by Roy Chaney
Hagen handed the woman his passport. She studied the photograph and the name, then leafed through the following pages, as though the assortment of entry stamps from around Europe would vouch for Hagen’s identity in a way that a mere photograph could not.
“I’ve never seen one of those,” the woman said, handing the passport back. Hagen assured her that it was the standard issue. She didn’t care whether it was or not. “There isn’t anything here that belongs to your brother. The police were here Saturday and took everything. That’s the first time we’ve had police here.”
“Did he have any visitors while he was here?”
“He was only here for a day. That’s all I know. When the police left I cleaned up after them. It’s been cleaned up good. It’s back in the newspaper now.”
“Can I take a look?”
“I’m busy.”
Hagen pulled out his wallet. Just a quick look around. Wouldn’t take long. He’d be happy to pay her for her time and trouble.
The woman took the twenty Hagen offered without a word.
The inside of apartment number seven smelled of cleaning solvent. A gray-striped mattress on a metal frame stood on one side of the tiny room. On the other side was a narrow counter with a small sink. A microwave oven sat on the counter and pushed underneath the counter was a small white refrigerator.
Hagen walked around the room. Not many hiding places in here. Even for an item as small as a wooden hand. He looked into the closet, pushed against the walls inside, but the walls were solid. In the bathroom he lifted the lid of the toilet cistern. He prodded the bare mattress on the bed and felt around underneath the sink counter. Nothing. Hagen knew he was grasping at straws. The manager stood in the open doorway, arms folded across her chest. “The microwave comes with the apartment,” she said, afraid that Hagen might try to carry it off.
Hagen left his phone number with the woman, asked her to call him if anyone came around asking about his brother. Anyone at all. The woman didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no, but she took another twenty-dollar bill when Hagen handed it to her.
Driving back to the Venetian Hagen saw no sign of the black Chrysler that had followed him earlier. Maybe his watchers had grown tired—whoever they were. Or maybe better men were following him now. When he returned to his hotel room he found a telephone message waiting for him. It was from the Sniff. Asking Hagen to call him, first thing.
“Bodo, I got in touch with Martinez,” the Sniff said when Hagen returned the call. “He doesn’t have the photograph. He passed it on to somebody else he thought might be interested in that wooden hand—a guy named Sidney Trunk. I don’t know the guy but I’ve heard of him. He’s a fence from way back, and not too particular about the toys he plays with. He operates out of his house in Boulder. Martinez talked to him tonight and Trunk agreed to talk to you, if you want to go out there. One thing, Bodo—Trunk told Martinez something that was kind of funny.”
“What was that?”
“Trunk said he talked to Ronnie about the hand a couple of days ago.”
“Ronnie was dead a couple of days ago.”
“That’s what’s kind of funny.”
5.
HAGEN WONDERED ABOUT what the Sniff had said. This man Trunk had talked to Ronnie a couple of days ago? Trunk had spoken imprecisely, that was all. Or perhaps this fellow Martinez had misreported what Trunk said. Hagen dialed the number the Sniff had given him. He stood at the hotel-room window with the receiver to his ear. Below him the bright lights of the Strip filled the night. A glittering electric highway, cutting through the black desert.
“Hello?”
“Mister Trunk? My name is Bodo Hagen.”
“Yes, Mister Hagen?” The voice was deep and muddy. A burst of static came across the line, sounded like bacon frying in a skillet.
“Mister Trunk, I’d like to talk to you about some business my brother had with you.”
“What’s your interest in this? Are you representing your brother?”
“My brother is dead.”
“That’s what I’ve been told. My condolences. But the question remains, are you picking up where he left off?”
“I might be.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I don’t know where he left off.”
“We had a transaction under discussion.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“Monday night. I asked him to meet me here in Boulder. I wanted to discuss an item he had for sale. He didn’t show up at the appointed time and I didn’t hear from him again.”
“Mister Trunk, my brother was murdered last Friday.”
