The Ragged End of Nowhere

by Roy Chaney

  “It has its ups and downs.”

  Cosette smiled. “Yes, I understand. All of these games of chance—they can be treacherous.”

  “This artifact—tell me about it.”

  “I can do one better, Mister Hagen. Let me show you.”

  Cosette opened her purse, removed a small white envelope. She slipped a photograph out of the envelope and handed it to Hagen.

  It was a small color photograph. A picture of a wooden hand made of dark polished wood. A left hand, with the middle finger broken off at the second joint, the other fingers curled inward slightly, the thumb curled in toward the index finger. A wide black band that looked like it was made of some substance other than wood circled the wrist of the hand. The hand lay on a piece of crumpled brown shipping paper. There was a patch of glare in the upper right-hand corner of the photograph from the camera’s flash unit.

  Hagen studied the photograph.

  “How is your understanding of Russian religious history, Mister Hagen?”

  “Not as good as it might be.”

  “No matter. This is nothing one could easily find in the history books.” Cosette stirred her drink with the straw. She nodded at the picture Hagen held in his hand. “That wooden hand—it may have come from a piece of statuary that for many years stood in the chapel of a monastery in northern Russia. The monastery belonged to the Russian Orthodox Church and is located on the banks of a river not far from the town of Vologda. The monastery still exists although it is mostly a ruin now. The statue itself was crafted in the mid-nineteenth century. It was a representation of the adult Jesus and it is noteworthy for one very peculiar reason—the craftsmen who created it gave the statue certain articulated features. The fingers of the hand as well as the wrists, arms, and neck were fashioned in such a way as to allow them to be moved into different positions. It isn’t clear what the craftsmen had in mind by doing this—very little is known about them or the monks who commissioned the statue. Perhaps it was only an artistic flourish—something the craftsmen added to the statue because they knew how to.

  “But one thing we do know is this—the monastery was looted at the time of the Russian Revolution by a band of local rogues. The statue fell into their hands. The town of Vologda stands five hundred kilometers north of Moscow. The winter months are cold and long and the men who looted the monastery had more practical uses for a wooden figure of Jesus than the monks of the monastery. They cut the statue up into small pieces for firewood.

  “Or so it was believed.

  “Fifteen or so years ago a man in Vienna purchased for next to nothing a life-sized wooden carving of the head of a bearded man. The carving was not in good shape—the left side of the face bore deep gouges in the wood that were most likely made by the blade of a hatchet. The neck portion of the carving had clearly been roughly cut from some larger artifact, probably with the same hatchet.”

  Cosette looked at Hagen with a grave expression. “But this particular buyer had a great interest in Russian artifacts. He could see even through the damage wrought to the carving that it bore features that were consistent with a Russian origin and he decided to research the head. During a visit to Saint Petersburg he found a description of the Vologda Jesus in a journal that was kept by one of the monastery monks at the turn of the twentieth century. Based on that description he identified the wooden head as having belonged to the Vologda Jesus. There have been disputes about this identification, as there always are, but one collector of religious iconography was convinced enough of the head’s pedigree to purchase it for what was probably a good price—eighty thousand dollars. I assisted him in that purchase and the head now rests in his private collection.

  “That sale occurred six years ago. Since that time this collector has actively searched for other pieces of the Vologda Jesus, on the assumption that if the head has survived, other pieces may also still exist. That collector remains a client of Amarantos and we have helped him with his inquiries. We haven’t held out a great deal of hope. To see one piece of the statue resurface after seventy years was incredible. To find a second piece would be—well, the odds are clearly against us.

  “And then your brother came to our offices in Paris with this photograph of a wooden hand. He wasn’t entirely sure of what he had. He mentioned the Vologda Jesus although he did not seem to know much about the history of the statue. He was also less than specific as to how and where he acquired the artifact. An associate of mine spoke with him and told him we would get back to him shortly, and your brother left this photograph with us. I was away from Paris at that time and I didn’t get the chance to speak with your brother or examine the actual piece. By the time I returned your brother had left Paris.

