Ready. Set. Psycho.

by John Griffin

  “What’d you get?” Reginald asked.

  “Something I need very badly right now,” Sham said. He pulled a clean pair of underwear out of the bag.

  Reginald sat on the ground. “Do you think Sol was our employer all along?”

  Sham shook his head. “You know, for a smart guy, you’re real fucking dumb. Of course he was.” He took an envelope out of the bag. It had Lisa’s name on it.

  A few minutes later Lisa pulled up. “Gentlemen,” she said. “How did the heist go?”

  Reginald showed her the bag of money. Sham handed her the envelope. She tore it open at the top and poured the contents into her hand. It was a key to a Bentley with an address written on a note attached to the key ring.

  Lisa shook her head. “Ah fuck, Sol,” she said. “And those bags are full of cash, I assume?”

  “Cash and undies,” Sham replied.

  “Where’s Vince?” Lisa asked.

  “At the station, probably,” Reginald said. “Telling everyone about us.”

  “Well, that is not a problem. You were supposed to be there,” Lisa said.

  “The dude was there, Lisa,” Sham said.

  “Did he see you?” Lisa asked.

  “No.” Reginald said. “He didn’t.”

  Lisa shrugged.

  “Why?” Reginald asked. “Why even bother bringing us into this?”

  “How the fuck should I know,” Lisa said.

  “To catch our employer? I don’t get this, Lisa. Why all the trouble? Was there ever a bad guy to catch?” Sham asked.

  Lisa nodded her head. “Sure was.”

  “Who?” Reginald asked.

  “Sol, you idiot,” Sham said. Lisa nodded.

  “So what do we do?” Sham asked.

  “Did Sol get the painting?” Lisa asked.

  Sham laughed. “That fucker. But if it was all fake, who was in on it? What happened?”

  Lisa shrugged.

  “So we report it?” Reginald asked. “We have to, I assume.”

  “We reports parts of this.” Lisa said. “Not the whole thing. I’ve got a new Bentley, and you guys probably have a cool million each. One day, you’ll get it, gentlemen. You’ll get what it means to owe the person next to you your life. You’ll tell a few lies for them. Not small stuff. Big stuff. Life-shaking lies. You’ll make up an elaborate conspiracy of thieves with a mysterious figure who runs it all. You’ll do whatever. And you’ll do it happily to help him out. And you’ll look the other way if they repay that kindness.”

  “He save your life, Lisa?” Reginald asked.

  “Yup.” Lisa nodded. “But you’re not going to hear that story from me, so don’t fucking ask.”

  Solomon stepped out of the police car with the duffle bag in hand, walking briskly through the automatic sliding doors and into the fresh air of the airport. He continued straight toward the security gate. He stepped into the line for passengers on international flights, and the security guard stopped him. “Boarding pass, please.” Solomon showed his boarding pass, and the guard followed up by asking if Solomon had any medication, liquids, or flammables.

  Solomon took the bottle of medication out of his pocket and tossed it into the garbage. The guard stood up straight. “Sir, you didn’t need to throw that out. Don’t you need your meds?”

  “They weren’t meds,” Solomon said. “They were breath mints.”

  As he approached the security checkpoint, a tall, blonde guard with a man-bun stepped forward and tapped the guard at the front of the line on the shoulder. “I’ll take this,” he said.

  He motioned that Solomon come closer. “Sir,” he said, “you’ve been randomly selected for an enhanced search. Can I take your bag?”

  Solomon handed over his bag and followed the security guard into a private room. The guard opened the bag, took out a stack of cash, and placed it into his pocket. He handed the bag back to Solomon. “You’re free to go, sir.”

  Solomon exited the room and went down a flight of escalators. He turned right and headed into the nearest bathroom. He went into the large accessible stall at the end of the row. He stripped off his white shirt and taupe suit, tossing those into the trash. Out of the duffle bag he retrieved a Kiton suit tailored for travel and a white Tom Ford shirt, impeccably pressed. He slipped off his Ecco shoes and put on a pair of Salvatore Ferragamos. He stuffed the duffle bag into the trash as well, but not before taking out the cylinder and slinging it over his shoulder.

  Solomon continued to his gate and sat quietly in a chair. Ten minutes later, they announced boarding for first-class passengers.

  Solomon rose, presented his boarding pass, and went down the bridge into the plane. His seat was 1A, a window seat. As he sat, the flight attendant asked if he would like a glass of champagne while he waited.

  “Yes,” Solomon said. “But not the cheap stuff.”

  The plane landed a few hours later. Solomon was the third passenger to disembark. He stepped out into the fresh air and sunshine. The heat was intense. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses, put the painting on his shoulder, and descended the stairs.

  As he approached customs, he went left, following the sign for citizens of Bermuda. His line was short. The customs agent took his passport, stamped it, and welcomed him home. Solomon continued on through the exit, past the baggage claim area, and through the final set of doors to the arrival waiting area.

  He looked at the long line of tourists and shook his head. As he scanned the line, he found the man he was looking for and walked toward him. The man was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt open at the collar. There was no tie.

  “Jeeves,” Solomon said, handing over the cylinder. “Is the car ready?”

  “This way, sir. And I really do wish you would just call me Mario,” Mario said, leading Solomon outside to the waiting Bentley. The two men got into the back of the car and the driver set off for the coast.

  “How was the caper?” Mario asked.

  “Good,” Solomon said.

  “And Justin?”

