He thought that it would be detectives who brought him in this time, but then he remembered that detectives might not be working on the weekend, and he would no doubt see them on Monday morning. He decided to tell these uniformed cops that he had no wish to speak to them without a lawyer present, but on Monday he would make a deal with the detectives and spill his guts. The first thing he'd talk about would be the mastermind, Nigel Wickland.
The tall, suntanned cop was looking around at the grounds as though he were a potential buyer. The good-looking one was smiling, and he presented a business card to Raleigh, saying, "I'm Officer Nate Weiss from Hollywood Division. Mr. Ressler asked me to stop by and check on the property. And you are?"
He needed to swallow twice before saying, "Raleigh Dibble. I'm the butler and caretaker here. Mrs. Brueger is away."
"Yes, that's what I was told by Mr. Ressler," Nate said. "I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you that we're keeping an eye on things, and if you need anything from us, call me personally. My cell number is on the back."
Raleigh said with much emotion, "Thank you! Thank you, Officer!"
"Do you know what date they'll be returning?" Nate asked. "Tomorrow," Raleigh said. "They're coming back tomorrow, I think."
"Really?" Nate said, wondering why Leona Brueger had not mentioned that. The woman was full of secrets and surprises.
Raleigh displayed a lopsided toothy smile that seemed inappropriate to Nate, especially when the butler said, "Mrs. Brueger's brother-in-law had a stroke and they're coming home to take care of him."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Nate said. "Please tell Mrs. Brueger and Mr. Ressler that I stopped by and that we've been keeping an eye on the place since they've been gone. Will you be sure to tell them that?"
"I'll be glad to, Officer," Raleigh said.
When the cops were driving out the gate, Flotsam said, "I was hoping he'd invite us inside. I wanted to take a tour of that crib to see what it's gonna be like when I'm your houseboy."
"He's a peculiar guy," Nate said. "He looked like he just got bad news from an oncologist when we arrived, but at odd moments his smile got beamier than Oprah's ass."
"Who cares? I'll bet the swimming pool's big enough to surf on," Flotsam mused.
"Something's not normal with that guy," Nate went on.
"Dude, you were expecting normal?" Flotsam said. "This is fucking Hollywood."
A short time later they spotted a young man running south on Orange Drive from Hollywood Boulevard, dodging pedestrians, holding something under his shirt. They felt sure he'd snatched a purse from one of the tourists on the Walk of Fame and they closed in on him and caught him two blocks south. They ordered him to put his hands on his head.
He did, and the hidden object fell to the pavement. It was a box containing a pepperoni pizza that he was trying to keep warm until he got back home with his girlfriend to watch American Idol.
"See what I mean, dude?" Flotsam said to Hollywood Nate. "It's this geography."
Chapter Twenty.
ON MONDAY MORNING, Jonas was awake early, feeling electric at the prospect of making real money for the first time ever. He felt the old vibration mode as though he'd been doing crystal meth again, which he had not. He believed that his tweaking days were over now that he'd learned the joys of ox. Jonas's hands were shaking noticeably while he was trying to get some orange juice into himself to wash down one of the peanut butter sandwiches that Megan had made for their breakfast.
She swept the little kitchen and made a halfhearted attempt to wipe down the stovetop. But when she opened the refrigerator to give it a wipe, she gave up. There was so much spilled juice and milk and jelly and ice cream on the shelves that she'd have needed a garden hose to clean it.
Megan had even washed a load in the coin-operated washer in the community laundry room that they shared with five other apartments, and she had the clothes in the dryer by the time Jonas finished his sandwich. She was hoping for a word of appreciation.
"Try to dress a little nice for once" was all he said, sneering at her cutoffs and coffee-stained T-shirt.
Even when she was feeling halfway decent he managed to ruin it for her, so she said, "Why? Are we doing lunch at the Bel Air Hotel?"
"Meg," he said, as soberly as possible. "This is gonna be the biggest day of your life. This is way big. You and me gotta look and act ... professional. In case."
She leaned against the drainboard, one hand on her hip, and said, "In case of what, Jonas?"
