Prior to their bon voyage, Big Lou, Inspector Durand and I had a private discussion.
Lou didn’t look so hot, what with his nose busted up, his eye turning purple and his wig an awful mess. All the same, he was grateful he would not be facing ten years or more in a French prison.
I asked him to tell us what Frank had told him.
“He told me you were after this thing, this thing that was really his, or that he had a piece of or something.”
The Inspector and I shared a look of amazement at the combination of Frank’s gall and Lou’s stupidity.
“And this ‘thing,’ do you have any idea what it is?” the Inspector inquired politely.
Lou slowly shook his large head, then looked at me. “That’s why I hadda come talk to you, you see? I hadda find out where you were with this thing, right?”
“Right,” I said. “That’s why you had to grab the girl and me and take us for a midnight walk through the park. So you could find out what the hell my cousin sent you here to find, since you didn’t even know.”
“Hey,” Lou said with a shrug of his massive shoulders, “when you put it like that it sounds pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, “pretty bad.”
Lou told us what little else he knew from Frank. He said that my cousin told him about a large deal, claiming that my father had taken him into his confidence years ago, and how the missing piece of the puzzle might have finally been supplied by a letter I found, which was supposed to provide the clue to where the money was hidden.
I laughed.
I told Lou that there was no letter with clues to a buried treasure, that in fact there was no buried treasure, and that my cousin had lied to him, which was something he might want to take up with Frank when he returned home. Durand, still knowing nothing of my father’s letter, was happy to confirm the truth of what I was saying. There was no reason to mention the legend of the Monet since big Lou had no idea about a painting and the Inspector and I weren’t about to educate the big oaf.
I also warned Lou that none of them, not him or Sluggo or Frank, had better ever darken my doorstep again, unless they wanted to face an arrest warrant from Interpol. The Inspector vouched for my statement.
He told Lou, “If so much as a hair on Monsieur Rinaldi’s head is mussed, every law enforcement agency in the world will be looking for you.”
“Hey, loud and clear,” Lou said with as much sincerity as he could muster, shaking his head and moving his hands all around. Turning back to me, he added, “I even understand you hadda kick me in the nuts when you did. It’s okay. I mean bygones are bygones, right?”
I almost told him I was sorry for yanking his wig off, then thought better of it. Instead, I said, “All of this goes for Benny, too.”
Lou’s response was a blank look and, coming from a guy who specializes in blank looks, it was hard to tell if I was being played or not.
“Spare me the eyes of the innocent, Lou. Who visited Benny out in Las Vegas over the last couple of days?”
He looked sincerely baffled. “I thought you did.”
I decided to let it go.
To this day, Lou never realized he was looking for a Monet. I wondered if he would know what a Monet was if he saw one.
Before we wrapped up the proceedings, I asked Durand if I might have an opportunity to see old Sluggo and give him a smack or two, a little payback for the sucker punch on the street, but the Inspector regretfully informed me it was not within Interpol regulations.
Instead, Durand’s men escorted all three thugs to the airport in Nice. They were left there to spend the remainder of the night enjoying the hospitality of the local gendarmes until they were led onto the first flight home the next day. As promised by the Inspector, each of them was also treated to entry into the files of Interpol and the FBI, which can be a major inconvenience if you’re ever stopped for jaywalking or want to visit anywhere outside the United States.
It was well after midnight when Donna, Durand and I returned to the Monte Carlo Casino. Gilles was waiting for us in the bar.
“I required a brief rest,” he offered as an apology for not accompanying the Inspector during the evening’s excitement. Then he smiled at me. “I knew you were in the best of hands.”
“That’s for sure,” I told him.
We sat in the corner of the room, at a small, round table with a black lacquer top so shiny you could see your reflection in it.
The room was beyond ornate, with a ceiling so high you couldn’t hit it if they gave you a softball and twenty throws. Each of the crystal chandeliers was the size of a truck, and they were everywhere. The walls were covered with velvet and the windows decorated with brocade fabrics that appeared to be three inches thick. There were sculptures on pedestals, small marble fountains, and oil paintings set on free standing brass easels, all of which were highlighted by directional beams that came from somewhere above. And this was just the bar.
I said I needed a drink, and Gilles suggested we order a bottle of champagne. I felt like I needed something stronger but agreed. We sat there, the same unlikely foursome waiting to see what might happen next.
Donna had cleaned up at headquarters and looked none the worse for rolling around on the ground in the park. I had tried to straighten myself out, but still felt a little disheveled. I excused myself, went into the hugest marble restroom I have ever seen, and washed up. The cold water I splashed on my face felt great, even if I did not.
When I returned to the table, Gilles looked at me inquiringly, to see if I was all right. Then he turned to Donna. “You have gotten more than you bargained for on this trip, eh?”
Donna forced a smile.
“It seems you and my young friend have some talking to do, am I right?”
Donna looked at each of us in turn, then said to Gilles, “We were sort of introduced by Benny.”
