take it directly, they leaked it to someone else, because I didn’t tell anybody. They were the connection I had to work on. If that didn’t give me dividends, the goofballs who took the pips from my three stooges were almost certainly in the business. So somebody must know them. Before the day was over I would have to feel up the neighborhood to see if I could scare something up. That’s what I did for a living, after all, what I did best. Something, even something small, should pop. Goofballs don’t keep secrets very well, not inside the industry.

  Not for nothing, but I was still getting pretty anxious about having to start looking from scratch.

  My phone vibrated, and I had a new e-mail. I was hoping it was Blaise, that he might have some information on my goofballs that would give me a lift.

  It was from Max at USA.

  Lunch me. 12:00 Sushi Ole.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  SUSHI ISN’T MY THING, AND I think Max knew it. Which I guess was OK because I hadn’t been very hungry since Jo-Ball’s head exploded. Ensuing events hadn’t exactly kicked off any cravings, either.

  Usually I can eat, like to eat, need to eat. My six-foot-six frame needs nourishment, and let’s remember that I’m a man of appetites. Just not for cold rice rolled up in clammy seaweed, or dead fish that hasn’t been shown some hot coals. Somehow adding wasabi is supposed to make everything OK. It doesn’t. Well, more for the rest of you who like this stuff.

  I’m not crazy about the atmosphere at sushi places, either. The seats and tables are designed by a smaller race of people for a smaller race of people. I’m just saying.

  It didn’t help that this sushi place was in downtown Manhattan. You don’t want to be in or around the financial district at lunch if you can help it. All those giant buildings empty onto the street, and there’s a sense of desperation as hundreds of thousands of workers hit the bricks in search of food. Delis and restaurants in the area had a hard time meeting demand, much less making ends meet what with the commercial rents down there. In a sit-down place the tables were practically on top of each other. In delis, people ate standing up. I don’t like eating standing up. The neighborhood was so pressed for noon nourishment that food carts appeared at corners, creating long lunchtime lines, further snarling up the sidewalks and foot traffic.

  Fortunately, I exited the subway at Fulton Street station a little early, so the lunchtime herd hadn’t begun its daily stampede. I started toward J&R, a music store. Thought I might browse the Latin jazz section. I’d been thinking about adding to my Ray Santos collection.

  My phone blurped. An e-mail came in. It was from Blaise, as promised.

  There was no hello or anything at the beginning of the e-mail, just a name like big guyor ugly guyfollowed by a list of places and times.

  I could hardly see the screen, so I stepped off the sidewalk, into a hat store. They still have hat stores in New York, and this one had a lot of the classics, like the ones Sinatra and Dino used to wear. I always liked hats, but they don’t look good on me. I got a big head, and a hat tends to make it look bigger.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Behind the counter was a Latina woman with fancy turquoise fingernails and matching pants. The pants were tight either because they were too small or she was too big or most likely some of both. She seemed nice enough. The walls were lined with lighted display cases of hats, mostly what they call fedoras.

  So I says, “What do you got that will make me look like Frank Sinatra?”

  So she smiles and says, “Why do you want to look like Frank Sinatra? You way more handsome than him. The right hat will make you look even more handsome, quito.”

  Nice lady. Smart lady. “Can I try some hats on while I check an e-mail?”

  “Summer hat or winter?”

  “I guess winter. It’s almost Halloween.”

  She looked at me with one eye and wiggled a turquoise fingernail at me. “We’ll try gray and brown hats first.”

  She started pulling out hats, and I stood in front of the mirror and scrolled down through the e-mail.

  The gray hats seemed a little too formal, but things got more interesting when she got to the brown hats. Things also got more interesting when I scrolled down past Frank and Kootie’s activities to what Huey had been up to:

