by Roy Chaney
“Was he a big spic with a beer gut?”
“No, and he didn’t hang from a tree, but the result was the same.”
“Who killed him?”
“Is that all you wanted to ask me?”
“That’s one thing.”
Martinez shrugged. “I don’t know who killed Trunk. Maybe you killed him. What do you think of that? Next stupid question.”
“All right. The Sniff gave you a photograph of a wooden hand the other day. Something my brother wanted to sell. You passed on it and gave it to Trunk. Why?”
“Why did I take a pass, or why did I give it to Trunk?”
“Both.”
Martinez turned away to spit a piece of peanut skin out. Then, “First thing, I took a pass because it wasn’t anything I wanted to deal with. So I gave it to Trunk. Trunk was no friend of mine, but we traveled in the same circles now and then and I tossed him a bone when I had one to toss. The Sniff gave me the picture and a phone number that went with it and I handed it off to Trunk. What he planned to do about it, I don’t know. And before we go any further with this, let me tell you one thing, Hagen. If you drag me into a police jam because of what happened to your brother, you’re going to have a fight on your hands. Maybe a bigger fight than you can handle. In case the Sniff didn’t make that clear.”
“He made it clear.”
“Just so you understand.”
“What I don’t understand is why you took a pass on the hand.”
“It wasn’t my line.”
“What is your line?”
“I deal in rare and precious objects.”
“The Sniff says you’re a fence.”
“The Sniff has an odd sense of humor.”
“Sure he does.”
Martinez stroked his mustache. “The hand—you know what it is?”
“I’ve got a good idea. I had a conversation with a little Frenchwoman last night. She came to town to talk to my brother about the hand, but she got here too late. She works for some kind of high-end antiques dealer in Paris—a firm called Amarantos. From what I gather, the hand came from a piece of religious statuary—a wooden carving of Jesus that came out of a town in Rus sia called Vologda. The statue was cut to pieces years ago. She knows someone who wants to put the pieces back together again and is willing to pay for the privilege.”
“What was the woman’s name?”
“Suzanne Cosette. Know her?”
“Can’t say that I do. But Amarantos—I’ve heard that name. Georges Amarantos.”
A pair of young lovers walked slowly past, arm in arm. Martinez fell silent until they moved on. Then, “Amarantos operates in European circles. Didn’t know he was branching out into Vegas.”
“Is he legit?”
“He buys and sells. Like me.” A frown crossed Martinez’s face, made his mustache look lopsided and weighty. “But I’ll give you this much for free—the woman told you a fish story.”
“So give me a story without the fish.”
Martinez felt around in his pocket for another peanut. His hand came out empty. He sighed. “The Sniff tells me you know a few things about the French Foreign Legion. So try this on for size—what do you know about the Hand of Danjou?”
The name didn’t ring any bells for Hagen. Martinez gave Hagen a crooked smile. “Let me tell you a story, Hagen. A little piece of history. I wouldn’t want you to leave here without learning something.
“Fact—in the middle of the nineteenth century, about the time of the Civil War in the United States, the French started fucking around in Mexican politics. Mexico didn’t want to play along and the French came up with the harebrained idea of putting an Austrian archduke in charge of the country to help the French control their little brown brethren. His name was Maximilian. The French made him the Emperor of Mexico. The Mexicans didn’t appreciate the gesture and they put up a fight. So France sent the Foreign Legion into Mexico to fight back.
“Fact—one of the Legionnaires was an officer named Danjou. He was a captain, commanded a small force of men. One thing that was funny about Captain Danjou—he’d lost his left hand in an explosion before he got to Mexico. In place of his real hand the Legion fitted him with a wooden hand. It was a clever piece of work—the fingers of the hand were made so that they could be moved. Kind of funny when you think of it. Guy sitting around pushing his wooden fingers different ways, just for something to do.