"That's the thing!" he said. "I don't know. I'd like to call that house up there if I had the number, but I don't. So we're gonna call the Wickland Gallery and jist--"
"Wing it."
"Right."
Megan said, "Don't think for one minute that I'm going to talk for you on this one. Like when you had me talk to the maid after you got the phone number of that no-name actress whose house we were supposed to burgle. She told me to go fuck myself in Spanish and English both."
Jonas said, "Don't start bitching at me, Megan. Put on something clean and we'll go to the public phones at the cybercafe and make the call. I gotta think of the best way to show the owner that we're serious people he can deal with."
Ruth had opened the Wickland Gallery that morning, which was a bit unusual. Normally, by the time she arrived Nigel Wickland would already have coffee brewing and croissants set out. She was as meticulously groomed as ever and had removed her teal jacket, hanging it in the little closet in Nigel's office.
When he did arrive at 10 A. M., he looked terrible. His eye pouches sagged and his orbs were red-rimmed and watery. His beautiful mane of white hair had been hastily combed, and he was wearing exactly the same shirt, jacket, necktie, and trousers that he'd worn on Friday. That had never happened before in the years she'd worked at Wickland Gallery.
She said, "Good morning, Nigel. Is everything all right? You look a bit ... tired."
He had a distant look on his face when he said, "I'm knackered, Ruth. I may have to lie down in my office for a bit. I couldn't sleep last night."
"Is anything wrong? Are you sick?"
"Not now, I'm not," he said. "I think the sea bass I ate for dinner had turned. It smelled fishy, and as they say, if it smells like fish don't eat it."
"Where's the van? It's not in the carport."
"Oh, I ... I lent it to my nephew, Reginald. Have I ever told you about him?"
"Not that I recall."
"He's a bit one-off, that lad. My sister's boy. Said he needed to move some things from his girlfriend's house, and he promised he'd bring it back by tomorrow."
"I hope we don't need it today," she said.
"The way business has been, that's unlikely," said Nigel Wickland. "Very unlikely."
"I'll bring you some coffee," she said.
Ruth had the coffee poured and had spooned in his sugar and cream when the phone rang. She went to her desk and picked it up.
Jonas had actually come close to paying Megan a compliment when he said, "I ain't seen you in a dress since I met you, Meg. You don't look so bad."
She was wearing a candy-striped baby-doll shirtdress that she'd worn to a dance in high school. Now high school seemed to Megan like half a lifetime ago. Sometimes she felt like checking her driver's license to be sure that she was only twenty years old. The dress came to midthigh and she thought it would look better if she wore heels, but her ankles and knees were hurting too much, so she wore her only pair of flats, on which the soles were worn through. The lip gloss and eyeliner made her feel feminine for a change, and that gave her a bit of a lift.
Jonas was wearing the only sport coat he owned, a green-checked cotton blend. He wore it over a clean black T-shirt with faded jeans and tennis shoes. He seldom shaved his wispy facial hair, hoping in vain to grow it into a real five-day stubble like all the rich young dickheads whose cars he parked, but so far he couldn't produce a manly growth.
When Jonas and Megan arrived at the shopping mall that housed the cyber
cafe, Jonas said to Megan, "Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to the guy. Just stand there and listen. Remember, this is my game plan and I'm the quarterback."
They chose the public phone that was farthest from the cubicles full of people who rented the computers at all hours seven days a week. Business was brisk on a Monday morning, and the downstairs customer closest to Megan and Jonas was a black man in a tracksuit and very pricey tennis shoes. He was sitting beside a curvaceous blonde with sultry eye shadow, wearing shorts, ankle strap platforms, and an apricot top that came down far enough to just cover her silicone rack but was high enough to display her gleaming navel ring.
Jonas mouthed the words "pimp and whore" to Megan, as if she didn't know. He was so nervous, he dropped one of his quarters and she had to pick it up for him.
When Ruth answered and Jonas asked to speak to the gallery owner, she said, "May I ask the reason for your call? I might be able to help you."
"I gotta speak to the owner of the Wickland Gallery," Jonas said. "It's important."