There was another burst of static on the line. Followed by a long silence. For a moment Hagen thought he’d lost the connection. Then, “Interesting news, Mister Hagen. Mister Martinez informed me today only that your brother had died. I wasn’t told when or how. Yes, interesting news. . . .” Trunk’s voice trailed off.
“This man who said he was my brother, did you talk to him in person?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Mister Hagen.”
“I’m wondering who you spoke with.”
“I’m wondering too. But I’m not sure it changes things for me. With all due respect to the memory of your brother, my interest extends only to purchasing the item he had for sale.”
“Maybe I’ve got the item.”
“You still don’t sound certain.”
“All right, let me make it more solid. I’m sure I can get the item. But first we’ve got to scratch out a deal. And I’m going to want to deal in person. What do you say, Mister Trunk?”
“You’ll bring the item?”
“No, I won’t bring the item. Not until we talk.”
Hagen heard the phone receiver being shifted around on the other end. Trunk sighed. Then the deep muddy voice said that he had other business to take care of right then, but he was free later that night. Could Hagen meet him at one o’clock? Trunk gave Hagen an address in Boulder City.
“Do you always take care of business in the middle of the night?” Hagen said.
“Does it bother you?”
“Just curious, Mister Trunk.”
“Don’t get too curious, Mister Hagen.”
Trunk said something further but his voice sunk down into another ball of telephone static and Hagen didn’t catch it. Then the static disappeared as Trunk hung up the phone.
Hagen washed his face, put on a fresh shirt. It was just after nine o’clock. He could’ve used a couple of hours sleep but he knew he wouldn’t sleep now. Trunk must’ve been wondering if Hagen was on the level but that was all right. Let him wonder. Hagen would string him along until he found out what this wooden hand was, what it was worth. And more than that, Hagen wanted to know where he could find this man that Trunk talked to on Monday night. The man who claimed to be Ronnie.
Hagen dropped ice from the ice bucket into a glass. Filled the glass with water. Drank it down while he sat on the couch next to the window. Hagen wondered about Gubbs, whether or not he was the man. Ronnie had left Gubbs’s phone number with the Sniff. Had Trunk been given the same number?
Gubbs—one of Marty Ray’s boys. Hagen wondered how close Gubbs was to Marty Ray. Hagen shook the ice around in his glass, poured some ice into his mouth and chewed on it. He had a few hours to kill before his appointment with Trunk but he didn’t feel up to a meeting with Marty Ray right now. He was tired. He’d talk to Marty Ray tomorrow. First thing. If he could scare him up.
Hagen pulled out his wallet, removed one of the pieces of paper the Sniff had given him. The one with the two names, two numbers, two addresses. He picked up the phone and dialed the second number.
A woman answered.
The sound of her voice stirred up memories for Hagen. Memories that had lain unstirred for many years. Earlier he hadn’t been sure he wanted to call her but right now, hearing her voice, he was sure.
“Hello, Peach.”
“Bodo, is that you?”
“Sure it is. How are you?”
“I should be asking you. I read about what happened in the newspapers. I couldn’t believe it was the same Ronnie Hagen so I called the Sniff. He told me it was. I wish there was something I could say. The Sniff said you were coming home so I told him to give you my number. In case you wanted to call. In case you needed anything.”
“I’m fine, Peach. I don’t need anything.”
“You used to say that a lot. It wasn’t always true.”
“It’s true. But thanks for asking.”
Maxine Peach said that she was off work for the next couple of days. She asked Hagen if he wanted to drop by her place that night. She’d just moved into a new apartment off Warm Springs Road, out in Henderson. They could have a drink. They could talk. Eat dinner. Whatever. It would be good to see him.
Hagen said he had some things to do later that night in Boulder City but maybe he’d drop by on his way out there. Just for a drink. Just to talk.
Peach said, “What do you have to do in Boulder in the middle of the night?”
“Business. Nothing much.”
Peach started to say something. Paused. Said something else. “I was thinking about ordering Chinese take-out.”
