by Jack Ewing
Medieval books with half an ounce of gold leaf highlighting jewel-like illuminations on vellum pages had set Giambi back fifty to a hundred thousand each.
An autographed Shakespeare folio, purchased years ago for a million-five was worth ten times that now, according to Giambi.
One of a handful of originals of the Declaration of Independence was deemed priceless, though a mere seventy-five thousand dollars had pried the item away from its previous owner.
Giambi called holographic manuscripts by Mark Twain, Jules Verne and Samuel Johnson unique.
The real Hitler diaries—bound in human skin and resting on a swastika-emblazoned flag—were book-marked by a skull-headed dagger.
They came finally to the Xaxpak Codex, in the fourth to last cubicle. Remaining displays were empty, ready for new treasures. The Mayan book was partially unfolded and artistically arranged among gold figurines of a parrot, a turtle, a monkey and a coiled snake. “This is what the fuss is all about.” Giambi rapped a knuckle against the glass. “Nice piece, one of the least expensive in the whole collection. Worth five, ten million, probably, but it cost me less than two hundred grand.”
Did the price include human lives? Toby wondered.
The old man led him onto the raised platform. Giambi waved him to one of the side-by-side easy chairs and took the other. “Drink, Mr. Rew?” Toby nodded. Giambi lifted a hinged armrest, produced a slim bottle of amber liquid and poured two slim glasses three-quarters full. They touched glasses in a silent toast and drank. The liquor was fruity and put a warm glow in Toby’s mouth.
From another well, Giambi removed a walnut humidor. “Cuban cigar?” He seldom smoked because of what had happened to his father, but Toby though it imprudent to refuse the offer. From the half-dozen sizes available he selected a slim greenish-brown tube of tobacco. Giambi expertly nipped one end with a guillotine cutter and ignited the other end with a heavy filigreed silver table lighter as Toby puffed it to life. The old man’s nostrils quivered. “I’d join you, but my doctor won’t let me smoke any more.”
The cigar was smooth and pleasant-tasting. Hidden fans discreetly sucked its thick blue smoke straight up.
The old man broke a minute’s worth of silence: “What do you think of my little collection, Mr. Rew?”
“Impressive. You must like to read.”
“With a passion. Most people don’t know this, but I couldn’t read until I was in my twenties. Turned out I had dyslexia. Back then, they just thought I was stupid.” He sat back with a self-satisfied smile. “Collecting the world’s most expensive reading matter is my way of saying, ‘who’s stupid now?’”
“Is it all stolen?”
“None of it is stolen. I paid cold cash for everything.”
“But none of this really belongs to you.”
Giambi shrugged, eyes hooded. “A technicality. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, my attorneys tell me.” He thumbed his chest. “It’s all mine. I’m keeping it.”
“Your own private museum and reading room?”
“Whatever, the stuff’s safer here than where it came from.”
Giambi’s finger darted at various displays. “That Declaration of Independence was lining the bottom of a trunk. That manuscript was moldering in a damp basement. Hitler’s diary was captured during the last months of the war and donated to a university library where it would have fallen apart in a few years. And that new Codex—the Indians who found it wanted to cut it up and sell individual pages.”
His dark, flashing eyes found Toby’s. “I’ve rescued every piece from an uncertain future and given each the kid-glove treatment such historical documents deserve.”
Toby sipped his drink and drew on the cigar. “Why’d you show me all this? Why tell me your secret? You going to have me taken for a ride, have me rubbed out?”
The old man chuckled. “‘Taken for a ride! Rubbed out!’ I haven’t heard those phrases since the ’50s.” His laughter left him breathless.
By the door of the vault-like room, Gino grinned.
Toby didn’t crack a smile. It wasn’t funny to him.
Giambi wiped his eyes. “You watch too many gangster movies.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Giambi leaned forward. “I thought we could reason together, Mr. Rew. I thought once you’d seen my collection, understood what I’m doing to protect these priceless writings from harm, we could work out something to our mutual benefit.”
There was a soft buzz somewhere and Gino padded over to answer a telephone set into the wall near the door. He listened without speaking for a moment, then hung up and lumbered over.