“Fact—the good captain’s luck ran bad in Mexico. His troops were surrounded one day by Mexican forces and they were slaughtered. The story goes that they fought like mad dogs right up to the end. But the Mexicans knew how to put down mad dogs. Too bad for the Legion. After the battle was over, the captain’s wooden hand was found in the debris. The Legion took it back home with them, locked it up in a crypt. They set about building a myth around it—an object lesson in valor for all the young Legionnaires who might not be as keen to die in battle as Captain Danjou was. To this day the Legion drags the hand out every now and then. They march around with it, salute it, pray to it for all I know. It’s become a sort of sacred relic. Some people have even ascribed to it certain occult powers. It’s all bullshit, of course—Captain Danjou and his troops died because they were outmanned and outgunned and his hand is nothing but a piece of rotten wood. But in some circles that hand would be a valuable commodity, if it were to somehow disappear from its resting place and become available on the open market. You see what I’m getting at?”
The Hand of Danjou—Hagen didn’t recognize the name. But the story Martinez had just told him stirred something in the back of his mind. A vague recollection that flickered at the very edge of his memory. An image of a long line of Legionnaires, standing at attention in dress uniforms. The sun beating down on them. An honor guard of three Legionnaires bearing bright battle flags marching before the assembled soldiers, following a single officer carrying in both hands a small glass case that contained—what? A wooden hand? Hagen wasn’t sure. But he was sure that it was his father who had once shown him a photograph of this scene. Many years ago.
“Did my brother tell you all of this?” Hagen said.
Dallas Martinez looked down, pushed the toe of one shoe back and forth against the cement surface of the deck, like he was trying to rub away the patina of dirt to see more clearly what lay below his feet. “He gave me the gist of it. He also told me that the hand was in his possession and that he wanted to sell it for whatever he could get. I might have been interested in working with him—I’ve got Mexican blood in my veins, in case you haven’t picked up on that. Selling this wooden hand that the good captain lost while fighting and killing my forefathers in their own land appeals to my sense of justice, or at least my sense of humor. But when I looked into your brother’s story I found one awkward problem. He was full of shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. His story was bullshit. I’m not without resources, Hagen. I have a few contacts in Europe myself. I had them check on things. What they told me was this—the Hand of Danjou is sitting in a well-guarded Legion museum in Aubagne, France, right now. Like it has for years. It hasn’t gone anywhere. Believe me, if someone stole that hand, everyone would know. It’s a national treasure in France. They’d turn the country upside down looking for it. And if they heard that it had run off to Vegas, the whole thing would become a diplomatic hassle. The French would pull strings in Washington and before you knew it there would be so many federal cops running around here looking for that hand, Vegas would look like a doughnut convention. No, Hagen, whatever your brother was hawking, it was pure baloney. One hundred percent all-beef wiener. If he really had a wooden hand in his possession and not just a picture of one, it wasn’t the Hand of Danjou.”
“If the thing is a phony, why did you give it to Trunk?”
Martinez frowned, scratched himself. “Trunk wasn’t bothered greatly by questions of authenticity. He sold what he could sell. Caveat emptor—that was his philosophy. And it’s not a bad
philosophy. Until someone gets pissed off and comes around looking for their money back because they bought a shaggy-dog story. I told him what I thought of the deal when I gave him the photograph. I gave him fair warning. Trunk wasn’t smart but he hadn’t lost all his marbles. He’d have known how dangerous it would be to try to sell the hand as the real thing. My guess was that he’d go ahead and try to sell it without claiming that it was real. Even a phony might be worth a few bucks, if it was a good phony. Trunk would’ve been happy with that kind of profit. I don’t deal with that kind of crap—it’s small change. Not worth the trouble.”
“If the dingus were real, what would it be worth?”
“Whatever the market will bear.”
“Take a guess.”
Martinez pursed his lips as he thought about it. He didn’t have to think about it too long. “Five million. That would be a fair starting price. It could go higher, depending on who was involved.” Martinez looked squarely at Hagen now. “But it’s not real. My sources in France are good. I trust them.”