  “And that is why I am here now.”

  Hagen’s drink arrived. Hagen laid the photograph down and reached for his wallet to pay but Cosette told the waitress to put the drink on her tab. Hagen didn’t argue.

  “So you’re certain this hand came from the statue.”

  “That remains to be seen—as I’ve said.” Cosette absently scratched the patch of exposed skin at the base of her throat. “I have yet to see the actual piece. But I am the person who brokered the sale of the Vologda head. I am familiar with the raw materials and the craftsmanship that went into the making of the statue. If I could see the actual hand I believe I could determine its authenticity or not with a fair degree of certainty. But judging from the photograph, it is my opinion that the hand could well be from the Vologda Jesus.”

  Hagen picked up his glass and took a drink. Cosette watched him closely. She had told him quite a story. Hagen tried to imagine Ronnie in Paris, walking into an upscale shop and tossing around a photograph of a wooden hand, not wanting to talk too much about how he had come to possess it. It was difficult. The Ronnie that Hagen knew had been no dealer in antiques. And he’d been no student of history.

  “What would it be worth?” Hagen said.

  Cosette cocked her head to one side. “The Vologda head was sold for eighty thousand dollars six years ago. I would say that the hand could realize at least that much now.”

  “And what would it be worth to me?”

  “A percentage of our expected sale price.”

  “What’s to stop me from cutting you out and selling the hand myself?”

  Cosette smiled. Her blue eyes turned colder. She seemed to have been waiting for this question. “For one thing, you don’t know where to find the individual who is interested in paying the top price for it. And if you were to take the step of making it known that you had the hand in your possession and wanted to sell it, you might be taking a substantial risk. You might even find yourself involved with the police. I don’t know as yet how your brother acquired the hand. There may be entanglements. However, assuming that the hand is genuine, my firm is willing to pay you a percentage of what we think we can realize on the sale of the hand and assume all of the risks.”

  “You’re saying the hand is stolen.”

  “I am saying only that it is a possibility. My firm is making inquiries right now. But these things must be done discreetly and they take time. On the other hand, if we want the hand we have to purchase it while it is available. Which is right now. So we are in the awkward position of possibly purchasing a piece that we are not entirely comfortable with. But as I say, we’re willing to assume that risk.” Cosette leaned forward, set her elbows on the table, folded her hands. “And that brings us to the brass tacks. Your brother’s belongings—I take it they are in your possession now?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Have you seen this piece among them?”

  “I might have.”

  “I would think you would know, one way or the other.”

  “Right at the moment, Suzanne, I’m more interested in what you know. I still have a few questions. For instance, how did you contact my brother after he left Paris?”

  A thoughtful look came over Cosette’s face. “I’m not exactly sure, Mister Hagen. I suppos
e he must have left his address with the gentleman he spoke to at our Paris office. As I say, I didn’t speak to your brother myself. I was given his address before I left Paris and told to contact him when I arrived here. I’m not aware of the nature of his communications with us.”

  “What address were you given?”

  “The address for his apartment here. Do you find that odd?”

  It didn’t sound right at all. Ronnie had stayed with Gubbs when he arrived in Las Vegas. A few days later he rented the apartment over in East Las Vegas. Hagen considered it unlikely that Ronnie knew that he’d be staying at the El Dorado Apartments before he’d left Paris. Highly unlikely. And yet that was the address Cosette had been given. Either Cosette was lying, or Ronnie had contact with Cosette’s people in Paris after he’d arrived in Las Vegas and rented the apartment. But if Ronnie was that interested in continuing his discussion with Cosette’s people, why leave Paris? Why pack up and fly halfway around the world?

  The woman’s story didn’t quite wash. Hagen thought again of the black Chrysler that had followed him earlier that day. Had Cosette brought a couple of colleagues with her to help clinch this deal?

