Survival Is a Dying Art

by Neil S. Plakcy

  The yellow cloud Grassini had pointed out the day before still hung in the air, and there was little breeze. Leo unlocked the padlock on the shed and opened the door. “Now, we will see what we have,” he said.

  He whistled as he surveyed the pile of artwork. He picked up a framed sketch from the side of the shed and turned it over. “See this?” he asked, and pointed at the code on the back of the frame.

  It was the same as the one on the back of the Fabre painting, though a few numbers different. “Signor Grassini has quite a collection here,” he said. “Fortunately Commissario Affogato was happy to turn the investigation of stolen property over to me, and I have the authority to remove everything from the premises while I investigate each piece’s provenance.”

  I thought I recognized several other pieces from the home movie of Ugo Sena’s apartment. “How do you figure out who owns all this stuff?”

  “It will be a big project,” he said. “I hope it is all in that database of artwork stolen from the church. If so, I can begin to trace the owners.”

  We began ferrying the paintings and other items down the ladder and into Grassini’s kitchen, where we stacked the art works against the wall, and placed the smaller items on the table.

  The police had confiscated the sword used to kill Gianluca Bianchi, but we emptied the shed of everything that remained that looked valuable. By the time we were finished all that remained were some rusty hand tools and boat parts. Leo clasped the padlock and we went back down the ladder into Grassini’s sweltering kitchen. Both of us were drenched in sweat and the fan did little but move the hot air around lazily.

  We began opening the shipping boxes we had brought, taping them together, then packing the art work carefully inside. Fortunately Grassini wasn’t much of a housekeeper, and we found a stack of newspapers called Il Gazzettino we used to cushion the items. We stopped periodically to dampen paper towels with cold water and wipe them across our brows. We had to be careful not to get the paintings wet.

  By the time the last box was packed, my shoulders ached and I felt like I’d gone for a swim in one of the fetid canals. This was certainly not how I had hoped to spend my brief time in Venice, but I had a responsibility, both to the Bureau and to Frank Sena, who might end up with more art than he had anticipated.

  Leo radioed the launch pilot, who met us on the ground floor with the hand truck, and we took turns carrying boxes down the stairs. It was another half hour before we had the boat loaded up.

  It was doubtful that there was anything in one of those boxes that would help nail Jesse Venable, but I had done well in beginning the process of returning these stolen works to their rightful owners. I didn’t want to get Frank’s hopes up about some of the other works; I’d tell him about them when I saw him back in Fort Lauderdale.

  I stood at the prow of the narrow boat with Leo as we knifed through the canal, and the cool breeze off the water was rejuvenating. When we got to Carabinieri headquarters, he delegated two of the officers to unload the boat and carry everything to his office.

  By then it was well past lunchtime, and Leo took me to a small café nearby that was blessedly air conditioned. I sat on a hard wooden chair and fanned myself with the menu. “It is not hot like this in Miami?” Leo asked.

  “It is. But in Miami I go from my air conditioned car to offices and stores with air conditioning. I only go running in the morning just after sunrise, and then I jump in the shower as soon as I get home.”

  Leo ordered us a platter of tramezzini, triangular sandwiches on soft white bread with the crusts cut off. We had several filled with olive and prosciutto, and bottles of cold Italian lemon soda. My body finally began to cool down, and I texted Danny to let him know I was still working with Leo.

  “Tell me about your Mr. Venable,” Leo asked. “How do you think he is involved with smuggling?”

  We talked for a while about the counterfeit goods sold by the vu compra and the flood of immigrants from war-torn parts of Africa and the Middle East, and I was thoroughly discouraged by the time we finished. Leo didn’t have any idea how what I had learned of Grassini could help in nailing Venable, and I worried that my whole trip had been a failure.

  Then I remembered I was taking Frank Sena the picture that had been stolen from his uncle. At least that.

  The sky had turned cloudy by the time we walked back to his office, and though it wasn’t as hot, there was no breeze and the air stunk of pollution and dirty canal water.

