by Hailey Lind
I nodded.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact he did. Said his asshole boss had the painting copied, and wanted Kyle to ‘steal’ the copy and give the real thing to some men’s club up there on Nob Hill. Up where Kyle works now...worked, until...” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Anyway, he even had a little X-ray gun thingie to tell which painting was real. Revealed a secret message and everything. He gave it to me for my little girl to play with, last time I saw him.”
“But he didn’t turn the genuine painting over to the club, did he?” I asked.
“He figured, why should his boss get any richer than he already was? And the copy was so good, nobody could tell but a museum, like. But then he gave the painting to his lawyer for safekeeping ’til he could find some way to sell it. Plus, he didn’t have no cash and he needed Stafford to get him out of jail.” He shrugged. “That was a different deal.”
“Jim Stafford is the lawyer, right? He lives here in Crockett?”
He nodded. “Not much of a lawyer, but the best we could afford, I guess. Mostly he drinks. We even met him at Toby’s Tavern, he liked it better than his office. Sometimes you could get him so sloshed he’d forget to charge you. But then again, sometimes he forgot what you talked about so you were back to square one.”
The women were dispersing, coming toward us.
“I don’t want to keep you from your family any longer,” I said. “I appreciate you talking to me about this.”
“You really think the shooting had something to do with that painting?”
“It might.”
He shook his head. “I thought sure Kyle got away with it. So did he. ’sides, since he couldn’t sell it anyway, it was just like, who cares? And it was years ago, before Erin was even born.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said. “Take care of that beautiful little girl of yours.”
“I’m gonna. Got a new job and everything. Gonna move back here to Crockett. It’s a nice town, my mom can see Erin more, help with childcare. Get us a nice place, maybe a one-bedroom.”
“I like this town,” I said. “Seems like a really nice place to raise a kid.”
“Right?”
I smiled. “Right.”
* * *
“Let’s stop by Toby’s Tavern on the way out of town,” suggested Michael. He had failed to locate Stafford, or any other telling evidence in the lawyer’s house and office.
“You really think Stafford’s going to be sitting there waiting for us?”
“No, but we should at least have a chat with the bartender. Besides, you never know—drunks haunt their favorite bars. Creatures of habit.”
Though smoking has been illegal in California bars for several years, Toby’s Tavern still smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. It featured roughly finished dark wood, zero natural light, and a multitude of knickknacks. Thousands of business cards and receipts had been tacked to walls and ceiling, many of them brown and crumbling with age. There were road signs and paintings and cartoons; old pairs of eyeglasses studding standing lamps; what looked like frilly bloomers atop a petite figurine of Bo Peep; and wrapped around the neck of a chipped, life-sized plastic Marlon Brando was a pink feather boa so dusty it looked like an oversized pipe cleaner.
A lone man with a straggly white beard sat at one end of the bar, nursing a beer. A young fellow stood at the jukebox, studying the music selections. And a burly bartender stood behind the bar, slicing limes. He ignored us as we took two stools at the counter.
We gave him a few minutes.
“Get for ya?” the man behind the bar finally asked, still not meeting our eyes.
“Sierra Nevada,” Michael said.
“Gin and tonic, lots of lime,” I ordered.
“You Toby?” asked Michael.
He nodded.
“You seen Jim Stafford in here lately?” Michael asked.
“I don’t see nothin’,” the nice bartender replied, turning to fill a pint glass from the tap.
Michael extracted two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and laid them on the counter.
“Keep the change, maybe use the cash to get your eyes checked. Can’t go around neglecting your vision.”
The bartender scooped up the bills with impressive speed.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I figured Michael might be more convincing one-on-one.
I headed toward the restrooms, which were down a very dark, narrow hallway decorated with a Polynesian theme, complete with Tiki dolls. The facilities were labeled DUDES and DAMES. A man was coming out of the Dudes’ room, and as I scootched out of his way I almost sat on a sculpture in the corner.
Bronze.
Life-size.
Greek God.
Resting Hermes, treasure of the College Club, sign that San Francisco would rise from the ashes, victim of frat-boy pranks...was sitting right outside the Dames’ toilet at Toby’s Tavern.
Even more interesting: the man passing me was attorney Jim Stafford.
We gawked at each other for an awkward moment. Even in the dim light I could make out the signs of a recent beating: a black eye, a cut on the chin, vivid purple bruising along the cheekbone. Alcohol fumes wafted off him, filling the cramped space.
“What are you doing here?” he gasped.
“Hi there,” I began, grasping his arm. “We need—”
He yanked it away from me, turned, and ran.
“Michael!” I shouted.
Michael nabbed him before the lawyer made it past Marlon Brando. He grabbed Stafford by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to a table in the corner, shoving him into a chair.
“Let’s have a chat, shall we?”
“Look,” Stafford said, “I’m sorry about yesterday. But you don’t know what I’ve been going through, swear to God.”
“Just tell us about the Gauguin,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “I don’t know anything about a painting.”
Toby interrupted from the other side of the room, intrigued now by our discussion. “What about that painting you asked me to hold for you? The one you picked up earlier?”
Stafford rolled his eyes and hung his head in his hands. “Idiot,” he hissed.
“Today?” I asked Toby. “When?”
“Just an hour or so ago,” said Toby. “With some bald guy.”
“Bald guy?” I turned back to Stafford. “As in Victor Yeltsin?”
“Oops,” said Toby, picking up his knife and returning to his task slicing limes. I got the sense that Toby wasn’t quite as slow-witted as he might appear. “Was I not supposed to say anything?”
Michael smiled and slipped the man another twenty across the bar.
“Okay, listen,” began Stafford. “Kyle gave the painting to me years ago, but we couldn’t figure out a way to sell it.”
