The Big Score

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The Big Score Page 39

by Kilian, Michael;


  “I’m afraid I haven’t made much progress on that yet. I’ve been busy with the painting of Diandra.”

  “Maybe not busy enough. How much longer is it going to take?”

  Matthias shrugged. “Not too long. Just a few more sittings.”

  Poe glanced at his watch, then, more quickly, at Diandra. “Maybe you ought to go back now and get some more work done on it.”

  “I’m really tired, Peter,” said Diandra.

  “Tired? From all that lying down? Come on, get it over with.”

  “Whatever you say, Peter. When are you coming home?”

  “I won’t be, tonight. When I leave here, Miss Bellini and I are going out to Michigan City. My guy out there, Bobby Mann, has been on his own too long. I’ll be back tomorrow. Probably late.”

  Diandra and Matthias looked at each other.

  “Good night, then,” Diandra said. She kissed her husband on the cheek, then made her way to the door, Matthias following.

  When they were gone, Train hurried up to Poe.

  “The show’s an absolutely brilliant success, Peter,” he said, his eyes wandering across the room to Christian, who had his arm around Bitsie Symms.

  “A nice way to handle the payoff. How much are you going to give him for the last batch of Germans?”

  “Two hundred thousand. That’s what was agreed upon for this bunch.”

  “We’re a painting short.”

  “It’s what we agreed upon, Peter. You said you didn’t want him out at your casino anymore. This’ll be his final payment.”

  “All right. I won’t argue with you. We’re getting enough out of it.”

  Train seemed twitchy. “Did Mango tell you about the painting? The missing Kirchner?”

  “I told him we were taking care of it,” she said.

  “It was stolen, Peter,” Train said. “Two other paintings are missing, from my gallery stock. Mango is sure it was that police person from Michigan. He used to be a burglary detective.”

  “And now he’s a thief?”

  “I’m taking care of it, Peter,” Mango said tersely.

  “The rest of the shipment was delivered?” Poe asked.

  “Yes. The client is very satisfied. Paid in cash, as usual.”

  “And you sold my spaghetti picture?”

  “Yes, sir. Not to him. Somebody in Fort Lauderdale. Sixty-five thousand. It’s—it’s not a good market.”

  “All right. Turn the money over to Yeats. I’m not going to sweat that Kirchner. After this, I don’t want to hear anything more about any fucking paintings. I’ve got too many other things to worry about.”

  “Leave it to me, Peter.”

  “This Michigan guy, he hasn’t gone to the Chicago coppers, has he?”

  “We haven’t heard from them.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Larry. Go enjoy yourself.”

  Train did as ordered, moving toward Christian and Bitsie Symms.

  “Don’t worry about the Michigan guy, Peter,” Mango said. “He’s a goof. A real hayhead. From Wyoming, y’know? We’re sure he’s got the Kirchner in his house. The people I have watching things out there said he brought a bunch of shit in from his car last time he came back from Chicago.”

  “Why haven’t you gone after it?”

  “You want more than the painting back, right? You want him to drop the case. We’ve got him on the run. He’s got to be near the breaking point. He lost his job. His wife left him. Went back home to Wyoming. Can’t take much longer.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice. “We could take care of this real quick, you know. Just give the word.”

  “Not a chance. You kill a cop, any cop, and you’ve got trouble that’ll never go away. I don’t like these killings, Mango. None of them. Not even what went down in Atlantic City. No more.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s all behind us.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  Mango took his arm. “Let’s go, Peter.”

  At Meigs, Poe got out of the limousine but just stood there, making no move toward his helicopter, though one of his pilots was sitting at the controls, waiting to start the engine. Poe stared for a moment at the skyline to the west, then shifted his gaze to the north, then out at the lake.

  “What a view we’re going to have,” he said to Mango, who had gotten out to stand beside him. “There won’t be anything like it in the whole goddamn world.”

  “I dream about it, Peter. You and me, up at the top.”