  The Carabinieri headquarters were another of those venerable buildings without air conditioning, but Leo had a strong fan in the window which kept the room relatively cool. We began to unpack and categorize the items, and I was able to identify six other pieces, from a small statue of a male nude to sketches and another painting, that had clearly come from Ugo Sena’s apartment. I was sure Frank would be happy about that.

  It was late afternoon by then, and Leo said, “I can finish this work. You must wish to go spend time with your brother. See some of Venice.”

  “He was hoping we could go to St. Mark’s and the Doge’s Palace before they close for the day.”

  “Excellent. You will enjoy them both.” I emailed him the spreadsheet program from my laptop so that he could continue to work on it, and then realized that Leo might be able to use the bank information Grassini had sent to Jesse Venable. I showed him Grassini’s address, the information for his bank, its SWIFT code, and Grassini’s account number.

  “This is excellent,” Leo said. “I can use this to get Grassini’s bank records. If we can prove he was selling stolen artwork, then my office will have a case against him.”

  “If you find more connections to Jesse Venable, you’ll let me know?”

  He agreed, and I called Danny and arranged to meet him at St. Mark’s. A breeze had picked up that blew the rain clouds inland and cooled down the air. Following Leo’s directions, I headed down a series of narrow alleys that seemed to bulge inwards, past an ancient, urn-shaped Venetian well. I crossed a bridge and then walked through a pink loggia, across a deserted courtyard past a church, where a Franciscan friar hurried past me, humming along to the soft organ music that seeped out of the stone walls.

  As I walked I thought of how helpful Leo had been in clearing things up with Commissario Affogato. I remembered how Frank had told me I could get help from the fraternity of gay men—and yet my colleagues in law enforcement, with the exception of Commissario Affogato, had been equally helpful.

  24 – Art Lovers

  St. Mark’s Square was crowded with tourists eager to get into the historic buildings before they closed for the day. Danny had managed to book us last-minute tickets for a guided tour, and I met him at the side of the church, where the tour was about to depart.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Interesting day,” I said. “Though I feel like I spent it in a sauna.” While we waited for our guide, I told him about meeting Foa and cataloging the art work.

  Our guide was a charming older woman, and she led us into the church past a long line of tourists waiting for admission. The interior was truly awe-inspiring, and we sat in the middle of the central nave, listening to a story of the church’s construction and how it became the Cathedral of Venice.

  I thought how much my father would have enjoyed being there with us. I hoped that wherever he was, it would give him some comfort to know we were living the dreams he’d had for himself, and for us.

  After the tour ended, we walked back out into the square. While we were inside, the wind had shifted direction and brought those dark-bellied rain clouds back over the city. The sky turned an eerie dark blue and the first drops of rain hit. I cursed myself for having left my umbrella back at the hotel. We raced across the square and into a pasticceria, where Danny ordered us cappuccino and zaletti – soft biscuits studded with raisins.

  Through the big window, we saw people huddled under the narrow eaves of shop fronts, crowded into porticoes, and squashed up under arches
, as rain bucketed down. By the time we were finished, the rain had passed. We stepped outside into a total silence, which was slowly filled by voices, the odd door slamming, edgy TV chattering.

  Danny pointed up. “Look there,” he said. “You can see the mountains.” We saw the snowy peaks of the southern Alps and the golden light that made the buildings around us shimmer. “That’s what the light looks like in Canaletto’s paintings.”

  As we walked away, a small boat passed us, bright blue like the one with the sewage tank I’d seen earlier that day. This one, though, held a coffin topped by wreaths of pink and white flowers. The two men with it were dressed all in black, and I remembered what Leo had said, that in Venice, everything traveled by boat.

  Even the dead.

  Was that the body of Gianluca Bianchi? Or someone who’d died a peaceful death, surrounded by friends and family? Perhaps an accident or a violent death, like that of Lawrence Kane?

