by Dale Nelson
Long moments of dead silence followed. Jack heard nothing, literally nothing on the other end of the line, like he’d dialed outer space.
After about a hundred years, Reginald spoke. When he did, his voice was different and carried a strange resonance. “That job’s not available anymore, Jack.”
“What do you mean, it’s not available? They cancel the exhibition?”
“No, they didn’t cancel it. I just gave it to someone else.”
“You did what?” Jack tried to force as much indignation into his voice as he could.
“You heard me, Jack,” Reginald said with the hard edge of finality. “You told me in no uncertain terms, and quite emphatically I might add, that you wanted nothing to do with that job. So, I gave it to someone who did. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t be serious. Who else do you know who could possibly pull this off?”
Reginald let out a heavy, wet “heh” that could’ve just as easily been a sarcastic laugh as emphysema. “You think you’re the only person with light fingers in this business? You’re not the only thief I know, Jack. Look, maybe there’s a life lesson in there somewhere. I don’t know what it is, but you weren’t willing to take the risk for this one, so it’s probably for the best that you didn’t. This isn’t the sort of thing you want to try if you’re not a hundred percent committed. And you weren’t, so let’s just leave it at that.”
“Things have changed.”
“Yes, they have.” His words hung in the air.
“Whoever you’ve got running this isn’t as good as me, and we both know it,” Jack said in a unique and wholly uncharacteristic spoken arrogance. “Tell them something came up and give me the job.”
“It doesn’t work that way, and we both know it. You want me to pull a crew I’ve lined up at the last minute now that they’ve got all the details? Or add you and tell them that now, all of a sudden, they’ve got to split the take? You know what an eighty-five-million-dollar grudge looks like?” Reginald blasted. “Well fucking neither do I.” Before Jack could drop a word of reply, he continued, “And I don’t aim to find out today.” Jack heard Reginald exhale hard on the other end, an exorcism. “Look, Jack, this one isn’t going to work out. I’m sorry for whatever trouble you’re in, but aren’t you the one always telling me ‘never steal out of necessity’? Makes you reckless? Ring any bells? You’re always preaching me the Gospel of Saint Jack, so maybe this time you should say one of your own prayers instead of telling them all to me. Go relax, have a glass of that cabernet you like so much, and when I’ve got work for you I’ll give you a call. I gotta go.” Reginald abruptly hung up as Jack was forming his name as a word of protest.
Jack didn’t really believe that Reginald was going to let him on the crew at this late date. Either he’d have to fire the leader and create an enemy (who also knew about the job) or force everyone to take less of a cut. Like Reginald said, he didn’t really want to find out what an eighty-five-million-dollar grudge was like. Truthfully, Jack didn’t want to get onto Reginald’s crew. The only reason he called LeGrande was to find out if he was still doing the job. Reginald would never believe that Jack would do this alone, and as cautious as he was, would never think of trying something like this without prep. This was mostly to find out whether or not there was going to be competition.
He thumbed through his contact list until he came up with the fake name he used for Enzo. Jack stared at the number for a long time before he closed down the phone. Enzo was his friend and an old one, but this was business, and Reginald was a steady stream of income for him. Jack didn’t want to put Enzo in the position where he felt like he needed to choose between his friend and his livelihood. As much as Jack wanted him in on this, he just couldn’t take the risk that Enzo might not want to cross Reginald.
Eighty-five-million reasons, Reginald had said.
Something else was gnawing at him. The fixer’s comment; go relax, have a glass of that cabernet you like so much, and when I’ve got work for you I’ll call. What he said was odd enough, but the strange and sarcastic emphasis Reginald placed on having a glass of wine struck Jack with an unsettling resonance that was punctuated by the abrupt sign off.