“So if this thing is a fake, why does Amarantos want it?”
“Good question. And one that I can’t answer. But this Russian Jesus nonsense is a smoke screen.”
“Let’s say that Amarantos thinks the hand is real.”
“Not likely.”
“Let’s just say it is likely. Would he be trying to buy it so he could turn around and sell it, knowing that it was stolen and that a police hassle came with it?”
“Hagen, in this business ‘stolen’ is kind of a nebulous concept. Amarantos deals in things he knows he can sell. If the hand were real and Amarantos was trying to buy it, then I would say that he’s already lined up a buyer who wants the thing bad enough to pay the freight and then keep it under wraps for good. And that’s not an impediment. There are people in this world who’ll buy anything if they can get a good price. They might not give a shit about what the hand is. They’d buy it and use it as currency. Like a box full of greenbacks they picked up for pennies on the dollar. Where do you think all the stolen paintings go that you hear about—the Vermeers and Picassos and Renoirs? Currency—nothing but black currency. There’s a black economy operating in the world that most people never hear of, but it’s as real as any economy and it has its own kinds of currency. But that wooden hand your brother was pushing—it’s not real. That’s what I came here to tell you, Hagen. And that’s all I can tell you.”
Hagen asked the question he’d been waiting to ask. “Any idea who Trunk was trying to sell the hand to?”
Martinez winced. Shook his head slowly. Like he’d known the question was coming, had seen it coming from far off, and now that it was here it pained him.
“None whatsoever,” Martinez said.
“But you could find out.”
“I could find out a lot of things if I had a mind to.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I doubt it.”
“I thought you said you had a sense of justice.”
“I have sense, period. Right now my good sense tells me to stay away from you. Don’t lean on me, Hagen. I’ve told you what I can tell you. I owed the Sniff a favor and now it’s paid. Leave it at that. And remember, you don’t know me. We didn’t talk. Whatever I just told you, I never told you.”
“Name your price, Martinez. Just ask around for me.”
“Adios, Hagen.”
Martinez turned and walked away, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets as though searching for one last peanut. He disappeared into a crowd of people standing near the elevators. A chorus of screams filled the night and Hagen looked up to see the carnival ride shooting straight up into the sky.
The Hand of Danjou . . .
Five million dollars, Martinez had said. A fair starting price. It was a story that made more sense than Cosette’s tale. But if Martinez was right and the hand was a fake, what had Ronnie been up to? Had he known the hand was a fake? Or had someone sold Ronnie a bill of goods?
What kind of deadly game had Ronnie been playing?
Hagen had the valet bring his car around. He checked his watch—ten minutes past midnight. Hagen drove away from the Stratosphere on Las Vegas Boulevard, heading south. Checked his rearview mirror. He’d noticed a black Chrysler pull out behind him as he left the Stratosphere. On the boulevard the Chrysler dropped back and stayed with him.
His watchers were back.
A mile down the boulevard Hagen turned left and cut eastward on side streets until he reached the High Numbers Club. He parked out front. The electric sign hanging above the front door of the bar was lit up in red and green. Next door a loud wedding party mingled in the parking lot of the wedding chapel. Drunken whoops of joy and well-wishing drifted down the street.
Business was much better at the High Numbers Club now than it had been the afternoon before. The bar was crowded and a brassy swing arrangement floated out of the jukebox—Frank Sinatra singing about Chicago and how it was his kind of town. Hagen maneuvered through the crowd on his way to the back of the barroom. He hoped what he was looking for was still in use.
It was. At the back of the bar, a few feet farther along from the doors to the two restrooms, was a third door marked Exit. Hagen opened the door, stepped outside into the alley behind the bar.
The door closed behind him, cutting off the light.