  “Suzanne, my brother was murdered,” Hagen said. “Right now I’m wondering if this hand he was trying to sell had anything to do with it. What do you think?”

  The question took Cosette by surprise. A pained look came over her, as though the words were a tangible thing that hit her hard. “To be honest, Mister Hagen, I don’t know a great deal about what happened to your brother. What little I do know is what I was told by his landlady at the apartment, and she wasn’t entirely clear about it herself. All I can say to you is that I cannot imagine anyone going to such a heinous extreme to acquire the hand. If it is truly from the Vologda Jesus then it is a valuable piece of history, to be sure. But when all is said and done it is interesting only to a few people in the world.”

  Cosette reached across the table, picked up the photograph. She studied the image of the hand, as though wondering herself whether its value were somehow much higher than she believed, high enough to cause the death of the man who possessed it. Then she returned the photograph to the envelope, slid the envelope into her purse.

  “Mister Hagen,” Cosette said now, slow and quiet, “If the hand is genuine, I think you could realize several thousand dollars on the sale, depending on the condition of the piece. But I’ll need to examine the hand first. When do you think you can produce it?”

  Hagen didn’t want Cosette to disappear on him. Not until he knew exactly what her interests were. He’d have to string her along—like he was stringing along Sidney Trunk.

  “I’ll need time. A couple of days.”

  “I’m not certain I will be here for that long.”

  “Surely you can find something to do in Vegas for a couple of days. Something that’s not too treacherous.”

  Cosette finished the last of her drink before she answered. “All right, Mister Hagen. Two days. My cell phone number is on the back of my business card. If I haven’t heard from you by Friday then I will contact you in any case.”

  Cosette turned over the check left by the waitress, laid a twenty-dollar bill and a ten on top of the check. She pushed her chair back and stood up, slinging the long narrow purse strap over her shoulder. “Please understand one thing, Mister Hagen. My firm’s offer to purchase the hand may not stand for long. My advice is to take what you can realize on the hand now.”

  The gold and red dragons on Cosette’s blouse caught the light and shimmered as she left the table.

  A wooden hand with articulated fingers from a statue known as the Vologda Jesus. A wooden hand worth eighty thousand dollars or more. Hagen was sure that Cosette either knew the hand was stolen or had strong suspicions that it was. And he was also sure that she didn’t care. No, the woman and her employers planned to purchase and resell the hand regardless. The asking price would be much higher than Cosette had let on and the sale would be discreet, no questions asked. Hagen was well aware that there was a black market in antiquities just as there is a black market for anything else of value.

  Hagen walked back across the street to the Venetian. It was eleven o’clock. At the valet desk outside the hotel’s front door Hagen asked for his car to be brought around. Hagen watched the late-arriving guests pulling bulky suitcases from car trunks and waving for one of the hustling bellmen in their blue-and-white-striped gondola shirts to come over. Vegas—too many overloaded tourists. When Hagen’s car appeared he got in and drove south on the Strip, then got on Highway 15 southbound and drove out toward Henderson. In the darkness out on the highway he thought about the wooden hand in the photograph. Then another photograph came to mind. The police photograph of Ronnie hunched over dead in a rented car out at Hoover Dam. This wooden hand, was it worth so much that someone would kill for it?

  Suzanne Cosette said no.

  Maybe Sidney Trunk had a different answer.

  Just past Henderson Hagen stopped at a gas station and bought a map that included a detailed grid of Boulder City. He studied the map in the car, pinpointing the address that Trunk had given him on the phone. Boulder City was an additional twenty minutes down the highway. Hagen reached the town shortly after midnight.

  He was early for the appointment—but not early enough.