  I shivered and shook out my still-damp shirt. I wondered why I hadn’t heard anything more from Commissario Affogato. Had she given up on the idea that somehow I was responsible for Bianchi’s death? Or would she come after me and Danny again?

  At least I’d be back in the States. Danny would return to Florence. Would he be safe there? Suppose Affogato spread the word to the Mafia that I had killed Bianchi, and they came after my brother in retribution?

  I took a deep breath. I’d spent most of the day with Leo Foa, and surely if there was something to worry about, he’d have spoken to me. I’d take comfort that he was looking out for us.

  When we got back to the Locanda, I saw that Danny had been able to get Frank’s painting wrapped carefully so that I could carry it on board my flight. “Thanks for taking care of this,” I said to Danny as I examined the packaging.

  “No problem, bro.” He flopped down on his bed. “Your flight isn’t until Sunday morning, right? So we still have tomorrow to spend in Venice?”

  I agreed, and we plotted out an agenda for the next day. A gondola ride down the Grand Canal, a walk through some of the historic neighborhoods, and then, when we were tired, a hydrofoil trip around the outer islands.

  WE HAD A GREAT TIME sightseeing Saturday, though I kept checking my phone for messages from either Foa or Affogato, worrying that I wasn’t hearing from either of them. But maybe law enforcement in Venice took the weekend off.

  My happiness at spending time with my brother was also tinged by what waited for me back in Miami. I hadn’t been able to collect any evidence that connected Venable to watch or immigrant smuggling, and I doubted that Chancy Pierre had been able to nail Venable for the death of Larry Kane.

  That night at dinner I said, “It’s been great to hang out with you, bro. I’m really happy I could get over here, even if it’s only been a few days and we had a bunch of interruptions.”

  “We take what we can get,” Danny said. “I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t think I’d get it, but I applied for this internship at a museum in Miami for the month of August. I was hoping I could spend some time with you, but it didn’t come through. So maybe instead I could come to Miami over Christmas instead of going back to Scranton.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  Sunday morning Danny and I both woke early, had breakfast at the hotel, and went for a last walk together around Venice before I had to leave for the airport. Kiosk owners unpacked the day's papers, men pushed handcarts laden with restaurant supplies, and well-dressed people stopped for a quick gossip on the way to church.

  I wished I’d had more time to see Venice, to hang out with my brother. But I’d done what I came there to do, and it was time to go home. We checked out of the Locanda, and then stood in the lobby to say goodbye. “Love you, bro,” I said, as we hugged. “Have a great time for the rest of your stay in Florence.”

  “I will,” he said. “Travel safe, Angus.”

  I promised that I would.

  I slung my backpack on my back, tucked the painting under my shoulder, and trundled my suitcase down to the dock. Once I got on the boat to the airport, I stood at the prow watching the city rush by, relishing my last moments in Venice, thinking of all that I had missed, and vowed that I’d come back again someday, maybe with Lester.

  Thinking of my boyfriend put a smile on my face. I hoped that I’d get home in time to see him that night, though of course if he was working we might have to postpone our reunion.

  At the airport, I hurried through security, and because Leonardo Foa had called in on my behalf I was able to skip a lot of the scanning and get right out to the gate. I didn’t mention that someone else had packed the painting for me—it was my brother, after all. What could he have wanted to stick in the package? It wasn’t like he was an international terrorist who planned to take down my plane with a bomb.

  The flight was on American Airlines through Philadelphia, and the plane wasn’t as lavish as the Air Berlin one, the flight attendants not nearly as accommodating. But everything I’d been through over the past few days caught up with me, and I zonked out as soon as we reached cruising altitude.

  During a long layover in Philly, I found a café in the airport where I could get internet access, and checked my Bureau email. I read through all the messages with little relevance to me that I’d skipped over the last time I checked my mail, from Leo’s office.