“What do you have in mind?” Toby asked cautiously.
“I’ll buy Puterbaugh’s manuscript from you. Name your price.”
Gino bent over to whisper in Giambi’s ear. The old man nodded and Gino went back to his former place.
“What if I said a million dollars?” Toby asked.
“I’d have Gino go fetch the payoff. How would you like it? Cash? Diamonds? Gold coins? Bearer bonds? Cashier’s check?”
Toby’s head swam. Was it the aftereffects of a blow to his cranium or the thought of suddenly being fabulously wealthy? “Save Gino the trip. It’s not for sale.”
“I have deep pockets. Surely we can settle on a satisfactory amount—”
“Not for any price. What good is a million dollars, or ten, if I’m not around to enjoy it? Once the manuscript is in your hands, I have no leverage. Nothing to prevent you from having me killed.”
Giambi drew himself up. “My word is my bond. Ask anyone! If I say you live, you live. If I say you die, you die. If I make a promise, I keep it. I am a man of honor.”
“I believe you, Mr. Giambi, but I’ll hang onto it for now.”
The old man sighed and stood. Toby stood, too, leaving his cigar on the lip of a convenient ashtray. It had begun to taste bitter and it had gone out anyway.
They rode the elevator in silence back upstairs. “Sure I can’t change your mind, Mr. Rew?” Giambi said as Gino opened the mirrored door.
Toby stepped out onto the polished granite. “Status quo seems safest to me.”
A man was standing across the room, watching tropical fish dart about their tank and tapping the glass to get their attention. He turned as the three men exited the elevator.
Toby’s heart leapt with hope: it was Detective Dixon. The cavalry had arrived to save him from the savages!
Chapter 24
Before Toby could open his mouth to utter a happy greeting, his hopes were dashed. Giambi said, “Glad you could make it, Frank.”
“I got away as quick as I could, Mr. G.” Dixon avoided looking at Toby. “I can’t stay. I’m supposed to be working.”
“This is a cop on your payroll?” Toby demanded. Now it was clear how Leo knew about Reveulto: Dixon had told him. Or maybe it was his equally crooked partner, French. One of them must have told Artie where to find Toby, too.
Giambi said, “Frank’s been a player for three, four years now. A valuable pipeline to headquarters.” He clapped the detective’s shoulder. “How are the kids, Frank? Jennie over that nasty cold yet?”
“Yes, sir.” Dixon smiled, like an ordinary proud parent and a typically obedient underling. “Back to normal, as active as any eight-year-old. Sue’s at camp this year.”
“Good, good.” Giambi played jovial host. “And that lovely wife of yours? Is her new liver still functioning properly?”
“Marie’s fine,” Dixon said. “Completely recovered.”
“Good, good.” Giambi patted Dixon’s arm. “I’d hate to think what might have happened if she’d been forced to wait her turn in line for an appropriate organ donor. I’m glad to have been of some little service in speeding up the selection process.”
Dixon’s eyes flashed. “You know we’re grateful to you, Mr. G.”
“It’s not gratitude I look for from you, Frank,” Giambi said. “It’s loyalty.”
Th
e detective frowned. “I’ve done everything you asked.”
“I haven’t asked for much, so far, have I?”
“I’ve kept my end of the bargain. You’ve been told about anything that might affect you.”
“Really? Then perhaps you can explain how Mr. Rew here managed to bug Artie’s house without anybody knowing about it.”
Dixon’s steely eyes probed like needles. “Rew”—he rhymed it with “pew”—“what have you been up to?” Toby remained silent.
“This smells like Dave French’s work,” Dixon said to Giambi. “I’ll bet he talked Rew into planting the bugs. My partner’s nuts about electronic gadgets—you should see this geek he hangs out with after hours. Dave is always looking for a way to make a name for himself.”
Toby felt a small surge of optimism. Maybe he’d been too hasty in his condemnation of French.
“Apparently, I’m supposed to be the big fish he’s trying to land.” Giambi said with some heat. “How come you don’t know what your own partner is doing?”
