Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  So the next morning, when he goes for his run, I slip in through the glass door, walk upstairs and pluck the American flag painting off the wall, put it in my van, and drive off. I meet Marcos in the city, just like we planned. I have the painting in a briefcase and hand it over to him. He gives me the $10K he promised. Not bad for less than a week’s work.

  But then, a few days later, I read in the newspaper that the little flag painting is by someone named Jasper Johns, which I think must be some bullshit made-up name, like actors have, but I’m wrong; the name’s legit and he’s famous. And here’s the kicker—that stupid painting is worth over a mil. Now who feels stupid? So, I go to see Marcos. I say, Marcos, you fucking kidding me? A million-dollar painting and you give me a lousy $10K? Marcos looks at me, says, Richie, we had a deal, we’re in business, no? I look at him, I say, But—He cuts me right off; says, Richie, you’re not listening. Let me explain it in a way you will understand. Then he takes a minute, smooths his hair back, which don’t need no smoothing there’s so much gel it’s like concrete, and he’s staring at me the whole time, face like chiseled marble, good-looking but something unreal about him. Finally, he says, Richie, you have a choice. You can go away and be happy with your $10K, or I can have you killed. I burst out laughing, but Marcos just stands there, black eyes on me like two hard pieces of coal, and I don’t think he’d actually kill me. He’s a rich guy, too, all decked out, Armani suit, loafers with a gold chain like the people he steals from and sells to, so I figure he’s not gonna get his hands dirty, but I see he means it and I figure, in his line of work, he knows plenty of people who will do the job for him. So I say, Hey, I’m happy with my $10K, and that’s that.

  But next time Marcos calls me for a job, I say, I’d like a percentage of the take. Marcos laughs, says, Richie, how are you going to know what the work is worth so you can figure out your percentage? I say, I won’t know, not right away, but I’ll find out. And Marcos laughs again, says, Richie, I underestimated you. He tells me not to worry; he will make it worth my while, and ever since he pays me good money, gives me a deposit then, when he unloads the art, pays me the rest. We done a lot of deals since then. Last time, he paid me a hundred grand, so I figure the painting I stole must’ve been worth three, four mil, but I was happy with my hundred.

  The way it works is Marcos fences the art. Not on the street, he’s too classy for that, and it’s next to impossible or I’d do it myself. Think about it, unloading a hot Rembrandt, or what have you. Where you gonna go with a famous painting? Nowhere. Like I said, next to impossible. Marcos has his buyers lined up ahead of time. Commissioned theft, they call it. He shows them pictures, or maybe he knows who wants what, or they ask him to get them a certain piece of art. It’s like Dial-a-Painting. You want it. He gets it. A Michelangelo or one of those stupid Andy Warhol soup cans. It’s all crap to me, but expensive crap.

  We’d been working together awhile, though we’d never, as they say, fraternized, until a month or so ago. It was after a big payout; Marcos was all happy, flush from the sale, giving me my $100K like it was two bucks, and he says, Richie, let’s celebrate. I’m a little surprised because he’s my employer and in another class from me, but I say, Sure. We go to a hotel bar, and after a few drinks, Marcos starts telling me how one time he delivered a painting to a Japanese guy who’s got a walk-in vault in his basement, all decked out with velvet on the walls and spotlights on the paintings, a museum for his eyes only, all art stolen to order. No shit, I say, not that I’m surprised, but I want to keep up my part of the conversation. No shit, says Marcos. Then he tells me about some clients in Switzerland who have the art he’s stolen for them just hanging on their living room walls. I say, That doesn’t worry you, Marcos? He looks at me with those coal black eyes, says, No, Richie, it does not. You see, in Switzerland, if you have the art in your possession for three years or more it becomes yours, and my clients never display anything until they’ve had it for at least three years. I say, Hey, let’s move to Switzerland, and Marcos laughs.

  So this time, Marcos hooks me up with this rich bitch. He’s already talked to her but says she wants to meet the handler. Marcos doesn’t like the idea and tells her so, but she insists. So I say to Marcos, It’s okay. I’ll meet the rich bitch. He sighs, says, Keep it simple, Richie. I say, How else would I keep it? So I meet the rich bitch, only something about her doesn’t quite strike me as a real rich bitch. She’s too showy. She’s dressed like every other Upper East Side bitch—cashmere sweater, straight skirt, low-heeled pumps—but her hair’s all wrong, bright blond like you need sunglasses to look at it, and her makeup’s troweled on, and she’s got those long fake nails like beauticians in Queens. But I don’t get the feeling she’s a cop or a fed, so either she’s new money or got no taste or both.