Jack ran a hand over the smooth wood of his deck railing, stained a deep brown and already just south of hot in the summer sun. He loved it here. Truly loved it. Jack could see most of Sonoma Valley from his deck. He spent countless cool evenings on this deck with Miles Davis or Coltrane playing in the background and drinking a glass of wine, most often his own. It was strange how much being a wine maker gave him purpose. At least, being a proprietor, but he was learning. Megan told him in her own overly frank way that while he didn’t know anything about the business, he had an innate sense of whether something was good or not, and those instincts couldn’t be taught. Given time, she and Hugh told him, he could be one of the greats, and Kingfisher could be great too.
People depended on him, and Jack found meaning in that also.
He’d be goddamned if someone was going to take this away from him.
Jack opened up a secure browser on his phone, one that wouldn’t didn’t leave any search history in case the phone was ever confiscated. He looked up Ari Hassar. The top hits were all a variation on the first: “Israeli Diamond Mogul Promises Spectacular Show.”
Buddy, you have no idea.
Jack set his phone down and thought for a few moments, rolling the words, “spectacular show” around in his mind. The diamond exhibition was set to coincide with the Cannes International Film Festival.
Reginald’s team would likely target the opening. After that, there would be too much traffic at the InterContinental hotel.
Jack dialed one of the few contacts in his directory that wasn’t a dummy. The other line answered on the second ring.
“Gentleman Jack Burdette,” the voice said, sounding sly and on the edge of a smile.
“How’s it going, Rusty?” Then, “Listen...I’m going to need to ask you a favor.”
Five
It took Reginald the entire flight from San Francisco to Long Beach to get control of his emotions enough that he could think about what to do next. He thought the Jack and Coke he’d drunk on the plane would calm him down, even him out, but even as he ordered it, as he said the name and fury boiled up in his stomach.
The fucking nerve.
Who did Jack think he was, turning down this job?
When Reginald arrived back in Long Beach, he drove home to Naples Island but skipped his house, opting instead for the marina and his boat, a Chris Craft Corsair 36. He opened the boat’s small galley and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, reclining on the long, leather bench, forcing himself to relax.
This boat was a masterpiece of nautical craftsmanship. The hull was painted navy with an ivory-colored top and cockpit. Teak accents flowed aft from the bow and streaked across each side, splitting the ivory in two. This motif played out again in the open-air cabin with ivory-colored leather benches framed by tan accents above a teak floor. Reginald purchased this with his cut of Jack’s earning last year. This was an escape plan as much as it was a luxury. Reginald maintained a dive apartment a few miles from here that his lazy parole officer never double-checked, but his real residence was the three-story Mediterranean home here on the island, and here on the boat. He could be in Mexico within a few hours if he ever needed to run. And in style, he mused. That was one thing Reginald picked up from his protégé.
Oh, he knew all about Jack’s other life despite the lengths that Burdette went to keep it a secret. Jack forgot that Reginald had known him for most of his adult life. Jack forgot that Reginald found him, a scared kid, boosting cars and doing bullshit B&E jobs with penny ante crews. None of the people in Reginald’s stable were outside his grasp. He knew where they lived, who their girlfriends were, whether they had a house or a family or anything else to tie them down. He knew if they had something to lose. He knew what levers he had to pull.
Reginald closed h
is eyes and felt the supple up and down motion of the boat floating in its berth. Seagulls squawked overhead. He’d come a long way since his stint at San Quentin. He’d been sentenced to ten years, but his lawyer was able to shave a few years off of that. Reginald was caught robbing a diamond exchange around Los Angeles, a job that Jack told him not to take. He’d gone to Europe when things got a little hot around here, spent a few years kicking around Italy and came back to this pretentious shit. Like he was some kind of East Coast blue blood. Oh, he was still the best thief Reginald ever worked with, and despite Jack’s newfound class (and the necessity to show it off) Reginald still loved him like a son.
That’s what made what he had to do next so hard to do.
Even family had to have a dose of tough love on occasion.
Reginald didn’t care that Jack wanted another life. That was fine. Reginald had one. They were all entitled to it. Hell, he’d christened his boat Second Chances. Reginald’s issue was that Jack was walking away from an opportunity to make themselves both rich beyond their wildest expectations and, more importantly, a chance to walk away from this life for good. They wouldn’t have to steal anymore. Then, Jack could spend the rest of his days making wine, driving his fancy cars or whatever the hell else he wanted to do. They could have gone back to the way things used to be.