  Solomon handed Mario his phone. Mario took it and scanned the photographs. “I’ll assume that is him and that he is very, very dead.”

  “Very dead, Jeeves.”

  Mario handed the phone back. “Very good, sir. I’m thrilled. I wasn’t sure which way it was going to go for a while.”

  “Neither was I, Jeeves.”

  Mario huffed and looked out the window. A few minutes later, the car turned into a gate that opened on their approach into the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. The car took them up to the front door, where a valet opened the door and Mario and Solomon got out. “Time to eat?” Mario asked.

  “No,” Solomon said. “Just want to get home.”

  Mario nodded. The two proceeded through the club and out into the marina and straight toward a fifty-foot yacht called Juanita. The two climbed aboard and exchanged pleasantries with the six crew members before going out to the front of the boat as the ship headed to sea. Mario made negronis, and the two drank.

  The boat curved along the shore out at sea, and after about an hour they pulled up to a small, private dock on a small, private island. Mario and Solomon went ashore. As they walked the long path to the beach, Solomon’s home dominated the view. It was a colonial villa built for an English governor in the 1800s and renovated several times since then. Solomon was not a big fan, but it came with the island, and that was his true love.

  As they approached the steps leading to the front gate, a woman yelled with excitement. Carrying a baby, she came down the steps and into view. “Maria!” Solomon yelled back, throwing his arms open. “And Rebecca!”

  Solomon embraced Maria, kissing her on the lips. He then took Rebecca out of Maria’s arms and swung her up in the air as she laughed and giggled. Mario continued on into the house with the paintings.

  “I’m so happy,” Maria said. “It’s done?” She was crying.

  “It’s done,” Solomon said, holding Rebecca in one arm and offering his phone to Ma
ria.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want to see it.”

  Solomon put his phone away.

  “Juanita will,” Maria added.

  The three went into the house and turned toward the west wing. In the first room on the left, they found Mario lying two paintings flat on the ground. “They’re good,” Mario said.

  “How good?” Solomon asked.

  “They are perfect,” Mario added. “They will fit the frames beautifully.” He looked up.

  There were eighteen frames on the wall. Eleven had paintings in them. The other seven were empty. Two had X’s drawn through them. Solomon, still holding Rebecca, smiled. “Thirteen down.”

  Through the door came Juanita. She hugged Solomon from behind, calling him Dad and saying, “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Solomon handed her his phone. “I don’t want to see it. I thought I would. I thought I would want to see him dead. I thought I’d want to be there myself, and I thought I’d even want to pull the trigger. But I don’t. I had my miracle. He tried to kill me, and he couldn’t. I’m stronger than him. And I’m better than him. And if he’s dead, I’m happy, but only because it means no one else has to go through what I went through.”

  Solomon nodded and put his arm around Juanita. “Come,” he said, “I got two. Justin had found the Metzinger. And that asshole in Short Hills had the Matisse. Just sitting in his basement. He didn’t even have the fucking balls to hang it up and enjoy it. Had some shitty print of the actual, original painting he had in his basement hanging on his wall. Heartbreaking, really. If you’re going to keep stolen art, you really should take the trouble to display it.”

  “I think I found the Gierymski,” Juanita said, excited.

  “I don’t think I can go find it right now. I need a vacation.”

  “I bet you wish your dad was here to see this,” Maria said, putting an arm around Solomon’s shoulder as they looked up at the paintings on the wall and down at the new one on the ground.

  “I do,” Solomon said wistfully. He put his hand over Maria’s and squeezed.

  “He’ll be back in about an hour. He wasn’t expecting you home so soon. He stayed out a bit longer.”

  “Oh, good,” Solomon said.

  “Apparently he caught a marlin. Mario’s going to cook it for dinner.”

  Solomon smiled.

  Epilogue:

  Clive

  Dr. Maguire stood near the open window of his office, smoking a cigarette. He was reading a newspaper with a bold front-page headline: PSYCHO FOUND DEAD. He smiled and took a swig of whisky and coffee from the mug on the window ledge. Linda came into the room and asked him to put out the cigarette. “I’m not going to do that, Linda. Can’t you see I’m celebrating?”

  “How long will you be celebrating?” she asked.

  “At least a week.”

  “And you’ll be smoking and drinking the whole time?”

  “Yes, Linda. The whole time. We caught that motherfucker, and he’s dead and this isn’t going to happen again.”

  “Well, if you’re sober enough, there is some work that needs to be done.” She laid a pile of files on his desk, cleaning a space by pushing wrappers from the morning’s breakfast into the trashcan.

  Dr. Maguire put the newspaper down on his desk and picked up the first file. He leafed through it and tossed it onto the ground. He picked up the next and did the same. For the third, he stared at the photo on the first page.

  “Linda!” Maguire yelled. “This file right here, when did it come in?”

  “This morning. Girl died yesterday.”

  “She died yesterday, or she was found yesterday?”

  “Isn’t it your job to figure that out?” Linda asked.

  “Enough, Linda,” he said, ashing his cigarette and tossing it and the coffee/whiskey mixture in his mug out the window.

  “Not celebrating anymore?” Linda asked.

  Maguire ignored her. He was already swiping through the contact list on his phone, stopping at Sol’s name and dialing. Sol answered. “We might have a problem,” He said. He tossed the file onto his desk and it sprung open.

  On the first page of the file was a photograph of a young woman with X’s tattooed over her eyes.