Tarnished Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  Vivienne’s earlier description of Hagen as a cautious man barely describes the panic he’s doing a reasonably good job of swallowing. A few arched eyebrows and I’m shunted off to a side room. I don’t like it, and ordinarily I’d hold my ground, but this is Hagen’s home, his castle, his risk, so his rules. And I need his cooperation.

  I follow Hagen and Vivienne across the living room. The stares of several guests swipe me like sword blades as we walk by. Some stare at my battered face. Some stare at my dinner clothes. One of the stares is from a particularly delicious blonde in a strapless low-cut pink silk number revealing a creamy cleavage I wouldn’t mind crawling around in. The outlaw in me can’t resist giving her a wink. She shrinks from it. Pity.

  I notice, though, on my way into the study, that Vern of the impatient eyes lifts his drink to me in a smiling toast.

  Hagen’s book-lined study is the baronial sort where a sixteenth-century Medici prince would feel right at home. Drifting around the books and framed antique maps is the meaty aroma of fine old leather bindings. Hagen motions me and Vivienne into two club chairs and leans his long body against his desk, an ornate mass of dark wood with medieval-type carvings of gargoyles running down the corners. “So,” he says, before swallowing the rest of his drink and setting the glass beside him on the desk, “you are the infamous Cantor Gold. I’ve avoided doing business with you, as I’m sure you realize, but it seems I finally require your services, unseemly as they are.”

  “Why don’t you climb down off that high horse, Hagen. My unseemly services have supplied Pauling-Barnett with more than a few pricey knickknacks. Not everyone in that house is so, uh, dainty about doing business with me.”

  “True. But your reputation for taking undue risks doesn’t mix well with my reputation for delicacy. So you’ll excuse me if I generally prefer to deal with a less danger-prone supplier.”

  “Suit yourself,” I say, “but I’m not here tonight to win your business. According to Vivienne, you might have some information I’m looking for. Has she filled you in?”

  “She’s told me that a Dürer watercolor’s been stolen, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s only part of what I mean. The other part’s about murder.”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Yes, Vivienne mentioned that, too. Your client—Mrs. Hannah Jacobson, was it? Unfortunate. So sad.”

  “And her brother, too. Had his head blown to bits this afternoon.” I just described a horror scene, but Hagen doesn’t look horrified. Instead, he gives me haughty look, as if he’ll dismiss me from the room if I say anything else distasteful. I can’t tell if his aristocratic armor is a cover for his fear of all the death that’s trailing the Dürer or he’s really just a cold and snobby fish.

  Vivienne’s face has gone so white her ruby necklace looks like open wounds. “Cantor, really, must you put it—I mean, that poor family.”

  “Yeah,” I say and take a swallow of my drink. Maybe if I drink enough it’ll finally drown my revulsion at yesterday’s rotten night and today’s equally rotten day.

  Hagen moves around his desk to his chair. He seats himself and lets the desk between us shield him from whatever vulgar danger I’ve had the gall to bring into his home. He says, with a dismissive wave, “Well, I don’t know what sort of information you expect from me, Gold. I certainly don’t involve myself with murder.”

  “It’s the Dürer I want to ask you about. Vivienne tells me you already had a buyer.”

  “Yes, that’s so. He was prepared to pay handsomely for it.”

  “And you’d take a cut, yes?”

  “Of course. Just what is it you’re getting at, Gold?”

  “Just covering my bases,” I say. “Did Vivienne also mention that the Dürer had deep sentimental value for Mrs. Jacobson and that she probably wouldn’t sell it? Of course, if you sold it to your buyer directly, without Hannah Jacobson in the picture, you wouldn’t have to settle for just a cut of the money.”

  Vivienne pipes up, “Cantor! Really!” at the same time Hagen springs forward in his chair. But being the tasteful man he’s obviously schooled himself to be, he leans back again, regains his elegant calm, and says, “Just covering your bases, yes, of course. Well, let me cover this base for you, Gold. I don’t acquire artwork by violence, and I don’t need to increase my bank account by stealing art, either. My bank account is healthy enough through legitimate earnings, thank you.”