Dixon was sweating, though the room was air-conditioned cool. He wiped a bead of moisture that trickled from a gray sideburn. “Dave’s been distant lately. We don’t talk like we used to. I’m beginning to think he suspects something—or maybe it’s just my breath.” He showed crooked teeth in a sickly smile.
“If you’re found out,” Giambi said, “you’re a liability to me.”
Dixon dismissed his partner with a wave. “Dave’s not all that bright.”
“Bright enough to make a deal with Mr. Rew here.”
“What deal?” Dixon studied Toby.
“According to Mr. Rew, if anything happens to him, evidence implicating me in various alleged crimes, supposedly squirreled away, will fall into the hands of the police.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s what worries me, Frank. If your own partner didn’t mention the bugs and didn’t confide in you about this arrangement with Mr. Rew, what else is he keeping from you that might adversely affect me?” Dixon didn’t have an answer.
Giambi moved towards the door leading upstairs and the others dawdled after. Gino acted as rear-guard as they marched single-file up the steps. “I think it’s time,” the old man said, “for a new demonstration of your loyalty, Frank.”
“Okay,” said Dixon from behind Toby, “you need fresh inside info?”
“Information is easy to come by. I need more from you now.”
The four men reached the top of the steps and filed out into the back yard. They moved as a loose group down a gentle, grassy slope, into darkness beyond an elongated patch of pastel yellow falling through the glass wall of the house. The still, black lake surface reflected the wan light of a slivered moon. The dark bulk of the fieldstone wall loomed off to the right, hemming in a hundred-yard stretch of shoreline that was all rock except for a ten-foot-wide, hundred-yard long beach of light-colored sand at water’s edge that must have been imported.
Giambi stopped to stare out at the water. The others gathered in a semicircle around the old man like dinner guests hanging on the words of their host. “Do you have your gun with you, Frank?” Giambi asked.
“Sure, I’m required to carry it.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do: take Mr. Rew down to the boathouse.” He pointed to a sharp-edged shape silhouetted against pale shoreline. “Get a rowboat and some chains. Have Mr. Rew paddle out to the middle of the lake. Shoot him dead, wrap chains around him and drop him in the water. Then row straight back here.”
Toby’s face was numb. His heart thumped like a tom-tom. He thought of jumping the old man and threatening to break Giambi’s neck if they didn’t let him go. But it was a bad idea. Dixon had a gun; Gino surely had one, too, and Mr. G was too small for Toby to hide behind. He wouldn’t get five feet. Besides, his legs seemed paralyzed.
Dixon loosed a nervous laugh. “You’re joking, right?” His voice quavered.
“I never joke about killing.” Giambi turned to Toby. “Sorry, Mr. Rew. You seem like a decent young fellow, someone with principles, a rarity today. I admire your character, even if qualities like decency are bad for my business. It’s too bad you got thrust into the middle of this whole affair. But I’ve got to cut my losses now.” The old man’s eyes were deep, dark hollows. “There’s too much at stake—you’ve seen all I have to lose. As long as you’re still alive, you could hurt me. I can’t let that happen.”
“They’ll get you.” Toby’s voice rang shrill.
Could he run, dodging bullets? Lose them in the dark? He’d have to head for the lake, the only way open. How cold was the water? How fast would his soggy coveralls and waterlogged boots drag him down?
“They can try,” Giambi said. “I’ve retained a battery of high-powered, high-priced lawyers who have gotten me out of some sticky places over the years. They’ll help me beat this rap, too, if it comes up. But I don’t think it ever will.”
“You hope,” Toby said. The old man was probably right. He could be found over Toby’s corpse with a smoking gun and his money would still get him off. “What about your word of honor?”
“You will recall that we did not reach an agreement.”
Toby felt Gino’s presence behind him, like a cloud crossing before the sun. The big man gave off a faint whiff of garlic.
“In any case,” Giambi said, “what happens won’t matter to you. You’ll be lying at the bottom of the lake, alongside the Puterbaughs.” Toby had suspected they were dead but the confirmation still came as a stomach-jolting shock.
By Dixon’s shocked expression in the moonlight, he hadn’t known about their demise, either. “You killed them?”
