I can not risk our Mister Milano’s disastrous presence in my life up to its final moment.
Can not.
Will not.
John Milano
THE RADIO-ALARM HAD BEEN SET for seven which, they agreed, would allow time for him to drive her back to the apartment in the Village where she could put herself together for the day’s work, and then get her to the gallery by nine. But when the radio suddenly announced Monday morning’s arrival with the tail end of a commercial Milano came awake to the realization that he was alone in bed and that no light showed beneath the bathroom door. He had an instant call-missing-persons lurch of the stomach, then saw that there was a light coming from the living room.
He made his way there. Chris, all dressed except for shoes, was stretched out supine on the couch, a cushion on her belly, one of his larger coffee-table art books propped on the cushion. She lowered the book as Milano seated himself across the room to take in the view. She said, “Woke up at five and couldn’t get back to sleep. I had one of those sandwiches in the refrigerator. Bread’s kind of soggy, but it wasn’t too bad. I left the other one for you. Chicken with mayo.”
“Later. What’re you reading?”
“Reading and looking at. Raphael. You remember you said what it must feel like to poke a finger into one of his people? I still don’t get it.”
“Pretty packages. Not enough solid meat.”
Chris shook her head. “Looks the same to me as a lot of these others from the same period.”
“Well, they’re not. Say, are you always this argumentative first thing in the morning?”
“Not always. Not about Caravaggio. I looked him up too, and you were right. Potent. True funky.”
“That he was,” said Milano. “Now let me ask you something before we work our way around to Jackson Pollock. When you told me Rammaert invited you to his catered dinner so you could be nice to the guests—”
“Yes?”
“Exactly how does he define nice?”
“Oh?” Chris raised her eyebrows. “Are you that kind of wild-eyed Italian?”
“Maybe. And there is something about the—”
“There is nothing about it, honey. I’m there as a table decoration. Look, but don’t touch. Rammaert’s like that himself with me. It could be because he’s a foreigner. Foreigners are in and out of the place all the time, and somehow they are different. I wouldn’t rate them real color-blind and female-blind, but they do know how to fake it better.”
“I see,” said Milano. “So Rammaert’s okay in your book.”
“Just about. I told you right off when you made that come-on to me about your case. That’s why I’m still not too happy going through his files behind his back.”
“I know,” Milano said. In his mind’s eye he saw calendar notations. Tomorrow morning, the payoff money from Willie. Right after that, negotiations with Rammaert. And wherever they took place, and however speedily they were consummated, there would still be this Chris Bailey close by doing some hardheaded wondering. Milano thought, Oh, what a tangled web we weave, and said, “How about if I take this week off? Could you get off too?”
“Do not cast temptation my way, honey. I can’t afford it. I get paid only for showing up.”
“Just a few days? Say through Wednesday?”
“No. Rammaert gives me time off whenever I get word of a casting call or a tryout. Never makes a fuss. Or that last time Lorena disappeared and I was with Mama two days holding her hand. So I like to play fair with him. This would not go down on the chart as fair. You see that, don’t you?”
A hell of a lot of good it did, thought Milano, seeing it.
After making the round trip with her and dropping her off at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth, he drove back to the apartment. While parking, he remembered that the Heywood and Smith report on Kirwan was still tucked away in the Toyota’s dashboard and took it along with him. But first things first. Kirwan was an increasingly large speck in the eye, but right now Rammaert rated top priority.
So in the kitchen, while getting down the chicken and mayo on soggy bread, he applied pencil to paper drafting the particulars of Wim Rammaert’s modus operandi. He was at it when the phone rang.
The Wardour Hotel. Mr. Franconia-Nerisi.
“Mr. Milano? So sorry to bother you. And while I imagine Miss Cronin has discussed it with you—”
“Discussed what?”
“Ah. Her leaving here. Her giving up the apartment. Last night.”
“No,” said Milano. “I’ve been away.”
