"Well, it was a long shot. Meet us at the car."
* * * *
The singer wedged himself between Canal and McReary in the back of the Chrysler. He had a light topcoat on over a white dinner jacket and another of his floppy bow ties. “I still don't see why you had me get the money. It doesn't inspire confidence."
"Money can speed things up,” Zagreb said. “It can also slow ‘em down. Maybe long enough to put one of us between you and a hunk of plumbing."
McReary said, “That's me. I don't draw as much water as the rest of these guys."
The girls were lined up all the way down Grand Boulevard to the corner, dressed nearly identically in letter sweaters, A-line skirts, saddle shoes, and bobby sox; the mounted patrol was out to keep them from storming the theater. Sinatra slid down in the seat and tipped his hat over his eyes to avoid being swamped. “I heard your people pay them to scream and faint,” Burke said.
"Maybe they did in the beginning, but nobody's got pockets this deep."
Canal said, “No sign of Orr."
Zagreb said, “He'll be inside already, with the guys he pays to carry his guns. I'd be tempted to take a potshot at him myself if he stood out on the street."
They turned the corner and found out that the line did as well. Now there were men in army and marine uniforms, and a bus unloading naval cadets from the University of Michigan, some holding passes. Part of the proceeds had been pledged to the armed services. Sinatra sat up and straightened his hat. “See, there are more ways to win a war than just with a rifle."
McReary, the least conspicuous of the Four Horsemen, accompanied Sinatra through the stage door. Burke parked in a loading zone and the three went inside and fanned out. Minutes after the doors opened to the public, every seat in the theater was filled, but it didn't stay that way long. When the orchestra played and Sinatra bounded onstage, the girls leapt to their feet and the men in the audience were forced to do the same, to see over their heads. Jitterbugs made their complicated maneuvers in the aisles until they got too crowded to do more than jump up and down and squeal. Only the group of men in silk suits and their female escorts in the front row kept their seats. Frankie Orr's sleek head showed in Zagreb's binoculars in the middle, next to a stack of blonde hair that was not his wife's.
Sinatra didn't hold back. He opened with “All or Nothing at All,” slid seamlessly into “I'll Never Smile Again"—McReary's favorite—and a lively, finger-snapping rendition of “That's Sabotage,” a novelty hit with a wartime theme, while the girls screamed “Frankie!” over and over, each hoping to catch his eye and pretending it was her waist he was holding and not the microphone on the stand. He grasped it in both hands and tilted it, made love to it. Zagreb was impressed—not enough to throw over Bing Crosby, but it was clear the singer took that chip off his shoulder and left it backstage when he performed. Long before he got to “All the Way” (wasn't that where he said he was going?), he proved he was born for the spotlight.
The lieutenant noted all this on the edge of awareness. It was the man he was concentrating on, not the entertainer. Just in case the would-be attacker had changed his choice of weapons, Zagreb scanned the manic figures on the floor for suspicious bulges and arm movements; matters of instinct, easier to see than guns. He knew Burke and Canal were doing the same in their respective quarters, and McReary in his, back there among the chalk marks and dust. They'd divvied up the place the same way FDR, Churchill, and Stalin had each claimed his part of the war.
At length the concert ended. Sinatra, as prearranged, tugged loose his bow tie and cast it out into the audience, where a hundred pairs of hands snatched at it and tore it to pieces for souvenirs.
Canal: “You do that every place you play? How rich are you, anyway?"
Sinatra: “It doesn't cost much. My wife makes them."
McReary: “That's the kind of wife I hope to have."
In this case, they had timed the tie gag to signal the squad to join the singer backstage and form a flying wedge around him toward the exit.
A sea of hysterical fans filled the narrow corridor leading to the stage door. Pens and autograph pads came at the moving party from all sides, but Burke and Canal deflected them with their forearms and McReary and Zagreb kept a death grip on Sinatra's biceps as they propelled him forward.
"C'mon, fellas. Let me sign a couple."
Their only response was to heave upward, lifting the singer's patent leather heels off the floor. They were carrying him now. He was heavier than he looked.