"I'm sure I can assist you," Ruth said, "if you'll just tell me what it's about."
Jonas said, "My aunt died and I'm inheriting some very valuable paintings. I wanna sell them through your gallery. But I gotta speak to the owner or I won't do business with you."
"Just a moment, please," Ruth said.
Jonas winked at Megan, put his hand over the phone, and said, "Official bitch."
"Officious," she said.
"What?"
"Officious," Megan said.
"What?"
"Never mind."
A mellifluous but weary voice came on the line and said, "This is Nigel Wickland. How may I serve you?"
Jonas said, "I was thinking about how I can serve you. I think I may have some property that belongs to you."
The line was quiet and then Jonas heard the sound of a door closing. The gallery owner got back on the line and said urgently, "Who are you?"
Jonas said, "I'm the guy that wants to help you out. Are you missing a van?"
Nigel's heart raced and he said, "Yes, how did you know?" "Was it stolen?"
"I haven't reported it stolen," Nigel said.
"Bullshit. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."
"Yes, it was stolen," Nigel said, changing tack quickly. "And yes, I reported it. Where is it?"
"First we gotta negotiate," Jonas said. "See, I saw the van parked on the street early this morning with some black teenagers inside. I figured they stole it for joyriding. I watched them open the door and start to take out a big wrapped object. I yelled, 'Hey, get outta that truck.' And they ran away. -So I looked inside and saw two wrapped objects. And I took them out and I got them at home. I saw the name on the van and called information and here we are."
Nigel massaged his left temple and said, "I see. You're a Samaritan."
"A what?"
"Never mind. I would like to know the location of the van and I would like to get my property back."
"Is there a reward?"
"Yes, I think we can arrange for a reward."
"There's a problem here," Jonas said.
"Yes, I thought there might be," Nigel said, his stomach aflame. "Who do the items in the van belong to?" Jonas asked.
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm trying to help you, dude," Jonas said. "I'll ask the questions." "They belong to me," Nigel said.
"Are you sure?" Jonas said. "Because if they belong to somebody else, like one of your customers, then I gotta negotiate a reward with them and not with you, right?"
"Did you unwrap the... objects?"
"Yeah, and they look like very expensive art."
"Are they damaged in any way?"
"No. I rescued them from the little niggers jist in time."
Nigel said, "They do not belong to my client. They belong to me personally. I was at a client's home trying to persuade the client to buy the paintings when the van got stolen." Then he added, "No doubt by the black youths that you chased away. So there's no reason for you to deal with anyone but me."
"What did your client say when your van got snatched?" Jonas asked.
"He was as shocked as I was."
"Did you call the cops from your customer's house?"
Nigel paused again and said, "Yes, from there."
"How much were you trying to sell the paintings for?"
Another long hesitation, and Nigel said, "Look, sir, business is rotten during this recession. People do not go out and buy art when they have to tighten their belts. I'm looking at bankruptcy, but if you'll be reasonable, I could offer you a handsome reward for saving my property from the thieves and returning them to me."
Jonas liked being called "sir" but he said, "I'm getting impatient. How much were you trying to sell them for?"
"Eight thousand dollars," Nigel said.
Jonas gave Megan a thumbs-up and said, "And the van must be worth fifteen grand, even though it ain't new. I saved you twenty-four grand."
Nigel was overjoyed now but knew he had to negotiate to keep from arousing the scum's suspicion, so he said, "The eight thousand included my profit. The two paintings are only worth four thousand total."
"You make a hundred percent on your goods?"
"Yes."
"Damn," Jonas said. "I'm in the wrong business. So how about the van?"
"I have it insured, of course. But I should think I couldn't sell it on today's terrible market for more than ten thousand."
"Four thousand and ten thousand," Jonas said. "So a decent reward would be fourteen thousand bucks, right?"
Nigel thought he must not accept quickly, so he said, "Sir, I have a wife and four children. My business is in ruins. And it's your duty as an honest man to return goods that you know are stolen, but I agree that you deserve a reward. For the van and the pictures I would like to offer you a reward of eight thousand dollars."