  FRENCH GUY

  1000 TO DELI CIGS

  1015 SMOKE AND CELL AT BISTRO

  1025 BACK INSIDE BISTRO

  1300 SMOKE, CELL

  1310 BACK TO BISTRO

  1505 LEFT BISTRO, WALKS

  1520 ARRIVES DOWNTOWN STARBUCKS, COFFEE WITH BIG GUY AND UGLY GUY

  1550 LEAVES STARBUCKS, CAR SERVICE, BLUE DIAMOND

  1600 BLUE DIAMOND DROP OFF CONFIRMED BILLY BANK

  1615 SUBJECT LEAVES BILLY BANK WITH GYM BAG, WALKS

  1625 ARRIVES STOR-RITE, 3RD AVENUE


  1655 LEAVES STOR-RITE, NO BAG, MEETS RED APPLE CAR SERVICE OUT FRONT

  1720 ARRIVES BOND STREET LOFT/APARTMENT GRN BLDG @ UNION

  1820 LEAVES BOND STREET LOFT/APARTMENT

  1830 ARRIVES RITE AID SMITH / PRESIDENT ST.

  1840 LEAVES RITE AID, WALKS

  1845 ARRIVES BISTRO

  ===END===

  Reports for Kootie and Frank were boring. They got up late, ate breakfast or ran errands, went to meet Huey, and then went to the restaurants where they work.

  Huey’s movements, though—they had me dancing inside. My grandmother and her schnauzer could figure out what Huey was up to. What you like to see when looking into something like this is what they call commonality. Billy Bank was a commonality. Likely as not there were no “other three guys” out by the van. Huey had a deal with me but then went and found another buyer for the paintings—Ms. French, to be exact. Got paid when he visited her at Billy Bank, put the money in a storage locker. When he handed over the paintings was unknown since he didn’t have anything with him when he went to Billy Bank. Usually you move the goodies in a giant portfolio, without frames, of course. These portfolios are big black flat art briefcases. Don’t believe what you see in the movies—no goofball rolls stolen paintings, and if he does he only does it once and eats cold cereal for his effort. Roll an old painting, you mostly end up with a canvas tube full of pretty paint chips. You don’t cut it from the frame, either. Try that when you’re in a hurry and see what you get. Not exactly like slicing a cheesecake, especially with all that oil paint. Easier to skin an elephant. A pro lifts the whole frame, pops the art out later, then deep-sixes the frame even if it is gilded.

  Huey ripped me off. Now I needed to squeeze him for my share of whatever money he got. I was in a much more positive place than when I got the e-mail about the sushi. I began to hum Prado’s version of “Peanut Vendor,” a real peppy little tune.

  Now I had to decide how I would squeeze Huey. I could have told Huey either he had to cut me a big slice of the pie or I make trouble for him in the business as a fink. Or better, trouble for him in his home. With his wife.

  The green loft at Bond and Union Street?

  That’s Bridget’s place.

  She goes through a lot of sheets.

  Latina hat girl says, “Ooo, mister, I like this brown one on you, it goes with your eyes. For you, nothing too close in color to your hair. The eyes, ah, that’s muy bueno.”

  So I says, “You think so?”

  I adjusted the hat and looked at the clean-shaven Kirk Douglas in the brown overcoat and brown fedora in the mirror. I tried to ignore the stupid snowflake sweater I was wearing. He didn’t look like what I was used to. Still, chica was right. The brown hat did look good on me, didn’t make my head look like something orange ready for carving and putting on a stoop. I did need to cut my hair, though. The hat would work better with shorter hair.

  I looked at her in the mirror. “Do you know Perez Prado? His music?”

  A little confused, she said, “My grandfather, he listens to mambo.”

  “How much for the hat, chiquita?”

  “A hundred and seven.”

  If someone was going to blow my head off with a sniper bullet, I might as well have a hat on to hold the pieces together. I was so deep in shit with the pink monkey, what did another hundred matter? Besides, I was dancing inside because I knew who’d ripped me off and that I was close to making Huey hand over whatever he’d been paid so my problem with Scanlon would go away and Yvette would be completely out of my life.

  I handed the Latina hat girl my credit card and replied to Blaise’s e-mail.

  great work, BJ … stay on FG,

  drop UG n BG … photos at green loft?

  My new hat and me were headed to lunch with Max when I got a reply.

  MY MAN TOOK A COUPLE CUZ HE KNOWS GRN LOFT.

  XTRA $40 FOR GRN LOFT PIX.

  I sent back:

  40 aok - u r the best.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  SUSHI OLé WAS ALL DONE in blond wood, with blond tables and chairs very close together. Max was easy to spot in a lunchtime crowd. He was as tall as I was with short black hair and a white complexion. It was like when we were kids there’d be some lad who suddenly got taller but not wider. A beanpole. Maxie was an adult beanpole. Like you saw from the way he talks, though, Max is all about precision and economy. I’ve never seen him dressed in anything other than dark suits and white button-down shirts.