Wistful, Reginald drained his glass, got up, and poured another. He arched his back and stretched. No matter how short the flight, coach seats always did a number on him, and it wouldn’t do for his PO to learn that he was buying first class tickets on what that clown thought Reginald was making a year.
Reginald sat back down, lounging on the bench and watched the sky darken over the Pacific beyond the barriers of their small harbor.
He thought about the times he and Jack had, turning that scared kid on the run into a proper thief. He thought about the wild times, the crazy jobs they pulled and the handful of times they spent the entire wad living like big shots. Guess that’s what gave Jack the taste for the life he had now. Maybe Reginald was to blame for this, somehow. At some point, Jack decided that he had something to lose and got conservative. He made up those stupid rules of his.
But Jack didn’t have a prison sentence hanging over him.
Reginald was tired. He was tired of having to check in with this idiot PO. He was tired of planning jobs and recruiting crews. He was tired of the risk, of wondering if he was going to wake up to a flashlight in the face, no-knock warrant, and the rest of his life behind bars. He was tired of wondering if the thirty minutes he needed to get to the boat and go would be enough.
And Reginald was tired of dealing with prima donna thieves.
Jack told him time and again: never steal out of hunger, never take a score large enough that someone would notice, and never steal from someone with the will or the means to get it back.
Reginald only had a few good years left and he knew it. He would be sixty this year. He wanted to enjoy his life, on his own, without waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d offered that chance to Jack and he chose not to take it.
Well, even the most reluctant would come around given sufficient motivation. Reginald was sad it had to come to this, he truly was, but Jack had enough years left to make it up. Reginald did not.
Resolute, he toasted the air and drained his glass.
If Gentleman Jack Burdette wasn’t going to play along, then Reginald would just have to give him a push.
Six
According to his watch, Jack spent the better part of two days getting to Cannes.
He caught a red eye to London. Jack cooled down somewhat as he crossed the Atlantic. Reginald was right. Jack passed on the job, and Reginald wasn’t going to just give that opportunity up. His friend would be furious when he learned that Jack stole the jewels first, but Jack figured that cutting Reg in for his usual five percent would put a lot of salve on those wounds.
He landed in London in the early afternoon and then hopped to Marseilles, deciding it was best if he avoided flying into Cannes directly.
Jack met Rusty in Marseilles to collect his car, passport, and credit cards.
Rusty was an American expat living in Europe and was the sort of character you only expected to find in movies. Jack used him to clear local hurdles and to quietly procure the hard-to-find things that thieves tended to need on short notice. But Rusty’s true strength was as an information broker.
The details were never made clear, and Jack never pressed, but he knew Rusty had once been with the FBI. Rusty joked once that he was the guy who enforced the “FBI Warning” you saw when you first watched a DVD. Based on how quickly and thoroughly Rusty navigated the obstacles, Jack had no doubt there was law enforcement in his background and that it likely wasn’t always above reproach. The romantic side of Jack thought Rusty might even be wanted himself.
Rusty met Jack at Marseille Provence Airport. The ex-fed dressed like most Americans envisioned Italian gigolos—gray sharkskin pants just south of shiny, short-sleeved navy shirt, tan, pointed tip Italian loafers, and large sunglasses with a blue tint. Rusty had a suit coat slung over his shoulder like he’d never intended to wear it. His hair was probably brown, but it was kept to a length that was just above military-grade stubble. He was fit and carried himself in a way that suggested he wasn’t often challenged. They shook hands, vamped big smiles, and Rusty put a hand on Jack’s shoulder—like old friends meeting.
They turned and walked for the door.