  The address that Trunk had given him was on Cerrito Street in the older section of Boulder. Any other time the street was probably a nice quiet street in a nice quiet neighborhood. But right now it wasn’t quiet and it wasn’t nice. A policeman stood in the middle of the street. A hundred feet behind the policeman the street was blocked off by three red and white fire trucks, an ambulance, and three police cruisers. Roof bar lights flashed red and blue in the night. The policeman waved Hagen toward a sidestreet.

  Hagen turned off and parked, walked back to Cerrito.

  Firemen in yellow turnout pants and black boots directed high-pressure streams of water from a pumper truck onto the smoldering remains of a small house. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk across the street. As Hagen approached the crowd he checked the numbers on the houses that he passed. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then the bottom of his stomach fell out entirely and hit the ground.

  The address Trunk had given him belonged to the burned-out house.

  “Is that Sidney Trunk’s place?” Hagen said to a balding man with wire-framed glasses who stood at the edge of the crowd.

  The man kept his eyes glued to the activity across the street. The words came out quick and nervous. “Not much left of it. I was sitting in my living room when I saw the flames. The whole front of the house went up. I’ve never seen anything burn so fast. One minute the house is there and the next it’s a goner. Nothing anybody could do.”

  Hagen didn’t give a shit about how fast the house burned. “What happened to Trunk? Was he in there?”

  “Trunk?” The man looked at Hagen for the first time. The man’s eyeglasses reflected the lights from the police cars and the fire trucks. “Sure, he made it out. They pulled him out about twenty minutes ago. They were working on him on the lawn. Then they threw him into an ambulance and took him away. Not that he needed an ambulance. He had a sheet pulled over his head. What he needed was a hearse.”

  Hagen drove back out of Boulder City. His thoughts intersecting at odd angles, like the beams of headlights crisscrossing in the darkness.

  A wooden hand hacked off a Russian statue. Ronnie murdered on one end, after putting out feelers to sell the hand. And Sidney Trunk dead in a house fire on the other end, while trying to buy it. Their deaths were no coincidence, Hagen was sure. Suzanne Cosette had made her interest in the hand very clear, but Hagen couldn’t credit the idea that the petite Frenchwoman had come to Las Vegas to murder everyone who stood between her and the hand. Even if she’d brought help with her. The story she’d told Hagen about the hand and Ronnie’s contact with her people in Paris might’ve been a pack of lies, but one thing was certain. She’d stepped ou
t into the open when she arranged the meeting with Hagen. She and her people were visible now. Too visible and too obvious for people engaged in killing the competition. And right now Cosette believed there was a good chance that Hagen had the hand. So why kill Sidney Trunk?

  No, it didn’t make sense.

  There was some other angle here. But for the moment Hagen was up against a dead end.

  When Hagen reached Henderson he pulled off the highway. Peach had promised him a drink. He thought he could use one. Maybe two.

  Warm Springs Road—it was one of the main streets running through Henderson. The address Peach had given him belonged to an apartment complex located just inside the city limits. The buildings didn’t look impressive but the cars parked out front were new and expensive.

  Hagen parked, turned the engine off. He sat there, looking up at the lights burning in the windows of Peach’s second-floor apartment. Now that he was here he wasn’t sure that he should be. Or wanted to be.

  He got out of the car, took off his sport coat. Slid the shoulder holster rig off. Laid the rig in the foot well behind the driver’s seat and covered it with the coat.

  “Did you get lost?” Peach said when she answered the door.

  “Sorry, Peach. I got tied up with something. And then I had to get out to Boulder.”

  “How’s Boulder these days?”

  “Dark.”

  Peach laid her hand on Hagen’s shoulder. Gave him a peck on the cheek. Left her hand on his shoulder while she studied his face, her brow furrowed into a look of concern. “How are you doing?”

  Hagen said that he was doing fine. But he was ready for that drink. He followed Peach into the kitchen. The kitchen was small and new and clean. Half-opened moving boxes full of dishes and cookware sat on the counters. A breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the living room. Larger moving boxes were stacked around the living room, most of them unopened.