  Given how Max was, I guess sushi fit his personality. The food is neat, compact, perfectly arranged. I noticed he consumed his sashimi from left to right, back to front, at regular forty-second intervals. His eyes always stayed on me.

  I’m not sure what Maxie would have done with a pork chop, peas, and mashed potatoes with gravy. I’d like to have seen that sometime.

  The corner table meant I had to sit next to the wall, and had to wade through a row of people trying to enjoy their lunch to get there. I just said excuse me a thousand times, bulldozed my way in, and sat backward on the little chair, which made a loud creak like it was complaining I wasn’t a little Japanese guy.

  “Max.”

  “Tom.”

  “Museum?”

  “Yeah, interviewed the kitchen help.”

  “McCracken?” He was talking about Sheila, the museum director I had dated.

  “Just for a second. Atkins, too.”

  “Progress?”

  “Some.”

  “Some?”

  “I know who took the paintings.”

  “And?”

  “I’m waiting for some leverage to make one flip.”

  “Leverage?”

  “He likes girls. His wife wouldn’t like it.”

  “When?”

  “Today, probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Like I said, I’m waiting. For a photo.”

  “Photo a sure thing?”

  “I haven’t seen it, but I commissioned it. Anyway, I don’t have to have the photo to talk to the goofball.”

  “So not probably.”

  “Today. Is fifty really all you can do?”

  “Fifty.”

  “That’s not a lot for three pips. They comp on the Web much higher than that.”

  I had done my homework and comped the goodies prior to arranging them to be gigged. There’s an art auction Web site where you can look up auction sales, how much works by various artists have gone for at Sotheby’s and other houses. Appraisers use the site. I have to pay for access, but that’s an easy write-off. All together the Hoffman, Le Marr, and Ramirez would have cost a million five to replace with comparable works by the same artist. A fence would pay at most ten cents to the dollar and like I said low-ball the value. With insurers the appraisals are aboveboard and verifiable, so I expect fifteen percent to settle an item. I should have been getting a hundred fifty grand, or even a hundred at the low end. My part of that would be forty, so after I paid Scanlon’s monkey I’d still be keeping my head above water.

  “Fifty.”

  “Max, that’s not a lot of incentive for the businessman with the goodies. He can maybe get that in swag without risking exposure.”

  “The industry is cutting fees. Looking at alternatives.”

  “What kind of alternatives?”

  “New deterrents. New recovery methods.”

  “Is my part in this being phased out? I’d like to know.”

  “You’re cozy.”

  “Cozy?”

  “Too cozy.”

  “I’m a clever guy, but not always smart. I don’t get what you’re saying.”

  “The missing Henris stank.”

  “Max, I had hoped we were past that.”

  “USA is not past having to do a partial settlement. We don’t pay so they can swag.”

  “Like I said, they only took four. Somebody at the museum must have taken the other three.”

  “Believe a thief?”

&
nbsp; “I do. They’re just people, Max. They’re business people who are interested in making money through mutual benefit, profitable relationships, and trust.”

  “You succeed because you are embedded with thieves.”

  “Unless the collectors and museums are magically able to protect their goodies, and keep some kind of proper inventory, the art is going to be stolen. How are you going to get the goodies back if you don’t find the goofballs who took them?”

  “What if there were no more goofballs?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t follow.”

  “If the stealing stops, the payouts stop.”

  “How’s that going to happen?”

  “Alternatives.”

  I don’t know if you noticed, but we’d come in a circle, which meant to me he had told me as much as he was going to.

  “Well, in this case, your alternatives may be very limited by the fifty figure. This goofball already has a buyer, and the art may already have changed hands, meaning I may have to step beyond my target and go after whoever he sold it to. My costs go up with that, not down. And here you want to pay less.”

  “A fence?”

  “Probably.”

  “I hear there’s one less.”

  “One less?”

  “One less fence.”

  I’d forgotten to look in the paper about Jo-Ball’s head explosion, and was sure that they would have reported that he was the beloved maître d’ of Dominic’s, Brooklyn’s favorite Italian eatery. Max, of course, knew better.

  “That’s true.”

  “I hear you were there.”

  “I was.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Keeping my ear to the ground. That’s what I do.”

  “So do we.”

  I didn’t know if he was implying anything, like that they’d heard I was shopping and settling. To have asked him what he meant might tip my mitt, so I brushed aside the remark.

  “I’ll do my best with the fifty, but that figure is a low percentage play.”

  “Maybe your percentage is too high.”