  What she wants is for me to steal a dozen paintings, like Marcos already told me, but I play dumb. I ask, What kind of paintings? She says, What’s it to you? I tell her I like to know my merchandise, same way she wanted to meet the handler. She gives me a look like I’m lower than a roach, but says, Old Masters, and that’s all she’s gonna say. But it’s enough. A dozen Old Masters… I’m thinking Marcos is gonna make megamillions, must have his clients all lined up by now—no way Marcos would take a chance being stuck with hot paintings. I wonder how much he’s paying the rich bitch since he’s already agreed to pay me two hundred grand, good money, but now I figure while I’m here doing his dirty work and taking a risk by showing my face, I’m entitled to a little extra, right? So I tell her there’s an additional fee. How much? she asks. I throw out a figure—fifty grand—and she agrees just like that, so I know I underbid. But what the hell, I’m gonna make $200K from Marcos, so this is gravy.

  The rich bitch explains she’s got keys to the place, a townhouse on East Seventy-ninth Street, and assures me it’ll be empty, no maids, no one, that it’ll be real easy, and I start to think it sounds too easy and wonder if she’s having her own paintings stolen for the insurance? Don’t laugh, it happens. But I don’t care if she is, long as I get my money.

  So, I do the job, and it’s just like she says, easy. I deliver my van full of paintings to Marcos, and he gives me $10K and tells me he’ll get me the rest of my money once he gets paid for the paintings, like usual. But two days later, Marcos is on the phone screaming so loud I can’t make him out. What’sa matter? I ask. They’re fakes! he says. I say, What? He says, The paintings, they’re copies, forgeries. I say, Holy crap. He says, I can’t do shit with them. I say, What about the rest of my money? He says, Richie, did you hear me? The paintings are fakes, worthless. I can’t sell them. There is no money—but you can keep the deposit and consider yourself lucky.

  But I don’t feel lucky. I feel pissed. All I got is the $10K from Marcos. Then I get a little paranoid. How do I know Marcos is leveling with me? Could be bullshit. He’s never pulled something like that on me before, but the economy sucks and maybe he’s hurting.

  So I put the word out, ask around to see if anyone’s trying to fence any Old Masters like the ones I stole—Titian, Courbet, Corot, Delacroix. I read the labels on the backs, very big-deal art, and I know my stuff. After that first job I did for Marcos, the one where I didn’t know that Jasper Johns guy, I figured I’d better get smart; so ever since I been taking art history courses at the New School, continuing ed, they call it, and I’ve learned plenty. Anyway, turns out there are a few Old Masters on the market, but not the ones I took off the townhouse walls. So I believe Marcos. Then I realize there’s nothing in the news about the heist, very unusual, so now I’m pretty sure whoever I robbed didn’t report it, and I think the rich bitch is definitely screwing with me—and with Marcos. I’m figuring she had to know the paintings was fakes or she coulda sold them at auction; something else I know about—I got every Sotheby’s and Christie’s catalog going back ten years. I’m also figuring that the person I stole them from—if it wasn’t the rich bitch herself—knew they was fakes, too, or they woulda reported the crime,
right? So it looks to me like Marcos and me was set up to help them unload a bunch of forgeries. I figure Marcos knows this, too—he’s no fool—and so the rich bitch is as good as dead, but I want my money before that happens.

  I get in touch with her. I say, There’s a problem. She says, What problem? I say, With your paintings. She says, Like what? I say, I’ll tell you when I see you. She says, Forget it. No one can see us together. I say, Sister, you’d better see me. I tell her to meet me at midnight in this little park practically under the George Washington Bridge just beside the Hudson River, and she says okay. But it’s her husband who shows up, a real rich-boy Ivy Leaguer with a pink sweater tied around his neck, you know the type. I tell him what Marcos told me, that the paintings are forgeries, and he says, You’re insane, and sniffs like I smell bad, and I say, Believe it, and I want the rest of my money—the $200K Marcos was gonna give me. He sniffs again, says, Dear fellow, I do not have that kind of money, and that’s when I grab his hand and bend his fingers back till I hear the bones crack. He starts screaming and crying, and I tell him to shut the fuck up or I’m gonna break more than his fingers, and he says, I lost all my money with that Madoff guy. I say, That’s convenient. And he says, No, really. I tell him, Tough shit, I want the money. He tells me it was his wife’s idea; he just went along because he’d lost all his capital. I say, So you knew the paintings was fakes? He says, No, I swear I didn’t. They’re my mother’s paintings, and no way they could be fakes. I pull him close and say, Now you listen to me, Joe College, they are fakes, all of them, and he’s hugging his mangled fingers and crying, snot running down his face, and says, I have to get to a hospital. I say, I want my money, and you got two days to get it. Then I take his wallet, his gold Rolex, and his college ring. I know it’s not worth much, but I never had a college ring and it fits me good and I like the way it looks on my finger. I ask, What college is this from? He looks at me all funny, standing there sniffling and crying, and says, Yale, and I feel like I just got an honorary degree. I repeat, Two days, and send him on his way.