Gilles nodded and said, “I know.”
I felt a thousand-pound weight disappear from my shoulders. That only left about five hundred pounds to go.
“You knew?” Donna asked him.
“Oui. Benny told me this when we spoke a couple of days ago, when he called to say our friend’s son might be visiting.” Monsieur de la Houssay turned to me. “Benny told me there was a fine young woman he wanted you to meet, and I see you have.”
“You are lucky in many ways,” the Inspector told me.
“What am I missing?” I asked as I stared at Donna, her deep blue eyes clear and smiling now. “Am I the only one who didn’t know?”
“That night you were at Caesar’s,” she began. “I saw you, but you never noticed me. After you left, Benny came by—he and my father are great friends and Benny got me my job at the hotel. He knew I was about to take a trip back home, to New York, and asked if I’d get on your flight if he could arrange the ticket. He has a friend at American, got me the seat across the aisle from you, and I was the one who started our conversation, if you recall.”
“I do,” I said.
“Benny made me promise not to tell you. He thought it would be better, without you knowing.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
“He was worried you’d be upset if you thought he had me spying on you. I know I made some mistakes along the way, like mentioning the letter he told me about, but you hadn’t. I saw the look in your eyes when I said it, and I wanted to tell you then, but—”
“What about this trip?”
“He just wanted me to see you in New York, have dinner, find out what you were up to. He told me you’d probably want to visit someone here, and I called him after our dinner in Manhattan, told him what was happening, that you’d invited me to come with you to France. I told him I wanted to go.”
I was speechless.
Mercifully, our champagne arrived, giving me a moment to regroup. The cork was popped, glasses fi
lled and Gilles lifted his flute for a toast.
He said, “To friendships, old and new. To adventures, real and imagined. And to love, eh?”
Who could argue with any of that? We all touched glasses and drank. Then I decided it was time to tell Donna the legend of the Monet.
“Have I explained it accurately?” I asked Gilles.
“Parfaitement,” he replied.
Donna turned to the Inspector. “I heard you say earlier that this was all some sort of myth, what we might call an urban legend. Now that I understand the story, I’m not sure why you don’t believe it. If so many other paintings were stolen and moved around during the war—and the ownership papers were changed—I mean, why not this particular painting?”
Durand placed his glass on the shiny black top of the round table. “As I have said, there are so many reasons. First, I have come to know Gilles over these many years. There are certain judgments we make about our fellow men. In his case, the pursuit of great wealth was never important.”
“But you never knew my father,” I pointed out. “Or Benny, for that matter.”
“Ah, oui. But if they were in possession of such an artifact, why has it been kept secret for so long? What benefit did they derive? This was more than thirty years ago. There is what they call a statute of limitations, I am sure you understand.”
Statute of limitations? That had not occurred to me. “You’re saying that enough time passed to make them immune from prosecution?”
“Not necessarily. War crimes are a special matter. As you know, artifacts are still being recovered and returned to their rightful owners. But let us say the painting was passed to another, a dealer let us say, who claimed to have bought the Monet at some art fair or whatever you like, and there is no provenance, no one claiming a right to it, then what would anyone be able to do? You see?”
“I think so.”
“You hear stories all the time of valuable paintings being found in attics and sold for a mere pittance. If the Monet were real, something like that might have been done to cover up the theft.”
Donna and I looked at each other, then at Gilles, but none of us spoke.
The old man smiled. “As it happens, Benny and I have no children. You are the only heir to the legend.”
“Legend is right,” I said.
Inspector Frederique Durand studied me with an amused look in his eyes. “Belief is a matter of the soul, as are friendship and love. Each is a rare and beautiful thing.”
***
THERE’S JUST ONE MORE STORY about Blackie I need you to know. It happened a couple of years before he died, after he had his first heart attack.
The doctor said it wasn’t a bad coronary. The bad ones kill you. But it was serious enough for him to spend a few days in the hospital.
It was summer, and I was involved in a weekend baseball league with a bunch of high school and college kids who played hard ball at Van Cortland Park in the Bronx. My father, who had been released from the hospital the week before, came by to see us play.
The team I played on was pretty good. Our pitcher was left-handed, a cocky guy who had just finished his first year at Farleigh Dickinson as the number two pitcher in their junior varsity rotation. We had other solid players, including my cousin Nicky. He didn’t run well because of a bum knee, but he could crush the ball from the left side of the plate. I was an all-field no-hit shortstop, as I may have mentioned already, but my dedication to the game earned me the role as captain.
Our team expected to be competitive in our division, at least until our pitcher broke his ankle in a freak accident as we began warming up that day. He twisted his leg shagging a fly ball, and ended up on the ground, writhing in pain.
After his mother helped him in the car and drove off to the hospital, we had no idea we were about to lose him for the season. Our concerns were more immediate. First, we had lost our pitcher for that day’s game. Second, we only had eight players.