  “You don’t dream about it the way I do,” he said.

  A small, twin-engine plane was approaching from the south, its landing lights looking like candles in the summer sky.

  “I want you to go out to the casino by yourself,” Poe said. “Give the books a once-over, but don’t give Bobby too hard a time. Just enough to remind him we’re still around.”

  “He’ll know I’m there. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “Why aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m going back to the penthouse.”

  “You’re going to drop in on them, unannounced, right?”

  “It’s time. Gotta move things along.”

  Matthias didn’t even pick up a brush. Convinced it might be their last opportunity for some time—angry at Poe for his so curtly ordering them about—he and Diandra made love, leaving the lights off, barely pausing to take off their clothes. As with their first time in Wisconsin, it was more an act of defiance than ardor, frantically performed, swiftly concluded, bringing neither of them much pleasure. Afterward they lay in each other’s arms, stroking each other in belated affection, Matthias feeling remorse, both of them unsatisfied.

  “There are times when I feel like an animal in Peter Poe’s private zoo,” Matthias said. “Even now.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “But then I wonder what we’ll do when the picture’s finished.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “I love you.”

  “Matt …”

  “How many times have you told me you love me?”

  “Many times.”

  “Always while we’re making love.”

  “I love you, Matthias. Haven’t I proved that to you? I don’t know what more you could ask of me.”

  He pulled back, trying to see her face. “Would you leave him? For me?”

  “Would you give up doing his building?”

  “It won’t take forever.”

  She said nothing. He caressed her breast, leaning to kiss her long neck, just beneath her ear.

  The lights came on. Poe, looking perfectly calm, stood in the doorway.

  “Hi, guys,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  Diandra blinked against the light. Matthias could see tears in her eyes.

  “Peter, what …”

  “Changed my plans. Just in time, I see. Don’t worry, I’m not shocked. I’ve looked in on you before.”

  Matthias glanced around the room. The outside terrace ran the full length of the penthouse. Anyone could have crept up to the window. Perhaps with a camera. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

  “Look …”

  Poe raised his hand, commanding silence. He ambled over to the easel, stepping back to improve his perspective.

  “Very good,” he said. “It’s all done, except for the background. I guess maybe Larry Train can find someone to do that for me.”

  “It’s not finished,” Matthias said.

  “Oh, yes it is. Perfect. You got everything there. Hair, face, tits, cunt. I like the look in her eyes. Yeah, you’ve really done her justice. Made me a nice souvenir.”

  Diandra stood up. “There are times, Peter, when I think you’re a real creep.”

  “Shut up, Diandra. Get your clothes on. You, too, Curland. I think from now on our relationship is going to have to be strictly business.”

  “I don’t think this is the time to—”

  “I’ll decide what’s time for what. Get out of here, Curland
. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  Mango rolled over onto her back, exhausted. She was getting old. Two men in the same day shouldn’t have knocked her out like this. Too much special treatment. Next time, she was just going to lie there like a twenty-dollar whore—no matter who it was who was screwing her.

  “You’re the best lay I ever had in my whole fucking life, Mango,” said the man lying next to her.

  “You’re too sweet.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the way Poe’s wife talks. ‘You’re too sweet.’ ‘That’s just fine, darling.’ I’m just trying it out for size.”

  “It sounds stupid.”

  “Your idea of being a gentleman, Bobby, is to tell a lady what a good fuck she is.”

  “Yeah, so? You want I should just pat you on the ass?”

  “Forget it, Bobby.”

  Mann sat up and reached for a cigarette. “You want one?”

  “Thanks.”

  He tossed her the pack. She made a face at him, then shook out a cigarette, lighting it herself.

  “You sure you gotta go back tomorrow?” he said.

  “That’s what the man said. I do what he says.”

  “At least we’ve got the night together.”

  “No way, Bobby. When you finish that cigarette, you’re outa here. I’m taking enough of a chance as it is.”