“They died of acute stupidity,” Giambi said. “All that education and they hadn’t learned not to trifle with a man like me.”
Dixon covered his ears. “Hey, I can’t hear this.” His voice fluttered with alarm.
Toby asked, “Are the young Puterbaughs with their folks?”
Giambi raised his eyebrows. “We don’t kill children, unless absolutely necessary. Those kids don’t know enough to hurt me.”
“Because the Puterbaughs were stupid, I’ve got to die?” Toby’s voice was a petulant child’s, wondering why he had to go to bed early.
“You were too smart for your own good, so you get to join the dummies. With luck, none of you will ever be found.”
Toby gathered himself to draw back a fist and smash the old man in the face and damn the consequences. But Gino’s giant hand fastened painfully around his neck and discouraged him from saying or doing anything. A quick twist of the thick wrist and Toby would be history.
Dixon hadn’t moved. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mr. G.”
Giambi whirled on him. “You’d better, Frank. Or I’ll doubt your value even more than I do at this moment.”
Dixon looked stiff and brittle, as though he’d shatter with a good tap. “Look,” he pleaded, “I’m a cop. I’m supposed to protect and serve.”
“You also serve me. You’re hired to protect my interests and you’re well paid for your services.” Giambi words were icy. “Remember, Frank? Some time ago, you asked me for a big favor. I granted it. Now I’m asking you for a small favor in return.”
Dixon’s face was shiny in the moonlight. “This is way over the line. This goes beyond looking the other way or tampering with evidence or giving you inside dope, Mr. G.” His voice was shaky and it dropped to a whisper: “We’re talking murder.”
Giambi stepped closer to the detective. Dixon, to his credit, did not back away. “That’s correct, Frank. You have finally grasped the obvious. You’re at a crossroads. I need to know I can trust you, so think carefully before you act.”
The old man held out gnarled hands like the pans of a balance-beam scale. “I’ll give you a simple choice: kill Mr. Rew or kill your partner.”
Now Dixon shrank back. “Dave?”
“French is trouble, too, if Mr. Rew has been working with him.”<
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“But it could be a bluff. You can’t be sure—”
“I can’t take chances. French might get you if we don’t get him first. If they get you, they have an inside track to me. I don’t like that. You follow my reasoning, Frank?” Giambi shrugged. “You take care of one problem, we’ll handle the other.”
Dixon backed off another step. His eyes gleamed as he searched for a way out but he was as trapped as Toby.
“I’ll make it easy for you, Frank. Your options boil down to one.” Giambi balled his right fist. “Either you agree to carry out this assignment in the next ten seconds or Gino will take you out in the boat along with Mr. Rew and feed you both to the fishes. It’s a big lake. It can absorb two fresh bodies as easily as one.” The age-spotted fist sank, like a weighted body plunging down into dark water.
Without being told, Gino had whipped out a large-caliber automatic weapon. It looked like a toy in his meaty paw as he waved it at the detective.
Dixon got the idea and eased his weapon from its holster—it looked just like Gino’s firearm—using only thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Giambi snatched the gun away. Gino roughly patted Dixon down and removed a second pistol from an ankle holster. This one was smaller, a revolver. Giambi also confiscated it.
“What’s it going to be, Frank?” The old man stuck the automatic in a suit pocket. He expertly broke open the revolver and removed cartridges.
Dixon used up nine of his ten seconds thinking about it. His mouth twitched. His eyes darted. His fingers clenched and unclenched. “All right. I’ll do Rew.”
“Good.” Giambi patted Dixon’s shoulder. “To show my appreciation for your increased responsibility, you’ll get a bonus when you return.”
Under Gino’s watchful eye, Giambi returned the detective’s gun. “I left one slug. As a professional, you shouldn’t need more than that to do the job. Blow it, Frank, and you’re a dead man.”
He swiveled his head towards the bodyguard as Dixon dropped the weapon in a coat pocket. “Gino, go down and help them with the boat, then come back to the house. I have more work for you.” Giambi tossed the handful of bullets into the lake and trudged back uphill.