  “Good for you,” I say, unimpressed with Hagen’s self-righteous brand of honor. “All right, now that that’s out of the way, do you have any ideas about who else might covet the Dürer? You’re connected to some of the richest, most aggressive collectors of Renaissance goods in town, Hagen.”

  “And so are you.”

  “Sure,” I say, “so let’s talk about the clients we share. And right now, no one in my stable is a candidate for a heist of this particular artwork. So it’s your clients, the ones we don’t share, that I’m interested in. Anyone come to mind who might want the Dürer so much they’d kill for it? And don’t give me a cock-and-bull story that your crowd is too dignified and risk shy to get their hands dirty. You and I both know how cutthroat the art game can be. There’s a thousand years of murder behind it.”

  Vivienne, the color struggling to get back in her cheeks, says, “Cantor, please. Let’s just discuss the missing Dürer and leave out all this talk of death. It’s upsetting.”

  Hagen chimes in, “Quite right. Let’s pursue a more productive line, shall we? Frankly, Gold, I really can’t think of anyone among my clients—even, as you call them, the more aggressive ones—who’d stoop to murder. So I have even less of an idea about where the Dürer is than you do. Which is why I need your services.” He leans forward now, his blue eyes cold as an Arctic sea. “I want that watercolor,” he says, the syrup in his voice congealing into waxy condescension, complete with a sniffy raise of his head, the better to look down his nose. “I want to engage you to find it on my behalf. My client is still willing to pay a fortune for it. Finding it could prove profitable for us both, Gold.” He leans back again, awkwardly though, aware that his snooty manner is annoying me more than impressing me. The next time he opens his mouth, he corrects his attitude, reverts to being the genial host again, his tone silky as a debutante’s dress. “What I mean to say is, since you’re already looking for it, why not make the search profitable?”

  I polish off the last of my scotch while I take a good look at Hagen, at the smile that now shows too many teeth and spreads his mustache like a tortured moth. “How profitable?” I say.

  “I could cut you in for, say, ten percent.”

  With my own genial smile, I say, “Fifty percent.”

  “That’s rather steep,” he says.

  “Fifty percent,” I say. “Or find it yourself. I’ve already risked my life lifting that Dürer from an embittered old pal of Hitler’s, slipping it out of Europe and bringing it into New York. And now you’re asking me to risk my life again, put myself in the crosshairs of whoever’s murdering anyone connected to that watercolor. So if you want me to hunt for it, you can just think of my fifty-percent cut as combat pay.”

  Hagen slips into his perfect-host persona again, hoping, I guess, to draw me into a more reasonable negotiation. He’s so cordial now, so oily smooth, I’m surprised his dinner jacket doesn’t slide off his shoulders. “Can we say thirty percent, then?” he says. “A fair compromise?”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Hagen. The risk to my life is not up for horse trading. Fifty percent. That’s what it’ll take for me to turn it over when I find it. If I find it.”

  Vivienne’s hand moves along my arm in a way that’s friendly and scolding at the same time. “Don’t be greedy, Cantor. Max is making you a fair offer.”

  “Sorry, Vivienne, but we’re in a greedy business. Hagen certainly is, but so are you. Your museum’s collections and prestige are built on scholarship and greed. So don’t get all moral on me. It’s unattractive in you, and you’re
too beautiful to let that get in the way.”

  I’ve barely finished talking when the chatter of Hagen’s cocktail party rolls into the room as Vern of the impatient eyes and svelte tuxedo walks into the study. The chatter disappears when he closes the door behind him.

  With a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Vern moves across the room with the grace of a tango dancer and the attitude of an opera diva. He arrives at Hagen’s desk and, supple as a swan, leans his hip against it as comfortably and possessively as if it’s his own.

  Vern says, “Really, Max, you shouldn’t be ignoring your guests, or me, for that matter. Hello, Vivienne. Nice to see you again, but you’re keeping Max away from his guests too long. And won’t you introduce me to this interesting person?” He’s looking at me. His eyes aren’t impatient now. They’re narrowed but slightly glowing, looking me over as if trying to memorize me.

  I don’t wait for an introduction. “My name’s Cantor Gold. And you are—?”