  “You made me wait a month.”

  “You almost waited for eternity. Anyway, I’m sure you had your pokes. You don’t have to look far in this joint.”

  Mann exhaled, staring at her through the smoke. “You set me up, Mango.”

  “Set you up? I saved your fucking life.”

  “You help me arrange the hit, then you tip him off.”

  “I didn’t tip him off. I just made sure he wasn’t on that boat. Use your goddamn head, Bobby. It wasn’t him I wanted you to hit. Hell, the way those greaseball chumps of yours fucked up the blow, he probably would have gotten off the boat alive and kicking like all the others. Then you really would have been in the shit. No way I could have stopped him from icing you.”

  “My friends in Atlantic City—”

  “Friends? Those creeps would have whacked you first thing they did. Just for fucking up the boat job. You got out of everything real lucky, Bobby. All thanks to me.”

  “He believed you when you told him I had nothing to do with it?”

  “You’re sitting here, aren’t you?”

  “You still want to take a whack at his wife?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. He’s going to dump her. Stuck-up bitch. Always treated me like shit.”

  Mango dragged on her cigarette, then brushed the hair out of her eyes. After all she’d done to make Bobby happy, it was a tangled mess.

  “So what do you want me to do?” Mann asked.

  “Just sit tight. Keep the handle out here honest, just like he said. We’ll make our move on him after the Japanese money comes in for the building.”

  “Two hundred million?”

  “When all is said and done. It’ll go into escrow.”

  “And you think you can touch that?”

  “I’ve got access to all the accounts, right? That fucking Yeats fought me all the way, but I got it.”

  “How much can we put our hands on?”

  “A couple million. Maybe more. What Peter would consider walk-around money, but enough to keep us happy for a long time. The biggest score you ever made, Bobby.”

  He lay back against the pillow, still smoking, staring dreamy-eyed at the ceiling.

  His brow furrowed. “What about his new partners, the outfit guys in Chicago?”

  “All they care about is this casino. They’ll be happy to have him out of the way.”

  “What about the Japanese?”

  “Stop worrying, Bobby. Two or three million is like nothing to them. A write-off. It’s Yeats I’m worried about.”

  “Maybe he and Poe can be together, when it goes down.”

  “That was the first thing I thought of. It’ll be no sweat.”

  He reached and touched her back, then ran his hand down to her bottom. “When can we do this again? Will you be out here any time soon? Without him?”

  “You’ll have to come out to Chicago.”

  “Chicago? Are you nuts?”

  “I can’t be making a lot of solo trips here. He’s going to New York in a few days, to do some television shows. We can use the boat for fucking. The harbor’s right near downtown. I’ll give the crew some shore leave. You can take a chopper out; be back here in time for the night shift.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch the choppers, not for personal use.”

  “You can catch a ride on one bringing the happy gamblers home.”

  “In a few days, you say.”

  She put out her cigarette, then got up. “I’m going to take a bath now, Bobby. You get the hell out of here. Don’t worry. It’ll all work out fine. I know what I’m doing.”

  CHAPTER 21

  For the next few days, Matthias stayed close to his own house, as much a prisoner of his humiliation as his dilemma. The loneliness was nearly unbearable, but he didn’t want to talk to his family or friends, as he was sure they would ask him about the Poe project, a subject that now afflicted him with almost as much bitterness as it did uncertainty. Poe had his drawings. He’d accepted Poe’s money. Any court of law would consider the design Poe’s property now, certainly any court in Cook County. Poe could leave it to Cudahy, Brown to finish the project. They’d do a shoddy job, but Poe would have his building. There’d be little Matthias could do to stop him, except denounce him, and that wouldn’t accomplish much. Disgruntled employee. Adulterer.

  He could see Poe putting down Cudahy, Brown as principal architects. Matthias still wanted that building to be his. It was.

  Christian had vanished after his gallery show, doubtless taking up residence with some new amour. The prospect of comparing notes with his brother on the pitfalls of adultery was in any event appalling.

