“So, Max, are you going to explain this little venture?” Laurent said. He jumped up to fetch the coffee, set the steaming carafe on the table, and eased his plump body back into his chair.
“Is Raphael coming?” Frank asked before Max could begin.
“No, he’s out in California,” Max said. I was disappointed we wouldn’t get to see him this time around and lamented his ill-luck at being left out of this particular job, not only thinking he would miss out on the big cash, but also on the fun of being involved in a truly exciting and dangerous adventure. And it would be fun to celebrate with Raphael if we pulled this one off.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Laurent asked. ”I could get someone else in here if you need it.”
“No, that’s okay. We don’t need anyone else,” Max assured him. He winked at me, thinking that was one less person to cut the profits with, and took a sip of coffee.
I sat back, ready to listen once more to the plan.
“Here’s the deal,” Max began. “Starting next week, a priceless piece of art is being displayed at the Musée des Beaux Arts de Montréal.”
“I think there’s more than one,” Frank interrupted, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Funny.” Max rolled his eyes at him and continued. “This is a special exhibit of private works of art. The particular painting I’m talking about is an original Picasso. The last Picasso sold at action for a record $93 million.”
“You can’t sell a stolen painting at an auction,” Laurent pointed out.
“I know that. We can’t fetch a price quite as high, but --”
“How much?” Frank asked.
“$10 million.”
Everyone stopped and stared at him. We had never done a job worth that much.
“That would be $2 million each,” the bird-man piped up, speaking for the first time. His accent was much heavier than Laurent’s.
“We don’t usually split it evenly. Frank and I will risk our asses, so we get the biggest cut,” Max explained. The bird-man looked displeased, but didn’t squawk. I couldn’t figure out what his role was in this scheme anyway.
“The painting will be displayed for six months starting Saturday until it goes back to its owner.”
“And who might that be?” Laurent asked.
“Kendo Hashimoto.”
“The Kendo Hashimoto?” Frank asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you suggesting we steal a painting from Kendo Hashimoto?” Laurent looked incredulous. “He is a fucking Yakuza! Are you nuts?”
Hashimoto was a prominent businessman on the surface, a handsome, successful entrepreneur generous to the community and well spoken-of in the press. He started his fortune importing and exporting fashionable home furnishings between his native Tokyo and his new home in Montreal, but had recently gotten his hand into real-estate and construction, increasing his affluence exponentially. A lot of lucrative contracts were made with elected officials in the city, a scandal that shocked the population. However, Hashimoto’s part in it was hushed as soon as it came out. He had his sights on bigger, more powerful positions within the government and controlled his image in the media carefully.
Despite his ability to hide what he did to the rest of society, those of us in the underground world new what Hashimoto really was. His main source of wealth came in the flesh trade. He was a high-level crime boss and a king-sized pimp. The Russian mafia had previously controlled this area of activity, but Hashimoto squashed them out, grinding them to bits under his heel like cockroaches. He had a nasty reputation of quick and violent retribution on those who crossed him. It was rumored that one of his girls had been rude to a client; Hashimoto cut her nose off and threw her out of a moving car. Stories like that, true or not, were what made me pause before jumping into agreement when Max first told me his plan. Sometimes, I’m too stupid to heed my own advice.
“We’ll be long gone before anyone even notices,” Max said with a casual attitude. He fanned his cards out and glanced at his hand.
“You better be real sure of what you’re doing,” Laurent cautioned.
“Well, I’m not going to just walk up and take it.” Max, annoyed by the warning, glared at Laurent. Laurent didn’t take him seriously, still thinking of him as an unproven teenager. Max was now twenty-seven and had proven himself over and over again. He’d made a shitload of money for all of them.
“Okay. Tell us your plan.” Frank waved him to go on.
“Hashimoto is having the painting appraised before it goes to the museum. He wants it documented for insurance reasons. It’ll be delivered to Dupuis & Fils Appraisers two hours before the ‘Thank You Tea Ceremony’ the museum is having in Hashimoto’s honor.”
“How do you know all of this?” Laurent asked as he threw a few chips into the ante.
“This.” Max took out a brochure and slapped it on the table. “A friend of mine is a printer. I was in his shop a couple of weeks ago, just for a visit, when I saw it. He was printing them up for the exhibit.”
The brochure gave the details of Hashimoto’s painting and how long it would be on display. When Max first told me the plan, I was worried that the printer could be implicated in some way. He assured me that the brochure would be all over Vermont by the time we pulled off the heist. It could have come from any rest stop. He was right. I had seen a stack of them just the day before at the grocery store.
“$10 million for that ugly painting?” Laurent was looking at the brochure, his nose crinkled in disgust at the tiny print. Some people just didn’t get Picasso.
“You don’t have to appreciate it to steal it,” Frank said.
Max continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I know this guy who works at the museum. He’s a custodian. I asked him to keep his ear out for anything. He overheard the curator and Monsieur Dupuis discussing how to handle this particular piece.”
It was good to have friends in certain businesses. Max seemed to always have a friend who just happened to fit our needs. He knew a lot of people.