“Ah. Well, I really don’t know if I should be the one—”
“Look, what happened there?”
“Well. Last night at eleven I was called up to the apartment. A gentleman and lady were there with Miss Cronin. She appeared to have everything packed and ready to go. The gentleman, it seemed, was her father. He turned over the key to me, told me she was giving up the apartment, asked me to get a man up to carry the luggage to his car. I did that and they left very soon after.”
“Just cleared out?” said Milano.
“Ah. That’s where we meet a small problem. When the maid came in to do the rooms this morning she found that a very large amount of foodstuffs had been left behind. A considerable value in them. Absolutely untouched. And since the apartment is yours—”
“No,” said Milano, “that’s all right. Let the maid pass that stuff around. And the apartment is now all yours.”
“I see. Well, I’ll pro rate the rental. I’m sorry to have bothered you with this.”
Not all that sorry, thought Milano as he put down the phone. Not when you consider the pleasure he must have gotten from having a front row seat at that implausible scene. Country maiden rescued from city slicker by mommy and daddy. Of course, from the city slicker’s point of view what we had here was the depressing end to one of the shortest freedom marches in history. A wide U-turn, and back to the nest it went.
Painful to lose that ready entry to Intercontinental Credit Bureau’s computer bank, but even more painful right now to contemplate what its pathetic keeper of the keys was letting herself in for. Crowding thirty, under daddy’s thumb for good, a future sodality spinster.
Walking in like that on Christine Bailey. She must have told mommy and daddy all about it, and if she hadn’t used the insulting descriptive, it was a sure bet daddy had,
Screw him and Staten Island. And you could throw in a few other tight-ass sections of town along with that.
Milano defiantly washed down the remains of the sandwich with a bottle of high-calorie John Courage, put the Rammaert papers together, and made it to the office at an amble. Vacation was over – at least postponed – but you’d have to be out of your mind to break track records getting back to the reality of Watrous Associates.
Willie, red pencil in hand, was going through a stack of expense vouchers, which he dealt with as not very well-written fictions that needed a lot of editing. He sat back and, one eye shut, regarded his partner like a bird examining a possibly indigestible worm. “I’d still like to know your angle,” he said.
“Forget angles,” Milano said. “What about the Rammaert payoff money?”
So far, so good. I talked to Pacifica yesterday, and that Hale fag’ll be here Wednesday to make our payment and pick up the goods. Your note’ll be ready for you to sign tomorrow morning first thing.” The bird-beak nose twisted as Willie screwed that closed eye even tighter shut. “You still sure you want to do it this way?”
“Couldn’t be surer.”
“Uh-huh. You know, I can’t get out of my head that somehow this Christine Bailey piece is the angle. The trouble is” – the voice was honestly querulous – “it don’t add up. I mean, if it was five hundred bucks, even a thousand, what the hell, you’d be ready to toss that away for any hot number who gave you what you wanted. But forty grand? It can’t be her, can it?”
“You see,” said Milano. “The trouble is, Willie, you’ve got a dirty mind. In
teresting, but dirty. Now if you don’t mind—”
“Hold on. There’s an extra little something we have to get straight. When you deal with Rammaert I want Greenwald there. I already told him it could happen. Now I’m telling you right out he’ll be with you at the showdown.”
“As supervisor?” said Milano without rancor. “Or on the way up as company snitch?”
“He’s taking hold fine. It’s time he learned about an operation like this. How to handle it.”
“Why not?” said Milano. It was always heartwarming to throw Willie a slow curve like this and watch his bewilderment as it broke over the plate for a clean strike. “Matter of fact, I was thinking of it myself. I have to get together with Greenwald anyhow about Rammaert. I’ll just fill him in on the operation while we’re at it.”
“Oh yeah?” said Willie in feeble challenge.
“Oh, absolutely yeah,” said Milano. “And if you’re working on that angle now, just figure I’ve got the hots for Greenwald’s beard and here’s the chance for me to make my move.”