  I figure Marcos must have his own plan. After all, he’s got a reputation to uphold, and he’s just tried to fence forgeries, which doesn’t make him look too good to his clients, who must be real disappointed. Then I wonder if two days is too long? So the next morning I get in touch with the rich bitch. First thing she says is, There was no reason to resort to violence, to hurt my husband. I say, He’s alive, ain’t he? Then I tell her I changed my mind, I want the money right away, and she tells me the same story, that they lost all their money with that Madoff guy, the Ponzi schemer, and I tell her tough shit, but I say, Okay, I’ll give you till tomorrow.

  Then I do a little research, easy because Madoff’s investors, all the people he swindled, are listed on the Internet, and sure enough, their name’s on the list. Still, I know rich people like that got assets, homes and shit, and they can come up with $200K like you and me can come up with ten bucks. I tell the rich bitch, I want my money no matter what, and now she starts crying, really bawling, telling me how she’s a really good person and has donated money to all sorts of charities over the years and now here she is broke and I say, Well, I’m your next charity, bitch. But she swears they’re flat broke. She says, Get it from my mother-in-law, she’s the one whose paintings you stole, and she’s got plenty. I say, If she got so much money, how come her paintings was all fakes? She says, How would I know? I say, You still got a day to come up with my money. But I figure what the hell, I’ll go see the old lady.

  I stand outside her townhouse all day. I see her coming and going, one of those skinny rich ladies, starving to death on the Upper East Side, legs like sticks, face like a skull all stretched, Martian-like. I see a maid go in with groceries and leave at the end of the day, and I go ring the bell and the old lady opens the door and I say, Your son, Oliver, sent me. She looks at me like I took a dump on her shoe, says, About what? I push past her into the townhouse, my hand over her mouth, look around at her naked walls and say, You lose some paintings? Then I say, I’m gonna take my hand away and I’m not gonna hurt you unless you scream, and she nods and I let go and her eyes pop a little but the rest of her face doesn’t move. I say, Why did you have forgeries on your walls? She says, Who are you? I say, A friend of your son’s, I told you. She says, I know my son’s friends, and you are not one of them. I show her his ring on my finger, and she says, What have you done to Oliver? And I say, Not much, not yet, but I will. Then I tell her it was her darling son, who she’s so worried about, who set up the heist. The whole time her face is as placid as the moon, but I think it must be Botox because no one is that cool. When I finish she says, My son would never do such a thing. It was that wife of his, Enid. She did it to hurt me. I ask, Did Enid know the paintings was fakes? She says, No. Then she tells me she sold all the art privately when her husband died a few years back because he didn’t leave her as well off as she expected, but she had copies of the paintings made first because she didn’t want anyone to know, especially her son’s climber wife, that’s what she calls the rich bitch, a climber. She says, I don’t want that little climber to inherit one penny of mine when I die, so I cut my son off, took him out of my will. I ask, He know that? She says, Of course. I’m an honest woman. I gave him a simple choice, Enid or his inheritance. He chose Enid.

  I explain to her what went down and how I’m now out $200K and that I want my money, and she just looks at me with that mask face. Then she asks if I want a drink, and I’m thinking she’s nuts. I say, No. She mutters, That dreadful girl, that dreadful girl, shaking her head. Then she says, I will get you your money, but I want you to take care of Enid—I want her punished. I just look at her, this skinny old lady, who’s as big a bitch as the young one. I don’t tell her about Marcos—that he’s gonna punish her daughter-in-law plenty. I just say, That’s not my line of work, and she says, But you must know someone who does that sort of thing, and I say, Maybe I do, and she says, Good. I say, You get me the money I’m owed, and I’ll find somebody for the job. I ask for half, $100K, as a deposit, and she says, Can I write you a check? I laugh. I suppose not, she says, tells me she’ll get me the cash in the morning.

  That night, Marcos calls and I tell him I leaned on the rich bitch and her husband, but I don’t tell him about the old lady because I want to get the money from her. He says, Richie, leave them to me; it’s all taken care of. Then he tells me about another artwork he wants me to get for him right away, an oil painting, a Goya, small enough to fit under a jacket, in a little museum outside of Seville; that’s Spain. He tells me the museum has shit security and where he’ll meet me for the pickup and that he’ll pay me $100K, and I write everything down, thinking this just keeps getting sweeter and sweeter.