  “Vern Sichelle.” He spells it out. “Yes, that’s right, it’s pronounced seashell. An old Huguenot name according to my mother, but Mother was better at style than truth.” He puts his cigarette out in an ashtray on the desk and then extends his hand to me. His fingers are long and thin, fluid as a ballerina’s, so his strong grip and steady handshake come as a surprise.

  Hagen is clearly in no mood for this intrusion of his usually well-hidden private life, despite the ease with which he knows I’ll take it. “If you don’t mind, Vern,” he says, pushing Vern’s name between his teeth, “this is a business meeting.”

  “Oh,” Vern says more to me than Hagen, “are you discussing the little picture Max wants so badly?”

  Hagen cuts off that line of chatter. “Vern, since you insisted on joining the party tonight, you can make yourself useful and entertain my guests for a few minutes. Please be your most charming self and go away.”

  Coolly, as if he’s just heard a joke that fell flat, Vern, his hand on his hip, turns to me and Vivienne and says, “You mustn’t take Max’s dark mood seriously. I certainly don’t,” then he moves around the desk to Hagen, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Hagen says, “Not now,” and brushes Vern’s hand away.

  If Vern is insulted by Hagen’s brush-off, he doesn’t show it, at least, not on his face. But his head is down just a little, his shoulders not as straight. “You’ll feel better when we go to the country house this weekend, Max. We always enjoy ourselves there.” His voice is as light spirited as a prom queen’s.

  Hagen glances at me and Vivienne and says, with more bite than pleasure, “Vern can be quite the country sportsman. Almost as good at country sports as you, Vivienne.”

  Vern brightens at the compliment, and at an idea. “You know, Vivienne, you should join us up there in the country sometime. This weekend’s hunt is booked, but maybe later in the season?”

  “Thank you, Vern. I’d be delighted. I could use a break from town.”

  “Then it’s a date. Well, I see my lord and master has had about enough of me, so I suppose I’d better go out there and earn my keep. It’s been nice meeting you, Cantor Gold,” he says on his way to the door. “I hope to see you again. We can discuss tailoring.”

  With Vern gone, Hagen leans forward again, his composure restored. “So, Gold, we were discussing thirty percent.”

  “No, you were discussing thirty percent. And I told you it’s fifty percent or there’s no discussion at all.” A final swallow of my drink and a loud thunk of my glass on Hagen’s desk end my conversation. I extend a hand to Vivienne as I get up from the chair. “Vivienne, care to join me for a drink elsewhere, or will you be staying on at Hagen’s little soiree?”

  “I, well, I think I ought to stay.”

  “Suit yourself.” I say it as breezily as I can, covering my disappointment. I was hoping for more of Vivienne tonight. A lot more.

  Nothing to do now but get out of here. On my way out of Hagen’s study, over the cocktail-party noise coming from the living room, I say over my shoulder, “Thanks for the good scotch, Hagen. Anytime you want to get serious and do business, let me know.”

  The classy crowd in the living room is a little more sloshed now, their chatter more high pitched. Miss Cleavage in Pink is on the arm of some jowly bald guy who has the look of a third or fourth husband. I’d feel sorry for him except he gets to crawl around in places I can only dream about.

  “Gold!” My name comes at me from across the room. It’s Vern. He’s on his way over. “Gold, I’m glad I caught you before you—oh, Vivienne’s not joining you?”

  “What’s on your mind, Vern?”

  He takes my arm as we walk across the living room. I get a kick seeing all those society eyebrows go up as we pass. “Well,” Vern says, “I just hope you didn’t get the wrong impression about Max.”

  “Was there a right impression I was supposed to get?”

  When we’re alone in the vestibule by the front door, Vern finally lets go of my arm. The sashaying diva of the study is gone, replaced by a young man whose heart has apparently been taking a beating. “I know Max can be, well, chilly,” he says, his head down, his hands in his jacket pockets like a schoolboy. “But you mustn’t be too unforgiving of him. He can be a very lovely man.”