You didn’t catch Hy Greenwald napping. The desk was littered with papers, and Hy was closely examining one, computer in hand busily clicking away. When, peering over those granny glasses, he identified his caller he looked pleased. “Hey, man, just visiting? Or home again?”
“Hey, sonny. Looks like home again. No” – Hy was already halfway out of that super-luxurious full-leather swivel chair, and Milano waved him back into it—“just stay put.” Milano made himself comfortable in the facing chair. “Willie did tell you we’re ready to move in on Rammaert, didn’t he? You and I?”
“Yes.” Hy glanced at the door as if assuring himself there was no outline of an ear pressed against it outside. He lowered his voice. “You know what else he told me? About why I’m supposed to be there with you?”
“To keep an eye on me. Make sure I don’t pocket the receipts. Report back to him any peculiar moves I might make.”
Hy looked surprised. “He told it to you too? Just like that?”
“No, I read his thoughts. Willie’s thoughts are always right up there over his head in big print. Don’t let it bother you.”
“It bothers me,” Hy said. “So I tell you right now, if you don’t want me around—”
“No, on this one I want you there. Otherwise, Willie could wind up cutting out paper dolls in Creedmore, and who’d sign the payroll then? Besides, you’re going to start things off right now, so you should be there for the finish. It starts with you calling up Rammaert. When the girl at the switchboard—”
“Oh, yeah,” Hy said wistfully.
“That’s the one. When she asks for your name, give her your name, except that you are now Doctor Greenwald. Doctor. And that your representative already spoke to Mr. Rammaert about his interest in the works on display and you want to meet with Mr. Rammaert as soon as possible. Then, when she switches you over to Rammaert, just hand me the phone.”
“All right. But what’s been going on? How did we get this far?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as we set up the meeting. You’ve got tomorrow evening open, I trust.”
“It’s open.” Then Hy frowned. “Evening? Willie said it would be morning.”
“Willie was wrong. Now see if you can find the phone under all that stuff.”
The call went swimmingly, all in art dealer foxy talk. Yes, Dr. Greenwald was right here and had said he was interested in examining the Barquins first hand. But no, gallery hours wouldn’t do; he preferred to view them privately. And yes, that was quite understandable, wasn’t it?
And no, this evening wouldn’t do. In fact, the only time the doctor had free this week was tomorrow evening. And no, even though Mrs. Rammaert was pleased to have guests for dinner even on short notice, that wasn’t necessary. After dinner, then. Nine o’clock. Yes, that was definite. Nine o’clock.
Milano put down the phone and Hy said, “Man, that was lovely. I could just hear those violins in the background.”
“Always glad to spread the sweetness and light around,” said Milano. “That is one happy thief right now.”
“You really know that for a fact? That thief part?”
“Yes,” said Milano. “Now sit back and I’ll tell you how I know it. In detail.”
Omitting any mention of the co-conspirator, he told it in detail and where Willie, dean of this particular school of hard knocks, would have yawned his way through the narrative, it was gratifying that Hy, a freshman, was suitably impressed by it.
And, after some consideration, a little troubled.
He said, “But what kind of leverage does knowing all this really give us? We come out in the open with Rammaert, he stalls us, and next day that Barquin Number Ten is gone someplace else. With the Boudins in it. Then what?”
“Good thinking. So what we have to do is make sure he doesn’t stall us.”
Hy held up a hand in protest. “Johnny, if it comes to any strong-arm stuff—”
“You’re getting your zoology scrambled, sonny. He’s an art dealer. A hyena as you once put it. Not a tiger.”
“Well—”
“Take my word for it. No fire power called for. Just a little brain power. So what you do now is get out the Rammaert file you put together with all that interesting poop about him and his connections in Belgium and Switzerland. We include the account of how those Boudins made the trip from the Coast to here – with emphasis on the Miami stopover – and then Shirley herself will type it up for us. And run off a dozen copies of it. Remember that when it comes to an operation like this it is only Shirley who does the typing. For our eyes only.”