Jonas said, "Well, I think I should get a reward of twelve thousand."
"Done," Nigel said.
"Done?"
"Yes, I accept," Nigel said. "Now, please, where is my property and where is my van? I'll need the van in order to transport the paintings."
"Is the big one worth more than the smaller one?" Jonas wanted to know.
"A little more."
"I thought so," Jonas said. "It's got better brushwork and the Expressionist artist had a better sense of color and light. So he got her expression jist right."
"You are a connoisseur, sir," Nigel said. "I'm so glad to be dealing with a man of taste and decency."
"One more thing," Jonas said. "I don't want the police to know anything about me and my reward. They might think I was in on this theft."
"I understand."
"Even if they don't think that, they'll say it's my duty as a citizen to return your property and tell you where to find your van. And they might try to screw me outta my reward."
"I wouldn't let that happen," Nigel said. "I'm so very grateful to you.
"Yeah, but the cops might not be," Jonas said. "So I wanna give you your paintings and get my reward in a really private and confidential way."
"I understand."
"That means I'll call you later about where and when we meet. I'll take the money then and tell you where your paintings are." "I'll have to trust you, is that it?"
"Yeah," Jonas said, "but to show my good faith, I'm gonna tell you where your van is so you'll have a way to transport your art." "Thank you."
"You got an extra key for it?"
"Yes."
"It's right in front of the Lucky Star liquor store on Normandie, south of Melrose. I'd suggest you pick it up quick because the store owner might call and get it impounded if it sits too long. In fact, there's a parking meter, so you'll probably have a ticket on it."
Nigel gripped the receiver so tightly, his knuckles went white, and he was close to weeping when he said, "I'll go and collect it now, sir. Thank you very much."
"What's your name?" Jonas asked, feeling bold, fe
eling in control, feeling wonderful!
"Nigel Wickland."
"One thing more, Nigel --" Jonas said.
The call was interrupted by an automated voice, and Jonas had to drop more coins into the coin slot. Then he said, "One more thing. Why did you first try to tell me that you didn't report the stolen van to the cops?"
"Sir," Nigel said. "At first I thought that I was getting a ... ransom call from the person who took my van. It was cynical of me and I'm sorry. I'm only too happy to be dealing with someone like yourself."
"Okay, go get your van. You'll hear from me."
"I shall go now," Nigel said.
"My head's spinning," Jonas said to Megan after he had hung up. "Let's go home and figure things out. Any ox left?"
"A quarter," she said. "Why didn't you ask him for his cell or home number?" Megan said. "Then you wouldn't have to go through a store employee."
Jonas hesitated and then said, "Because my fucking head ain't clear. Let's go smoke that quarter so I can think better."
Nigel opened his office door and said, "Ruth, I need you to give me a ride to east Hollywood. My stupid nephew left my van there all night and I have to pick it up."
Ruth looked up from the inventory list she was checking at her desk and said, "Why in the world would he leave it there?"
"He's a fool," Nigel said. "Thirty-five years old going on fifteen. He's off to Las Vegas with some friends and said he didn't have time to bring it back to me."
Ruth got into her jacket, grabbed her purse, and said, "I hope that's the last time he ever drives it."
"You can depend on that," Nigel said.
Ruth went to fetch her car, and Nigel got the extra van key from his desk. On the drive, he hardly heard Ruth nattering on about the irresponsibility of relatives. When they got to Normandie and Melrose, he thought that the miserable thief had duped him. But then he saw the van half a block south parked in front of a liquor store.
Ruth dropped him off at the van, and Nigel got in and started the engine. He rolled down the window and waved to Ruth. Everything was just as the thief had said it would be. And even though the van was parked in a metered zone, he didn't even have a ticket on it.
Nigel looked at his watch and realized that Leona Brueger probably had not arrived back in L. A. yet, so he drove straight to the Hollywood Hills. He had a few random thoughts about the possibility of pulling this off by himself, but he realized it would be impossible. There were two thieves at least, the one who drove the van and the one who drove the Volkswagen. Nigel needed his moronic crime partner, Raleigh Dibble, and he wanted a conversation face-to-face.
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