Hagen walked quickly down the alley, past rows of trash bins and piles of bagged trash. He came out at the cross street and turned left. Walked toward the street corner. When he reached the corner he stopped. Looked back down the street in the direction of the front door of the High Numbers Club. On the opposite side of the street from the club the black Chrysler was parked near a small all-night grocery store. In front of the store four young black men were standing around shooting the breeze and listening to loud thumping rap music on a portable radio. Farther down the street a man stood in the shadows of a dark storefront, smoking a cigarette. The Chrysler was pulled up to the curb in front of him. The driver’s side window of the Chrysler was rolled down. Hagen could just make out the silhouette of a man sitting behind the wheel, the dark figure backlit by the lights of a gas station farther along the street.
How well did his watchers know him by sight?
One way to find out.
Hagen crossed the street. Hands in his pockets. Eyes on the ground. He reached the opposite corner and stepped into the pool of light from the grocery store. The four black men were in front of him now, taking up most of the sidewalk. They quit talking, looked Hagen over as he approached. One of them, a teenager wearing a pair of elephant-leg blue jeans, stepped aside and gave Hagen room to pass.
The smoking man was now thirty feet ahead of him. Hagen stepped out of the light from the grocery store and walked on. Keeping his head down. Just a man mulling over something as he walked.
Twenty feet.
The smoking man flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk and straightened up.
Ten feet.
He watched Hagen approach.
Five feet.
The man finally recognized him, started to say something, started to move—
Then Hagen was on him. Grabbing the front of his brown shirt. Throwing him up against the side of the black Chrysler.
The front of the shirt tore.
The man hit the car hard.
Hagen pulled out his pistol and moved in, fast and close. Grabbed the man’s throat with his free hand to hold him against the car while he pressed the pistol barrel against the side of the man’s head.
The man shouted, or tried to. He was a young man with closely cropped blond hair. Hagen heard his choked cry and understood him. It took a further second before it registered in Hagen’s mind that the man had cried out in German.
“Who are you?” Hagen said in German.
The young man stared at him. Eyes wide, his hands half raised.
Suddenly the driver of the Chrysler appeared on the other side of the car. He held a pistol in both h
ands. One hand gripping the butt of the automatic, finger on the trigger, the other hand cradling the butt. The underside of the cradling hand rested on the roof of the car. The barrel of the automatic was pointed directly at Hagen’s forehead.
“All right, mate,” the driver said. “Let go of my friend there and step back.”
The driver spoke in English. And with a British accent.
Hagen had expected to find two local thugs sent by Marty Ray. What he’d found instead was an Englishman and a German. They weren’t Marty Ray’s style at all.
Hagen said, “Who do you work for?”
“Don’t work for anyone,” the Englishman said.
“Marty Ray?”
“Don’t know who you mean.”
“Suzanne Cosette?”
“You’re off your beam.”
“Then why are you following me?”
The Englishman smiled. He was a young man with a square face and dark curly hair. He held the automatic rock-steady. “No one’s following you, mate. Just out for a night on the town. Nothing the matter with that, is there? Now let go of the Boche and step back and we’ll be on our way.”
The German sputtered, began to spew a few choice obscenities at Hagen in German, then thought better of it and shut up.
The Englishman nodded toward the storefront. “It might interest you to know that one of those fine young gentlemen with the radio just stepped inside that store there. I suspect he’s calling a policeman. Would you like to talk to a policeman? It won’t bother me much. I’ve got four witnesses who’ll say that you accosted us with a pistol. What’ve you got?”
“Tell your boss I want to talk to him.”
“Let go of my friend.”
“And tell him that if he keeps sending stooges around to follow me, I’m going to start busting heads.”
“Whatever you say, mate.”
“Put your piece away. Then I’ll let him go.”
Slowly, still smiling, the Englishman pulled the automatic off the roof of the car, dropped it to his side.
Hagen let go of the German and stepped back, keeping his pistol raised. The German straightened up, massaged his throat with one hand as he opened the car door with the other. He got into the car slowly. The Englishman climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. The German spit out the open window at Hagen, then raised his middle finger. “Tchuss, arschficker.”