“That makes sense,” Hy said. “But twelve copies?”
“That’s our fire power,” said Milano. “Twelve shots.”
Mid-afternoon, he called Chris at the gallery. “I’ve been wondering,” he said. “Did you get any word about the kid today?”
“More of the same. She’s in bed playing deaf and dumb. Didn’t go to school, doesn’t want to eat, just about sending everybody right up the wall. I told Mama I’d be there tonight, see what I could do about it.”
“I’ll be waiting in the car any time you’re ready.”
“No. Nardo and Pearl are giving a reading of her new script at seven in the flat, so I won’t be ready till after nine. Anyhow, I figured to stay overnight in Brooklyn. And you don’t mind me saying it, honey, I don’t think you ought to be in on that family scene right now.”
“All right,” said Milano, “in that case I’ll drive you there, wait as long as it takes you to visit, and drive back. Save you the subway trip in the morning.”
“Uh-huh. Drive me back where?”
“Where do you think?”
“Well, in that case,” Chris said, “I have to tell you that you are now running into the wrong time of the month. The cramps are here already, the rest is coming very soon. So for a few days—”
“Do you like opera?” Milano said.
“Opera? Some, I guess. When I know what it’s about. Why?”
“Because I’ve got the librettos right there along with the albums. So for the soul I offer Puccini. For the cramps I offer aspirin, a heating pad, and champagne. For the rest, just talking. A lot of low-key talking. Nothing more expected.”
A Christine Bailey silence. Then she said in melting tones, “Honey, remember you once told me I was a flake?”
“Did I? Well, that shows it takes one to know one.”
“Sho’ nuff, it do,” said Chris. “So you just knock on the door around nine, and I’ll be right out. And then we can take turns holding Mama’s hand.”
Charles Witter Kirwan
NOW LISTEN CLOSELY.
No. I mean read this carefully. With great care.
It will provide evidence – all the evidence even the dullest psycho-quack needs rammed into his skull – of a completely rational mind. Absolute evidence which bars any court of law from dismissing the grand event as an aberrant act.
The evidence
?
Yesterday, I attributed that mysterious call warning me of John Milano’s true identity to the charitable nature of some stranger.
Last night I realized my mistake. A natural mistake. Caught so much off balance, entirely natural. But I had grossly underestimated the man’s cleverness.
Sleepless, I wondered who could have made that warning call and for what purpose. Logic. Logic. Why would some stranger do me that favor? Why?
No convincing answers. None.
Because
Listen closely. Because I was asking myself the wrong question. I was positing a stranger out there, serving me as guardian angel.
But of course there is no such stranger. There is only Mister John Milano, Borgia devious, closing in on his intended prey.
Our Mister Milano
Who, having failed so far in his mission, resorted to a Borgia trick. Identify himself through some accomplice, and then see how the prey reacts.
Will it flee in panic? Will it speed up its preparations and become careless in them? Will its nerve suddenly crack, its courage fail? Would it actually be so mindless as to seek a confrontation just to end this game of hunter and hunted?
Because, as I learned last night, this obscene game does go on and on. While I was in this room at about ten o’clock, a car, double-parked down the block, no driver visible in it, caused a brief but noisy traffic tie-up. A truck trying to clear it swung out into the path of an oncoming bus, both stopped, neither would give way. Typical stubborn fools behind those wheels. A wild honking of horns as traffic piled up behind them in both directions. Bulanga drivers, who have replaced the assegai with the automobile. Unable to freely use this weapon now, they promised riot. The truck finally backed away, the rioters dispelled east and west.
But
But that trouble-making car under the street light seemed familiar. Through the binoculars even more certainly familiar. Oh yes. Our Mister Milano’s car. Almost certainly his car.
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