In softball, anyone can pitch the ball underhand. In hardball, the pitcher is the key player on the field. In softball you can also make adjustments and field eight guys, but in a hardball game you need all nine positions covered.
We had a problem.
As I stood on the sideline facing the possibly of a forfeit, Blackie saw what was going on and walked over to me, saying he had an idea.
“I’ll pitch,” he said.
Nicky and a couple of the other guys were nearby. I didn’t want to embarrass my father, so I said nothing. My cousin, who knew that Blackie just had a heart attack, said, “Hey Unc, you’re still on the mend. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
The rest of my teammates weren’t as kind. After a look at my father’s stocky frame and flabby stomach, one of them even laughed. “Come on, Mr. Rinaldi,” another one of them said, “knock it off.”
My father wasn’t insulted. “Tell you what,” he said, “how about I pitch batting practice? You’re short a man anyway. I’ll throw a few, then you decide. Meantime, maybe one of your other friends will show up.” He reached out and took the ball Nicky was holding. “I think the old man’s got a few innings left in him,” he told us.
I’d heard stories about what a great ballplayer Blackie was in his youth, most of which were told by Blackie himself. That day he was determined to show us.
My cousin and I looked at each other, then turned to my father. “I agree with Nicky. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
Blackie slapped himself on the chest, hard. “Fit as a fiddle,” he said, then started walking to the mound.
Blackie threw pretty well in batting practice. At least he was getting the ball over the plate, and his basic pitching motion looked like he knew what he was doing.
A little while later the umpire arrived and told us to start the game. As my team finished practice and left the field, we were still short a man.
My father strolled toward the bench and gave me a wink.
“I was just warming up,” he assured me. “The fastball’s still got some zip to it, you’ll see.”
My teammates did not want to forfeit, we were there to play, and we were out of options. I went to speak with the captain of the other team, to see if it would be all right with them if my father replaced our injured pitcher. For Blackie’s sake, I was hoping they would say no, which would have ended the debate. Once my father got an idea like this, I was never going to be the one to change his mind.
As you can imagine, after the other team looked over at our paunchy, middle-aged replacement player, they said sure, go for it.
I trudged back across the field and told my team it was a go.
We were home team for this game, so the other side was up first. Someone from their team loaned Blackie a glove. Obviously we had no uniform for him. He played in his gray slacks and black short sleeved knit shirt. He didn’t even change shoes, wearing his signature Lloyd & Haig black tassel loafers. It was clear he didn’t intend to do a lot of running. We took the field and, as I stood at the shortstop position and watched him take his final warm-up tosses, I could see he was beginning to throw harder. I trotted over to the mound.
“You sure you want to do this?” I asked one last time.
He offered a grin in response. “Take your position, fella,” he told me. Then he went to work.
He threw mostly fastballs, best as I could tell, with an occasional curve or change-up. He set their team down in order in the first.
As we came off the field, my teammates were slapping him on the back.
“Good job, Mr. Rinaldi.”
“Nice throwing, Mr. Rinaldi.”
He tossed the glove to the player on the other team, then turned back to us. “Hey guys,” he told them, “just call me Blackie.”
It was a hot, humid, summer day, and I was more worried about my father collapsing in a heap than about winning th
e game. He was already sweating quite a bit, and we were only in the bottom of the first. Nicky came over and put his arm around my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. He’s okay.”
I nodded. Then I watched our team go down, one, two, three.
Back on the mound, Blackie began to look vulnerable. He walked the first batter on five pitches, then went behind two and nothing on the next guy. But he bore down, and his fastball seemed to have a little extra pop. The hitter fouled off the next two pitches, then took a called strike three, a curveball on the outside corner. The next guy popped out to second. Blackie struck out the last batter of the inning, stranding the baserunner at first.
In the third he struck out the side.
I led off our bottom half of the third, fearing I would have trouble concentrating, but to everyone’s surprise I lined a single to center. I batted eighth, so that brought my father to the plate.
I called time out, which I could do as captain, then ran toward home plate to have a chat with Blackie.
“We need the run,” I said, “so bunt me over to second.”
I was sure he’d ignore me. How many more chances was he going to have to drive a ball over an outfielder’s head? But he laid it down the third base line on the first pitch, they threw him out easily when he only trotted halfway to first, and I advanced to second. Our leadoff man struck out, but the next batter singled me home.
We were up one zip.
Blackie continued to mow them down, even though this was their second time through the line-up and they had each had a look at his pitches. In the fifth, when he came to bat again, he took a couple of rips before grounding out to second. By the time he shut them down in the top of the sixth inning, it seemed everyone was rooting for him, even the parents of the players on the other team.
The field was mostly dry dirt, especially the infield, and a lot of it was sticking to my father’s damp shirt and slacks. The sweat was really pouring off him, which I mentioned to Nicky, but my cousin told me to find a mirror because I was looking a little soggy myself. I went up to my father as we headed to the bench for the bottom of the seventh and asked him how he felt.
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