  Next morning, I call the old lady, tell her I found someone for the job, but I need all the money up front, $200K, half for me, half for the guy who’s gonna take care of her daughter-in-law. She asks, How can I trust you will do what you say if I pay you first? I say, You’re gonna have to trust me. And she says, Okay, come to my place at noon, and I do, and she hands over the money, all in hundreds, and says, I surely hope I can trust you. I say, Don’t worry, that rich bitch daughter-in-law of yours is as good as dead—and I’m not lying because I know Marcos has put a contract out on her. The old lady says, I don’t want Oliver to get hurt. I say, Of course not, thinking, Too late for that. She says, And I never expect to hear from you again, you understand? I say, Aww, gee, and here I thought we was gonna have tea every other Tuesday, and she gives me a look like she’s trying to lift an eyebrow, but her face doesn’t work so it’s just her eye that’s opening wider and wider. By the way, she says, What happened to my paintings? I say, They was fakes, who cares? She says, I’d like them back. I say, Too late, I already dumped them in the river. I don’t want to tell her I was just the middleman. She says, Oh, but my walls look so naked. I say, Have someone paint more fakes. And she laughs, I think; her face doesn’t move, just a little bark comes out.


  After that, I go buy my ticket to Spain and I splurge, I buy first class, why not, and the girl at the ticket counter gives me a funny look when I pay cash but doesn’t say anything.

  Next thing I know, the young rich bitch gets in touch with me, says she has my money. I almost faint. I’d given up on her. I already got the old lady’s $200K plus another $100K coming from Marcos, and now the young rich bitch is coming through with another $200K. I’m in shock. She asks, Will you leave us alone if we pay you? And I say, Hell yes, I’m leaving the country. I tell her to bring the money to the fleabag hotel off Times Square where I been staying because I want to see the look on her rich bitch face when she’s standing in a dump like this.

  Then I go out and have a good meal, steak and potatoes au gratin at a French bistro and three glasses of red wine, and after that I buy a needle and thread and a travel bag and come back to the fleabag hotel and start sewing the $200K into the lining of the bag. I do a meticulous job, too, because you can’t be too careful with airport security these days, and I don’t want to explain why I’m traveling with so much cash. I have half of it sewn in when there’s a knock on my door, so I stash the bag under the couch. It’s the rich bitch and her Ivy Leaguer husband, hand all bandaged up, and I ask him, Why are you here? Rich bitch answers for him, says, Did you think I’d come here alone? God knows what you would do to me? I say, Lady, you flatter yourself. The rich bitch is cool as ice, arms folded across her chest, looking at me like I’m scum, but the Ivy Leaguer is all nervous, sweating. I say, You have the money? She says, Yes. I say, So where’d you get it, I thought you was broke? She says, I sold my diamond ring, and looks all pained like she’s gonna cry, and I say, Boo-hoo, gimme the money, and she opens her big canvas bag, and next thing I know she’s slammed something against my gut and the Ivy Leaguer’s got a grip on my arms and she does it again and I feel it like ice and see this big kitchen knife and blood leaking out of my gut, and I say, You fucking rich bitch. And she says, Oliver, get your ring and your watch. I’m curled up on the floor and the Ivy Leaguer is tugging the ring off my finger, saying, Oh, my God, Oh, my God, and the rich bitch says, Shut up, Oliver, and he says, But, but—And she says, But what? You think anyone is going to miss a man like this in a place like this? She tells him to wipe the doorknob and to look around for anything they might have touched, and he’s still saying, Oh, my God, and now my gut is on fire but I’m freezing, and I hear the Ivy Leaguer say, What’s this? Everything is starting to blur, but I see he’s got my travel bag, and I hear the rich bitch say, Oh. My. God. There must be a hundred thousand dollars in here. No, wait, there’s more sewn into the lining. Then she leans down to me, her face with all that makeup like something out of a bad dream going all fuzzy around the edges, and says, Thank you, we can certainly use this. And I want to say, You better use it fast, bitch, ’cause your days are numbered, but I can’t speak. She says, Oliver, see if he has your wallet and anything else that might link him to us, and the Ivy Leaguer starts going through my pockets, and my eyes aren’t working right and I can’t hardly feel my legs, and my whole body is shaking and I hear the rich bitch say, Is that a plane ticket? And she leans down to me, and I feel her breath on my face and she says, “Oh, I just adore Spain and I so need a vacation; this whole affair has been such a strain, and then she laughs. And everything is swirling around, going in and out of focus, and I know for sure that I’m dying, but I’m thinking, You ain’t going nowhere, you rich bitch.