“I got you a Maserati GranTurismo Sport.” Rusty turned to Jack, his face serious. “Yes, its Rosso Mondiale before you ask.” He knew his customers. “Passport and credit card are in the glove compartment. The name is Peter Edward Ramsey, and you’re from Los Angeles. The card is a ghosted Visa Black Card, so it should be good everywhere. There’s no limit, but just be careful about patterns. I know you know all that, but I have to say it. If you’re only using it for a few days, we should be cool. I’ve also put two thousand Euro for walking around money in there as well as a Beretta 92FS.”
Jack nodded. Rusty always amazed him with how fast he could turn around an order—getting a high-end Italian sports car, pistol, and a passport—he kept stock head shots of Jack—on two days’ notice was a near legendary skill in the fixer community.
Jack didn’t want the gun, but it was a reasonable precaution working by himself.
They left the main terminal and stepped into the dry, mid-seventies air. It felt good after spending so much time on a plane. Rusty turned his head, clearing left and holding up a polite hand to the oncoming car. “I found out who LeGrande is using in Cannes like you asked, and I don’t think you’re going to like it. He’s got your current roster of regulars: Enzo Bachetti, Gaston Broussard, and Gabrielle Eberspach.” Rusty waited a beat. “He’s also using Ozren Stolar.”
That complicated things more than a little.
Jack shook his head as they stepped into the parking lot. It was disturbing that Reginald would use Jack’s own crew but not all that surprising. Every thief Jack knew that had served time was either born-again risk averse or a pathological daredevil. Definitely the former, Reginald would not leave this to chance. He’d use the people that Jack trusted, that Jack had brought along in the hopes that they still had some trace amounts of Gentleman Jack’s magic in their systems.
Jack was relieved he didn’t call Enzo and pitch him.
Jack and Rusty left the terminal and walked across to the parking lot, enveloped by the hot sun and thick, salty air.
They reached the car. A GranTurismo with its limited-edition factory-special paint was a hard thing to miss. The car was objectified elegance and speed. The GranTurismo had the famous Maserati long, shark nose front end and wavelike lines over the front rim, dipping ever so slightly before rising again to encompass the passenger cabin. The rear window sloped more steeply to meld with the trunk. Rosso Mondiale was the shade of red you would expect on the lipstick of a high-end escort, so ostentatious it was inherently masculine. It was a
color that only an Italian could dream up.
Rusty flipped Jack the keys, smirking.
“Gentleman Jack, it is always a pleasure. Most of the people I work for ask for Fiats, VWs, and BMWs with fake plates and clean histories. I have to say, I appreciate your taste as much as I do the challenge of satisfying it.”
Jack smiled back. “Thugs steal purses. Gentlemen steal jewels.” Jack briefly ran his hand along the door before settling on the handle and opening it with a gentle tug. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Thanks for everything. What’s your schedule the next couple of days?”
A grin broke on Rusty’s face. “I’ve got some work around here. My Spidey sense told me you’d be asking, so I decided to stick around.”
“You’re a good man, Friday.”
“Get out of here, you criminal.” His face broke into a wry smile. “I can’t afford to be seen associating with people like you.”
Jack climbed into the GranTurismo, set his leather bag on the seat next to him, and popped the glove box to verify the contents. He placed the money in his wallet and the pistol in the bag, burying it beneath his clothes. He also placed the passport he’d used to get here in the bag.
Jack guided the car out of the parking lot, relishing the engine’s growl in the low gears. The seats and dash were cappuccino colored, though the seat backs and cushions were black, as was the roof and fiberglass accents. She had just over four thousand miles.
Jack made his way to the A8, glad to be putting Marseilles behind him. The city was dirty in a way not easily remedied. Her streets were covered in a veneer of grime that couldn’t seem to be washed clean. Even when it rained, it just spread the dirt around. Those same streets were also choked with urchins and petty criminals—pickpockets, frauds, purse-snatchers, and muggers, refugees of France’s imperialist forays into Morocco and Algeria. Rather than assimilate into their new society, they chose simply to steal from it. Stealing, like any trade, Jack believed, should be left to the professionals. If one couldn’t do it with skill and, to be fair, a certain degree of panache, it shouldn’t be done at all.