“Sounds great.”
“Then I’ll see you in a bit.”
Hagen hung up the phone.
Maxine Peach—she sounded just the same. They’d spent a lot of time together, ten years ago. They’d had some fun. But things had fallen apart when he told her he was leaving town, going to Germany. He recalled that last day in Las Vegas. He’d wanted to see her before he left. Put aside the hurt feelings and just be friends again. He was flying out to New York at eight o’clock in the evening and he arranged a late lunch for the two of them at the Aristocrat. But she didn’t show. He ate his last meal alone.
It was her way of saying good-bye.
Hagen had just gotten up off the couch when the phone rang. He assumed it was the Sniff again. He was wrong.
“Mister Hagen?” A woman’s voice. A French accent. “My name is Suzanne Cosette. I was involved in a business matter with your brother, Ronald Hagen. I was very sorry to hear that he passed on. I’m here in town for only a day or two and I had hoped to meet with him. I was wondering if perhaps you could help me to get this matter straightened out. . . .”
Twenty minutes later Hagen stepped out of the Venetian. The night air enveloped him like a warm blanket. It was nearly ten o’clock but the temperature outside hovered around one hundred degrees.
A walkway led around the side of the hotel and out to the street where a pedestrian bridge arched over the Strip. Hagen crossed over the bridge, then walked down the street and up the long circular drive that led to the front doors of the Mirage, almost directly across the street from the Venetian.
The woman had asked him to meet her there.
Suzanne Cosette—she was some type of an antiques dealer, she’d said. “Antiquities and artifacts”—that’s how she’d phrased it. She’d stopped in Las Vegas on her way from Paris to Los Angeles. She said she’d spoken to Ronnie in Paris a few weeks ago about something he wanted to sell. He’d left Paris before she could look into the proposition closely but she’d been in touch with him since then. She didn’t say how or when. And she didn’t say how she’d found Hagen. But she wanted to meet with him. At the Mirage—in half an hour.
She hadn’t mentioned what it was she wanted to buy but she didn’t need to. Hagen knew what it was.
The atrium bar inside the Mirage was surrounded by lush rain forest vegetation dotted by orchids and other bright tropical flowers. The glass dome over the atrium rose a hundred feet over the casino floor. Hagen found the woman sitting at a table that stood in the shadow of a tall palm tree.
She was young—not more than thirty years old. Short and thin with a sharp nose and brown hair wrapped in a circular manner at the back of her head. Hagen knew it was her from the blouse she’d described to him on the phone. A black silk blouse with two Chinese dragons embroidered on the front. The curling gold and red dragons were positioned nose to tail to form a yin and yang design. The dragons spit tongues of flame as they chased each other’s tails.
“Good evening, Mister Hagen,” the woman said as Hagen sat down. She tossed a business card across the table. A hesitant smile crossed her face. The card was printed on expensive cream-colored card stock, the name of her firm embossed in red—AMARANTOS ANTIQUITÉS, 27 RUE JEAN GOUJON, PARIS, 75008. The firm’s phone number appeared on the face of the card. A second phone number was handwritten in blue ink on the back.
“Would you like a drink?” the woman said.
Hagen set the card aside. “Am I going to be here long enough for a drink?”
“That is entirely up to you.”
Hagen settled back in the chair. The woman studied him from under thin arching eyebrows. The drink on the table in front of her was a colorful one in a fluted glass with a white straw. The tip of the straw was covered with her red lipstick.
“Suppose you tell me how you know who I am and where I can be found. Then maybe I’ll know how long I’m going to be here.”
“It wasn’t so difficult, Mister Hagen.” The woman’s smile grew larger, more assured. She took a sip from the drink. Her fingers were pale white and thin and delicate. Fragile porcelain fingers. “I went to your brother’s apartment house yesterday, the place where he was staying. It was the landlady who told me that he passed away. I asked her if she would call me if anyone else came looking for your brother. She called me this evening to tell me that you had been there. She gave me your name and the hotel where you are staying.”