A group of sailors in white stood smoking near the door. Grins broke out when they recognized the man being swept their way; they'd been training hard, and he'd put on a swell show. They called him Frankie and asked him when he was coming to Pearl.
"Well, they ain't the cavalry, but let our mug try busting through this bunch.” Canal sounded relieved.
Zagreb said, “You know the navy. What's ‘dress white’ mean?"
"Hell, it's the uniform of the day; everyone knows that."
"Why's this one in blue?"
A sailor who'd been standing apart from the group lunged between Canal and Burke, sliding a hand inside Sinatra's dinner jacket as his other came out of his blue blouse with a shrill tearing sound. Canal clubbed him with an elbow while Burke clamped down on his wrist. The hand attached to the wrist sprang open and the object in it bounced off Zagreb's knee and struck his toe, sending a bolt of pain to his ankle. It was lead, all right. Cursing, the lieutenant snatched the envelope from the sailor's other hand and shoved him off his feet. He stuck the envelope back inside Sinatra's jacket.
McReary and Zagreb let go of the singer to help Canal and Burke hoist the sailor to his feet. Sinatra turned immediately to sign a piece of paper one of the men in white was holding. “This for you, pal. Or you trying to get in good with some dame?"
* * * *
"I'd look good in one of those sailor suits.” Sinatra played with his Jack on the rocks. “In a movie, I mean; I've had some offers. I tried to join. Sometimes I think I should carry around a sign saying it."
Burke said, “I'm Four-F myself. Color-blind, as if I couldn't tell a Nip or a Jerry from just his uniform."
The two touched glasses. They were all back in the Lafayette Bar. The Greek band was between sets, giving them the chance to talk without shouting. Zagreb was looking at his notebook.
"Morty Tilson, not affiliated with the U.S. Navy or any other branch of the armed services. He was catching in a pickup ballgame when the ball bounced off the plate and hit him in the throat. He'd signed to sing with Benny Goodman; now he can't even get in the military. Hoboken boy. Your story could've been his."
"I don't know him. Hell with him.” Sinatra signaled the bartender for another round. “I could forgive him for the pipe; everyone gets jealous. He had to have the cash too."
McReary said, “He needed it for the black market. Driving from Jersey to Detroit burns a lot of gas."
The bartender, a brick-colored Mediterranean with a brow like a space bar across both eyes, set down the drinks and asked Mr. Sinatra if he might indulge his customers in a song. He rolled his head toward a bright young thing seated at the bar, smiling at him over a bare shoulder. Her swarthy escort glowered at him over his.
The singer shook his head. “Put their drinks on my tab."
Burke asked Canal what the hell he was playing with. It was making him edgy. The sergeant unwound the flexible silver square from a thick index finger and showed it to him. It was torn on one side.
"It's what Tilson used to stick the pipe to his chest. Lab monkeys have the rest. Duct tape, it's called. The flyboys in the navy and air corps use it to patch the hydraulic cylinders on planes. I guess he got it from the same guy who gave him the uniform."
"He'll tell us about that too. It might mean the difference between one-to-three and five-to-seven in the Jackson pen.” Zagreb pointed his beer bottle at Sinatra. “You owe us a story. You don't have to sing it."
The singer l
it a Camel off a pigskin lighter and blew twin strands out his nostrils. “You earned it, with or without accompaniment. Yeah, I was born dead; bluer than Tilson's shirt. I weighed thirteen and a half pounds, can you believe it? The doctor jerked me out any old way to save my mother from bleeding to death. My grandmother scooped me up and dunked me in a sink full of cold water and I started yelling. My first solo."
"No wonder you pay to even the odds,” McReary said after a moment. “You started out a strike behind."
Burke said, “I got three nipples."
Quiet settled over the table.
"What I mean,” he said, turning red, “everybody's got something."
Sinatra smiled his bitter smile. “Sure you're not counting your dingle-dangle?"
The detective colored all the way to his fingertips. When the laughter faded, the singer lifted his glass to his chin. “So I guess I am funny."