“The storefront will be closed and the painting brought in through the back. Monsieur Dupuis and his son will be the only employees present. Frank and I will get there before the painting does and deposit Dupuis et Fils in the basement, tied and gagged. Then, we’ll impersonate the appraisers.”
“What if Hashimoto knows Dupuis? There must be a reason he picked that particular appraiser.” Laurent always asked the important questions.
“He picked it purely for location. It’s right across the street from the museum. Besides, he won’t be there; he’ll be at the museum already. The arrangements were made via his secretary, who’ll be the one escorting the painting. Probably she’ll have a few bodyguards with her, too. When the painting comes in, we tell them that the light isn’t good enough in the room and we have to look at it under a special light in the closet, as well as take some close-up photos. We take the painting into the closet, switch it with a fake, and give it back to the secretary. We tell her we’ll fax a full report over later with the bill. She and the guards leave, we take the original and get the hell out of there.”
“Where are you getting a fake?” Laurent asked.
“I’ve already got it. An artist friend made it for me.” The fake painting was in a black architect’s tube, rolled up in the hard plastic cylinder and stashed in with his garment bag.
“Won’t the curator notice the painting’s a fake? The guy’s some kind of expert.” Frank took another sip of coffee and threw his cards on the table. “I fold.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But, by that time, we’ll be so far gone they won’t even know where to look.”
“So, essentially, you are going to just walk up and take it,” Laurent said.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Max nodded and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair.
“Okay, now we know how you will get the painting. But,” Laurent always added a but. “What are you going to do with the original? You will need a pr
ivate buyer who is discreet.”
“Already have one. Alberto Vinzetti.”
“Man, you really have balls! Stealing from Japanese Mafia to sell to Italian Mafia. Brilliant!” Laurent laughed sarcastically. “Let me ask you, have you already contacted Vinzetti?”
“Yes.”
Laurent rolled his eyes and sputtered his typical French Canadian curse. “Câlice! You do realize that if you succeed, Hashimoto will find you and kill you, and if you fail, Vinzetti will be pissed and who knows what he will do.”
“Hashimoto doesn’t even know who we are. And I won’t fail, so Vinzetti isn’t a problem.” Max could be arrogant and cocky sometimes, but his confidence was well-founded.
I looked at the bird man. His brown eyes, round in their sockets and yellowed with jaundice, were following the conversation like a tennis match. I could see the film of a cataract on the left one. He didn’t say another word, just continued to chew his own flesh.
“I don’t want any part in it. Those guys make me want to shit my pants.” Laurent waved his hand in dismissal.
“Fine. I’ll still give you a cut for the use of the field.”
“No! I don’t want any money from this. I am not involved. Period. This conversation never happened.” Laurent banged his fist against the table, making the chips jump. His face had gone hard among its soft jowls as he shook his head vehemently in the negative.
“There’s really no risk,” Max insisted.
“Don’t be naive. There is always risk,” Laurent retorted.
“I’m not naive.” Max tensed, ready for a heated disagreement.
“You are if you plan on fucking with Hashimoto.”
I got up from the rocker, leaving the men to argue it out and finish their game. The tension in the room was getting a little too much for me. I went outside to the cool air. I rarely played any role in a job other than transportation. I knew my part, and Max had already filled me in on the details.
A stone bench marked the corner of the garden, and I plunked myself down on it. I took the silver cigarette case from my coat pocket and retrieved one of the perfectly rolled joints I had stored in there. Pressing the joint to my lips, I took out Max’s Zippo lighter. I had swiped it from him a few nights before and forgotten to give it back; it went well with my cigarette case. I was glad I had it with me now as I flipped the lid, sparking the flame, and lit my joint. Inhaling the fragrant smoke, I felt the pressure of the day ease from my bones.
Being a smuggler had its perks. I got to sample some of the best stuff around, and this particular batch was primo! It was called Stinky Pinky. Whoever came up with these names must be smoking a lot of their own shit. It had THC crystals so big it looked like it had been sugared. It was just as sweet as if it had been sugared, too. I had smuggled a load of it the week before from Lenny’s pot farm in Canada to Vermont. When I delivered it to Jim, he gave me an ounce as a tip, worth over $400 street value.
My thoughts buzzed around my head in playful jazzy rhythms, zipping in and out as I looked into the inky purple sky, the stars scattered across it in jeweled patterns. I contemplated what lay beyond as I reclined on the bench until I heard footsteps approach and turned my head to see Max. He held his hand out, fingers splayed in a V, indicating he wanted a hit. I passed him the joint and sat up.
“Win anything?” I asked, already knowing the answer. He sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. His body heat felt nice against the chilly night air.
“No. I lost twenty bucks.” He chuckled and took a drag. “You okay out here?” he asked, blowing smoke rings into the darkness.
“Yeah, I just needed a break,” I said. “You gave a lot of details in there. Usually, you keep everything so secret.”
“I knew Laurent wouldn’t go along, so I figured I’d have to tell him everything. Not that it really helped tonight.” He took another drag and handed the joint back to me. “It was just us in there, anyway.”
“Just us? You, me, and Frank would’ve been just us. I guess Laurent’s okay too. But . . .” I thought of the quirky little bird-man. “Who’s that other guy?”