  I also checked my personal email, and the Angus Gray account. A new message from Jesse Venable had come in there, asking me to stop by his house with the painting before I took it to Frank, so that he could see it and make sure that Frank hadn’t been cheated. I could do that. It would give me another chance to speak with Venable and see if he had any other dealings with Grassini. I still held the faint hope that there would be something in this operation that the Bureau could use to leverage Venable about the immigrant smuggling.

  I emailed Venable that I was back on U.S. soil with the painting, but would be getting in too late to stop by that night. I said I’d be in touch the next day. I swapped out the Italian SIM card in my phone for the US one and sent a text to Lester letting him know when I’d be back.

  Sadly, he was in Vero Beach that night on another promotion, and wouldn’t be back until Monday night. He’d managed to dig up a variety of penis emoticons which accompanied the message, and I’m sure someone around me noticed that I was blushing.

  It was after nine at night when we landed at Miami International Airport. I was relieved to be back on American soil, happy that I’d been able to carry the painting through without incident.

  I drove home to Wilton Manors, where Jonas’s car was in the driveway and his door was closed, so I figured he was already asleep. My body was still on Venetian time, though, and after my long nap on the plane, I couldn’t get to sleep. I threw my dirty clothes in the washer and then sent Danny an email to say that I’d arrived home, and hoped he’d had a safe trip back to Florence.

  I sat up in bed for a while, thinking of all I’d been through in the past couple of days. I thought my way through the wash cycle and put my clothes in the dryer. Then sleep finally caught up with me, but I was up at my regular time Wednesday morning. Folded my laundry, went for a run, sat down for breakfast with Jonas and filled him in on my travels.

  “Can I see the painting?” he asked.

  “I guess I ought to open it up and make sure it didn’t get banged up in transit,” I said. After we cleaned up the breakfast dishes I laid the package on the kitchen table and slit open the wrapping tape. Then I carefully pulled the painting from the packaging.

  “Wow,” Jonas said. “It’s gorgeous.”

  It was even more beautiful in person than it had been in the pictures I’d seen. In Venice, I’d been so concerned with getting the painting and getting home that I hadn’t taken much time to look at it, but there in my kitchen it shone like a jewel in a tarnished setting. The colors were so much more vivid, and the water looked like I could jump right into it.

  “He’s got a really small dick,” Jonas
said, pointing to one of the bathers and spoiling the artistic moment. “And this guy over here looks like he’s got a boner.”

  “Trust you to get right to the point,” I said to Jonas.

  “Hey, I never said I was an art lover. A dick lover, yes.”

  I laughed. It didn’t look like the painting had been damaged in transit, though there were a couple of nicks in the frame that looked like they’d been there for a long time. Jonas helped me slide the painting back into the wrapping. Then I carried it carefully to my car. I knew that I had a long morning of paperwork ahead of me, but I was also satisfied that I’d been able to carry out the mission I’d agreed to.

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to use what I’d learned to nab Jesse Venable.

  25 – Motorcycle Accidents

  I was on the highway when a call came through on my cell from an unfamiliar area code. “Good morning, this is Angus,” I said.

  “Agent Green? It’s Paul Snyder. Larry Kane’s roommate? I hope it’s not too early to call.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “You asked me to let you know if I found anything unusual in Larry’s things. I found this notebook Larry kept of ideas for making money. I skimmed through it and he wrote a lot of stuff down that seems dangerous to me. I thought you ought to look at it. I know you think I’m crazy, and that I ought to accept that Larry’s death was an accident, but I just can’t.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy at all.” I arranged to head right over to his condo, and was relieved when I arrived to see no ambulances or ghoulish spectators on the catwalks.

  “I’m glad you called me,” I said, as Snyder answered the door. He wore a sweat-stained T-shirt and baggy shorts, and wiped his hand on the shorts before he shook mine.

  The apartment still had the same sad air of a room in a museum, the plastic slipcovers on the sofa and the cluster of old photos in dusty frames on the etagere against the wall. “Larry was involved at least peripherally in some very dangerous stuff, so it’s not a big leap to assume there’s more to his death than we know.”