"Just sing, Frank,” Zagreb said.
Copyright © 2010 Loren D. Estleman
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE ART OF DECEIT by Christopher Welch
"Are you an artist?” I asked her. I could tell she wasn't.
"Yes,” she said and nodded. She clasped a portfolio firmly in her hands. “Well, no . . . Why do you ask? Does it matter?"
"You have an artist's portfolio in your lap."
She nodded again. She looked around my art gallery. “Do you . . . what's the word . . . ? Look at paintings and decide whether they're real or not?"
"If they exist, they're real enough.” I smiled to signal I was kidding, but she was having no part of it. “Maybe the word you want is authenticate."
"I guess that's right."
I sighed to myself. Art authentication is a difficult business, a risky business, an open-the-door-to-litigation business. I am qualified—vaguely qualified, very vaguely qualified—to authenticate very few artists’ works, and even with those few artists other people can do more confident work than I can, and they have tools to help them. I only have my eye. Plus I hate doing it. It's an invitation to be wrong.
But it was April and business was slow. I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said, “though it depends on the artist, Ms. Bauer."
"Anne. I'd prefer you call me Anne. What artists?"
"My main interest is eighteenth-century French art, pre-Revolution French art. Ancien Régime.” No reaction. That description alone is enough to deter most people, particularly the few people who have an idea what eighteenth-century French art might look like. Those who want me to authenticate a Dali print they bought on a cruise ship, for example, or a Grandma Moses they found in an antiques store in Vermont, generally stop right there. Their eyes glaze over at the thought of the eighteenth century, their attention strays, and they leave. She did not.
"Does . . .” She unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “Does Jean-Siméon Chardin fit in that category?"
Damn.
"He does, Anne. I once wrote a short monograph on Chardin's use of color. It sold fifteen copies, as I recall.” She did not react. No little smile. “Do you have a painting by Chardin?"
"You tell me."
She sat down and opened her portfolio and carefully took from it a small rectangle. As she unwrapped the protective white paper around it, I could see an elaborate golden frame. Together the painting and frame measured perhaps eighteen by fifteen inches, a typical size for many of Chardin's paintings. The painting when I saw it depicted a kitchen scene—or was it a pantry? A young woman, simply dressed and looking directly forward, held a knife and an onion in one hand and seemed to be concealing something behind her back with the other. She was standing in front of a table that filled the painting to her left. A dead rabbit lay on the table carefully arrayed alongside a copper pot, a jar filled with olives, and a loaf of bread, all of them favorite elements in Chardin's still lifes.
It was a lovely painting. The colors were right. It looked at a glance like a Chardin.
It was not a Chardin.
But I did not tell her that, not then. I looked at it appreciatively and cooed a little.
For the first time her face softened. “Do you like it?"
"It's lovely."
"And?"
I gave a noncommital shrug. “I'll have to examine it far more closely. Why do you want it authenticated? Is there a particular reason?"
"Mr. Bauer, Jake, wants me to take it at a value of seven hundred fifty thousand dollars as part of the property settlement in our divorce. I need to know what it's worth."
"Of course.” Divorce. That made it all even worse. “But you'll need to leave it with me for awhile."
"How long?"
I hedged. The answer was about half an hour. “Give me a week,” I said. “By then I should know whether I can come up with a solid assessment or whether I'll want other people to look at it as well."
The answer did not please her, and her fleeting smile faded. “I'd rather you didn't show it to anyone else. Jake doesn't want . . .” Her voice trailed off.
"I'll get your permission first."
She hesitated but nodded.
"Who's your divorce attorney?"
"Bess Nicholson. She sent me here."
"And your husband's?"
"An awful woman. Marjorie Rice."
I knew Bess. She was a straight shooter and a sane person. I did not know the awful Ms. Rice but suspected I might before long. I was wrong.