“That’s Karl. I’ve met him a few times, but I haven’t worked with him before.”
“Is that wise?” I wasn’t the most trusting person even under the best circumstances. This didn’t seem like a good time to let our guard down.
He shrugged. “Laurent trusts him.”
We sat for a moment, quietly enjoying each other’s company and letting the smoke lift us to another level.
“Do you think this is a bad idea?” he asked. Laurent’s arguments had unnerved him.
Now it was my turn to shrug. I wasn’t feeling confident but Laurent’s remark about Vinzetti being pissed off if he didn’t get what was promised to him was accurate. It was too late to back out.
“We need the money,” he said, as if to reassure himself.
“We only need each other,” I answered and kissed him, trying to improve his mood and get him to think about something else.
He was right, though. We did need the money.
15.
Friday late afternoon, we checked into our hotel rooms. Check-in wasn’t until 3:00, so we spent the morning at Laurent’s wasting time. When Frank said it was time to leave, I was right out the door. I couldn’t get out of Laurent’s house soon enough; he was in a terrible mood, worse than usual, and he made me nervous the way he looked at me.
It was a beautiful fall afternoon, and the drive into the city was pleasant. Frank drove downtown into the congested streets and dropped us off at our hotel. Max and I were staying at the Ritz Carlton. Frank drove on to his own hotel, the Omni Mont-Royal. Both hotels were on Sherbrooke Street, just a few minutes walk to the museum. Frank didn’t like the thought of us all staying in the same place for some reason.
“Just in case,” he said. I guess it was like not putting all of your eggs in one basket.
After Frank drove off, we split up. I entered the front door to the main lobby and approached the front desk alone, preferring Max to remain unseen. Max went around to the back, heading down the sloped street to the underground parking garage where he waited for my call.
I walked with confidence up to the desk. My clothes weren’t designer, but I had chosen tight dark jeans, a maroon sweater, and a black wool overcoat, nothing too obviously out of league with the other patrons so I wouldn’t stand out. I used a false name and paid in cash for the two nights we’d be staying.
When I got to the room, I called Max on his cell phone and told him to come to room 575. One of the main reasons we picked that hotel was the garage entrance. We could come and go without going through the lobby and attracting more attention than necessary.
There was something about getting into a new hotel room that excited me. I couldn’t help but bounce on the bed. I also had to look in all of the drawers, the closet, and the bathroom.
The place was newly renovated and beautiful. When we last stayed there, it had been a little too Louis XIV for my tastes, the outdated ornate fashion looking like a cheap Versailles knock-off. Now it was more modern, more comfortable. The sleek lines of the furniture and brightly decorated walls gave it a much-needed facelift.
I put my bag in the closet. It clinked around as I laid it on the floor, the metal objects knocking against each other. I had packed it carefully, making sure it had everything I might need: lock picking tools, car stealing items, first aid kit, toiletries, and a change of clothes.
Max knocked on the door and I let him in. He hung up the garment bag with his clothes for the next day. He and Frank both bought nice suits so they would look the part of an appraiser. The suits were expensive, each costing more than I spent on my entire wardrobe. All of the preparations were pricy, but it was an investment. It takes money to make money, right?
He threw his backpack in the corner and flopped down on the bed. He looked like he was about to fall asleep when he suddenly sat up and said, “Let’s take a walk and scope things out.�
�
“Sure.”
“Do you have the rings? I want to make sure to get to the appraisers before they close.” I nodded and took the small black velvet box from my coat pocket. My parents’ wedding rings were tucked inside. They were the only things I had left of them.
Max wanted to see the layout of the appraisal shop. Our idea was to take the rings in and ask them how much they were worth. While I talked to the appraiser, Max planned to wander around, checking to make sure his scheme would work in the space we had.
We headed out on Sherbrooke Street and walked hand in hand toward the museum. The sunny afternoon attracted people outside, trying to get in that last bit of warm weather before the cold and inhospitable air blew in for the winter. Ahead, I could see a ragged man dressed in several layers, his once black beard now long and intertwined with white hung to his chest, his hair wildly sticking out in different directions. Like every other city, Montreal had its share of homeless. He was shouting at people as they passed, waving his arms madly in the air.
“Get me a sandwich!” he yelled at a woman as she skirted around him. “You fucking bitch, come back here and buy me a sandwich!” I was surprised he was speaking English in predominately French Montreal.
I knew, even before he did it, that Max would soon fish out some money and give it to the guy. He never passed a homeless person without giving them something, even if it was his last dime. I wasn’t wrong. He dropped my hand and dug in his pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. He didn’t count them or even look to see how much was there, but I could make out at least two twenties along with several ones and fives. With a smile, he handed the stack to the man as we approached. To both of our surprise, the man threw it back in Max’s face.
“I don’t want your fucking trash! I want a fucking sandwich! I’m hungry!” His belligerent attitude scared me a little. I would have just walked away. Not Max.
“It’s not trash; it’s money. Go buy yourself a sandwich.” He was patient and calm as he talked to the guy.
Hashimoto Blues Page 11