  Chapter Nine

  There’s a chill in the air on Park Avenue. It stings the still-raw bruise on my chin, courtesy of last night’s crash landing on Drogan’s tug. But it’s a good pain, the sting that wakes you up from your delusions, because I must’ve been deluded to think the aristocratic Vivienne Parkhurst Trent would really leave Hagen’s party with me for a night on the town and maybe even tumble with me later. All that teasing at her place, her fingertips on my face, her eyes on me, was just that: teasing. Some women do that, get a thrill from tickling forbidden fruit. Vivienne’s not the first woman who’s used me to massage that thrill, but she’s the first one to get under my skin. I can still feel her crawling around under there.

  And I must’ve been deluded to think that the high and mighty Max Hagen—he of the scrupulously untainted fingers, greedy tastes, and a love life he abuses—yeah, I must’ve been deluded to think Hagen would give over information, that is, if he had any information at all. A guy like him, so prickly about the slightest risk to his fastidiously cultivated image, he’d have no idea about what gets passed around on the street, no less in the gutter. And the gutter is where I’ll have to look for information, maybe even find who killed Hannah Jacobson and Marcus Stern. Murderers are natives of the gutter. It doesn’t matter if they sleep in a shack or a penthouse.

  So I have to find out what’s going on in the gutter, talk to its citizens, or those who do business with them. There’s nothing for me here among the golden apartment buildings of Park Avenue.

  I get in my car and drive away.

  *

  It’s nearly nine thirty by the time I get to the Lower East Side. The change of neighborhood, with its neon-lit delicatessens sending out sharp smells of mustard and pickles, the overhead rumble of the Third Avenue El playing background for Billie Holiday singing the blues on my car radio, helps me get rid of my delusions, only to be replaced by a rehash of dirty facts still sticking to me like toilet paper under my shoe: Hannah Jacobson, dead; the Dürer she trusted me to find, gone. Her brother, Marcus Stern, buries his sister only to get his head blown off right here in my car, a blood-and-brains spectacle that might keep me awake nights for the rest of my life. Jimmy Shea and the waterfront Mob are happy to feed me to the cops for Mrs. J’s murder, and Lieutenant Huber is happy to eat me alive. And according to Iris Page, Shea and Huber are in cahoots, getting ready to salt and pepper me before they toss me into the pan to fry.

  I pull into a parking spot in front of a brownstone on Second Avenue. The house once had sweet memories for me, memories that might’ve soothed my troubles tonight. I used to think there was genuine welcome and even motherly concern for me from the old woman who’s lived here and plied her larcenous
trade here since New York was lit by gaslight. Way back when I was a tomboy kid from Coney Island bringing her my pilfered goods to fence, she’d serve me warm honey cake while she picked through my treasures, instructing me on the finer points of thievery. I knew I was a damn lucky kid to do business with her because Esther “Mom” Sheinbaum was then—and still is—the most well-connected fence in New York, maybe even the whole country. But those sweet memories of honey cake and cozy afternoons soured about a year and a half ago when her daughter was killed. In her grief, Mrs. Sheinbaum’s true feelings for me seeped out, and those feelings weren’t loving. As far as she was concerned, I’m nothing more than a mug, and worse, unnatural, even unclean, no matter how well tailored. And she was willing to let Rosie be held hostage, even die, as vengeance for her lost daughter. And she was willing to throw me and another woman to the wolves to boot. I managed to get Rosie out of the situation alive, but the other woman, Celeste Copley, whose lies were as seductive as the rest of her, wasn’t so lucky.

  So coming here to this house to ask a favor of the old woman feels crummy, but it’s my best chance to get a line on the missing Dürer, because nine times out of ten there isn’t an item that moves through New York that Mom Sheinbaum doesn’t know about. And if it’s that tenth time, if it’s something that didn’t actually pass through her chubby fingers, she’ll know which sewer grate to look under and whose rear end is warming that grate.

  There’s light coming through the lace window curtains on the first floor, so the old lady’s obviously still awake. As I walk up the front stoop, I wonder if she’ll even let me in. I haven’t been here or talked to her since that ugly night in March of ’49.

  I ring the doorbell, then cool my heels longer than I’d like until the lock turns and the door opens. An aroma of warm honey surrounds the plump silver-haired old dame in the doorway, who I used to be glad to see.