I had Anne Don't-Call-Me-Mrs.-Bauer pay my fee and sign my conventional hold harmless agreement, which said that she could not sue me for making a mistake unless I was very, very naughty. She might later claim that I coerced her into signing it, and she would be right: If she hadn't signed, the painting would have found itself back in its wrapping paper and sent on its way with her. Especially in the middle of divorce proceedings.
It took me five days to draw up what was truly a thoughtful, measured assessment of the painting. I telephoned her and she came in the next morning, Tuesday.
* * * *
"No! Why not?” She pursed her lips and rubbed one hand with the other.
"Remember, I could be mistaken, but there are several reasons,” I said. “To begin with, it seems to tell a story. Chardin's paintings are almost never narratives. The elements in the painting are all elements that appear regularly in Chardin's art, but never combined the way they are here. Not that I know of. Scullery maids, yes. Still lifes, yes. But not together. Then it's too good, or rather, too perfect. Like all artists, Chardin was imperfect. He was not always a master of perspective. Commonly, floors look like they're tilted forward so that objects placed on them seem as though they're about to skitter off the canvas and crash at your feet. In your painting the perspective on the floor could hardly be better. Those bottles at the woman's feet aren't going anywhere. It's odd, too, that she's looking directly at the viewer. There are one or two other instances of that angle in Chardin but very few."
"So you're telling me that it's a fake because it's too good? That's un-believable!"
"Fake . . . well, I suppose it is a fake if someone's trying to pass it off as something painted by Chardin, but it might have been painted by a young contemporary of Chardin's studying his techniques, for example. Or it could be a forgery painted last year.” Last year was the answer I would have put money on.
"That liar,” she said.
"Here's what you might do. I can give you the names and addresses in New York City of people and organizations that do authentication. Or you could take it to one of the large auction houses and try to consign it. They'll do their own evaluation. They'll want to know where it came from, of course. Where did you get it?"
"Jake bought it at a gallery somewhere around here. I don't know which one. He just showed up with it one sunny summer day. Just showed up with a painting he paid a lot of money for."
Around here? I was startled.
"Try to find out where. Then you can find out how the gallery owner got it.” Maybe. But probably not. That
's not a piece of information dealers like to share.
The way she said thank you did not sound very thankful. She briskly rewrapped the painting, stuck it back into the portfolio, and left.
That was the last I saw of her. I read about her, though, and so did a lot of people, in the next day's Berkshire County newspaper: “Hedge Fund Manager's Wife Shot to Death.” Poor Anne. In her death identified only as Jake Bauer's wife.
* * * *
I went about my business for a day or two, which mainly meant smiling politely at the few April visitors who wandered into my gallery, looked around, and asked if I had anything more, you know, recent, or if I carried any nice paintings of kittens. One couple wanted to find something by Thomas Kinkade. I restrained myself. Barely.
On Friday, Bess Nicholson telephoned. She wanted to know when I would be done evaluating the Chardin painting.
When I would be done? I told her what had happened. “It isn't in her house?” I asked.
"No, no, one of Anne's brothers and a couple of state troopers and I went through the house yesterday with Jake and his attorney. Jake came up from his office down in Greenwich. The police were in the house the day before, doing all their forensic stuff. The painting is definitely not there. You sure you don't have it?"
"Of course I am. I gave it back to her. How about my report? Did you find that? Fifteen pages? Maroon cover?"
"Nope. Didn't find that, either. Didn't know there was one."
Fine. I could see a new headline in the paper: “Local Art Dealer Charged with Stealing Artwork, Murdering Owner."
"Umm . . . Why don't you come over to the office?” she asked. “Can you get Sandy to babysit the gallery?"
Sandy's idea of babysitting the gallery was to lock the front door, turn off the ring tone on the telephone, and work on a new scholarly article on Gender Narrative in one figure or another from English literature. I left anyway.
* * * *
"You didn't have her sign a receipt?” Bess asked. “Toby . . . that's too careless. Especially after you had her sign the hold harmless.” It annoyed me that she was right and annoyed me more that there was nothing I could say. I sighed instead. “Suspicious people, like Jake and his attorney, are going to insist that you still have the painting."
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