“For a small consideration.”
The woman shrugged. “For a small consideration, that’s right.”
Hagen thought of the elderly woman at the El Dorado Apartments. Hagen had paid her to tell him the same thing. The woman had a good side business going in surveillance. Hagen wondered how much Suzanne Cosette had given her. Apparently more than Hagen had, since she’d told Cosette about Hagen’s visit but hadn’t mentioned Cosette’s visit to him.
“Let me offer my deepest sympathies, Mister Hagen,” Cosette said. “Losing a brother is so tragic.”
“Did you know him well?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all.”
“But you met him in Paris—that’s what you said on the phone.”
“I must have misspoken. It was one of my associates who met with him in Paris. I did not have that pleasure myself.” The woman’s eyes held his gaze. Her accent was heavily French but she’d learned her English well. Well enough, Hagen supposed, to know that she’d finessed the truth on the phone.
The woman fidgeted with the thin black strap of a small purse that lay on the table. “But let me tell you why I wanted to speak with you. Let us get down to the brass tacks.”
“I don’t think my brother was selling brass tacks.”
The woman laughed softly. Hagen cocked one eyebrow and smiled. A cocktail waitress appeared. Hagen ordered a drink, bourbon and soda. The waitress moved off. Hagen studied a swarthy young man in a stiff green blazer standing at the bar. He’d been looking over at the table where Hagen and Cosette sat—Hagen had caught it out of the corner of his eye. The young man’s eyes fell to his watch now. He frowned as though he were late for an appointment. Finished his drink quickly, left the bar.
“You know that man?” Hagen said.
Cosette looked confused.
“That fellow who just walked out.”
Cosette looked past Hagen’s shoulder in the direction of the casino floor but the man was gone. “Who do you mean?”
Hagen let it pass. He was keyed up, suspicious of everything. Maybe he was too suspicious but he didn’t think so. Someone had followed him from the cemetery and then later, when he left the Sniff’s house. He hadn’t imagined that. He had good reason to be suspicious.
Hagen said, “Let’s start with Paris and work our way out here. That�
��s a lot of ground to cover. I’m interested in how you’re going to cover it.”
“I can understand that you have questions, Mister Hagen. Let me lay some of them to rest. Things are not so very complicated as you are thinking.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Cosette sat back in her chair. Her tone was cool and professional, a businesswoman explaining the facts. “Let me tell you something about the firm I represent. Amarantos Antiquités is one of the oldest dealers in rare historical artifacts in Paris. Don’t get the wrong idea—my firm is not a little shop where tourists can purchase the broken Louis Philippe tables and the imitation Fabergé eggs. We deal in the truly historic—ancient coins, medieval armaments, religious artifacts, illuminated manuscripts, all of these types of things. Much of our business is with auction houses in Europe and here in America but we also offer our services to private accounts.
“Your brother came to our offices in Paris a few weeks ago and spoke to one of our representatives. He said that he had acquired a certain artifact that he believed was valuable. He had the impression that we might sell the piece for him on a consignment basis, but my firm does not generally work in that fashion. Also, there was a question of authenticity. Research needed to be performed before we could even begin to determine whether or not the piece was of any real value. Before we could complete that research your brother left Paris. However, he left instructions as to where we might contact him in Las Vegas should the firm decide that it wanted to pursue the purchase of the piece.
“As it happens, my firm has decided that the piece might be a worthwhile acquisition. I was on my way to Los Angeles on other business and it was decided that I should stop here and talk to your brother and examine the artifact firsthand. I arrived only yesterday and went to see him at his residence. That was when I was informed that he had passed on, I’m sorry to say. I have a certain flexibility in my schedule so I decided to stay on here for a day or two longer and see if I could contact your brother’s family in the hope that the artifact is now in the family’s possession. I must admit that I didn’t find the prospect of spending a longer time in Las Vegas unappealing. I have never been here before. It is an interesting city, isn’t it?”