  Poe didn’t call. Neither did Diandra. In fact, Matthias’s telephone didn’t ring at all. He was glad enough about that at first, but in time the silence became oppressive.

  He read. He played music—Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, Ravel’s Pelias and Melisande, Erik Satie’s Trois Gymnopédies, and, in the hopes of a more joyful mood, Leon Redbone. He drew endless sketches of sailboats and smoked his pipe constantly. In the dark of evening, he went for walks through the neighborhood. He drank, one night so heavily that he called his ex-wife, but she sensed his mauldlin mood and cut the conversation short.

  He also opened his mail. Saturday’s brought a letter that bore Doug Gibson’s law firm as a return address.

  “Matt,” it said, simply, “this came my way. You ought to ponder it.”

  Attached was a Xerox copy of a building permit, made out to Poe Enterprises, Inc. Matthias read over it twice, but all that caught his eye was the site location: “Solidarity Drive.” He presumed that was the name Poe had chosen for the address of his development, as other Chicago builders had adorned their creations with such vanity addresses as “One Magnificent Mile.” “Solidarity” served as an allusion to the ethnic museums, but still seemed peculiar.

  But Peter Poe was a most peculiar man.

  Why had Doug Gibson made a point of this? His friend was not at all the sort of man to jibe at people because of their ethnic backgrounds.

  Matthias also read the newspapers. A column in the business section of the Sunday Tribune leapt out at him as if it were a page-one story. Its quite small headline asked: “POE PROJECT IN TROUBLE?”

  The columnist, sounding much like Doug Gibson, devoted a lot of space to reasons why a super building on the Cabrini Green site could not possibly repay its investment. More jarringly, it contained the line: “The financial backers of the project, a Japanese consortium represented by the Inland Empire Bank, have reportedly told Poe they will not invest in the Cabrini Green location and that he must
find a more viable alternative site.”

  Matthias went to his telephone. The housekeeper answered, saying Poe was out of town. Instead of asking for Diandra, he left a message for Poe to call him as soon as possible.

  Matthias had Yeats’s number. It didn’t really surprise him that Sally answered—early on a Sunday morning.

  “I need to speak to … to Mr. Yeats,” he said as politely as possible.

  She hesitated. If she was about to talk to him herself, she thought better of it. “Just a moment, Matt. I’ll get him.”

  “Sally?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I have everything I need, Matt. And he’s a very nice man. Hold on.”

  Yeats came grudgingly to the phone. “Is this something that can wait till Monday, Curland?”

  “Did you read the Tribune this morning? The column in the business section?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Would you mind telling me which part?”

  Yeats went from grumpy to solicitous. “We’re having to rethink the Cabrini Green site, Matt. But don’t worry. There’s going to be a building. Your job is secure, despite, uh, recent complications.”

  “Complications?”

  “Mrs. Poe.” Yeats cleared his throat.

  So Poe was letting people know about his cuckoldry. It was logical that he might talk to his lawyer about such a thing, but what did this mean for Diandra?

  Yeats had probably told Sally.

  “Anyway, we’re going ahead with the project,” the lawyer said. “The money will be there. We have your plan. All we have to do is find a new site.”

  “That’s a pretty big all.”

  “Peter Poe is a pretty big man.”

  “Please have him call me. As soon as possible.”

  “Matt, I don’t have Poe do anything. But I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him—sooner than later.”

  After hanging up, Matthias went looking for a map of Chicago that he remembered having in the desk in his study, then took it to his upstairs studio, where he was keeping all his specifications on the new building. He spread the map out on his drawing board and leaned over it, examining the city center, block by block.

  It was impossible. There was simply no room for a structure that big within the Loop, or among the new high-rises that had been built on the periphery of downtown. Certainly there was no place for it along the North Michigan Avenue corridor, or in Streeterville to the east or in the Gold Coast to the north.

 

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