“How did Victor Yeltsin find you?”
“Few days ago, Victor found out that he gave the club the wrong painting, the fake, which means he’s in deep shit. They take this stuff seriously. So he forced Kyle to tell him what he did with the real Gauguin. I guess then he must have shot him. I feel guilty as shit. Couldn’t even go to the memorial service, face Kyle’s mother.” His voice took on a plaintive, whiny note. “Plus, he hit me. I tell you what: I couldn’t even figure out how to unload the thing. No way am I gonna get shot over some stupid painting. I gave it to Victor. It’s just been hanging here outside the men’s room for five years, anyway.”
Hanging in plain sight, amongst the grass skirts and Polynesian posters. Brilliant. Anyone who noticed it in the dim space would assume it was a cheap copy. Anyone but me. Note to self: spend more time in dive bars.
Which reminded me of what I had just seen.
“So, Toby, that’s an interesting sculpture you have back there. Next to the Women’s.”
“You like it? I didn’t even want it really. Looks gay to me. Couple local boys came in—clients of Stafford, here, actually—trying to se
ll it. Turned ’em down the first time they came around, but then they came back a few days later and said they’d hock it for scrap metal if I didn’t buy it, I was their last chance. Seemed like a shame. Somebody made it and everything.”
A real art lover.
I looked at Michael. “Don’t you need the bathroom? You might check it out.”
He gave me an odd look, but went down the short hall. A moment later he returned, stunned.
“That sculpture is the College Club’s Resting Hermes. It was stolen from outside the club last week.”
The bartender held up his hands, the picture of innocence. “Hey, I’ve got a receipt and everything.”
And he did. He brought it out to show us: $300 to Alan Dizikes and Skip Goldberg. The receipt was complete with their home address and phone number. Doh! I had an idea for a new TV show: America’s Stupidest Criminals.
“I swear,” said Toby. “I had no way of knowin’ it was stolen.”
“You don’t watch the news?” I asked, eying the TV with the local news blaring over the bar. “Anybody else sell you anything a little, you know, fishy? I’m not police, just looking to get people their stuff back.”
“Only thing new in here lately is that stuffed moose head, there, that’s a favorite.” It already had a red lace bra hanging off one antler. “Hey, you think I could get my money back, what I paid out for the sculpture? I don’t really even want it.”
“I’ll bet the College Club will compensate you. Because you held on to it, it wasn’t melted down. They’ll be grateful. There might even be a reward in it for you. I’ll put in a good word.”
I felt a little surge of optimism. At last one thing had gone right. It wasn’t a Gauguin, and it didn’t cast much light on the mystery of Anton’s assault, but Resting Hermes was a venerable piece of art that had been saved from destruction. I turned back to Stafford. “So where did Yeltsin take the real Gauguin?”
“We didn’t exactly trade Day-Timers.”
“You have no idea what his plans were?”
“He said something about a big party tonight. That’s his deadline, I guess. Quite literally. He was gonna bring it back to the club, all triumphant, or else he was a dead man,” Stafford said.
“He thought they’d kill him?”
“That’s what the man said. He said the guy who absconded with the fake from the club, the fake he thought was real, well that guy ended up dead. Elijah Odibajian, of all people.”
“I heard about that one on the news—they found him in a bathtub or something?” Toby put in. “They said maybe foul play, but then they didn’t follow up. How come they never follow up? They just tell you what happened and then go on to the next story, and meanwhile you gotta try to figure it out yourself.”
“As a wise friend of mine once said,” I told him, “the world is a strange and frightening place.”
20
Edouard Manet said: “Anything containing the spark of humanity, containing the spirit of the age, is interesting.” To this I would only add that “interesting” does not always equal “good.” Still, I would much prefer to be interested and unhappy than the opposite.
—Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”
“What now? Presuming Victor Yeltsin brought the Gauguin back to the Fleming Mansion, how are we supposed to find it?” I mused as I turned the key in the ignition. My truck made its now-familiar, scary clunking noise. I should cash that check from Jarrah before he changed his mind.
“Good question,” Michael said. “That place is pretty secure, thanks to their security staff and your boyfriend’s alarm systems.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s married.”
A rare silence from Michael. I felt tears prickle at the back of my eyes. How could Frank be married? Much more importantly, how could he not have told me?
I pulled away from the curb and headed for the freeway.
“Anyway, don’t distract me,” I said. “Is there any way we could get in the mansion for this party tonight, try to intercept Victor? Maybe I should call Annette Crawford.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s brilliant. Bring in the cops. They’re trying to ‘talk’ to me about paintings supposedly stolen from the F-U, and you want to try to convince them to rescue a Gauguin from the club—the Gauguin the club thought was theirs in the first place, by the way. You might want to mention that Elijah Odibajian was killed for hawking the fake one, while you’re at it. They’ll really believe that.”
“I already told Annette Crawford a lot of it. Anyway, you keep switching sides. I thought you were all pro-police.”
“That’s back when I thought they might help keep you alive.”
“And now?”
“I honestly don’t think they can help on this one. There’s no way the F-U boys will let the Gauguin be found, if they know the police are looking for it. If we really want to save it, we have to get in there ourselves.”
Michael may be a cynical thief and liar, but he has a true respect for art.
As we raced toward San Francisco, I had Michael call Mary and tell her to talk Wesley into taking her to the F-U party, during which she should sneak into the wine cellar and open the door to the tunnels.
Next, Michael called Jarrah and told him we had a lead on the real Gauguin.
Jarrah was waiting for us in front of Grace Cathedral when we arrived on Nob Hill. We huddled for a moment beside the truck.
“You’re saying the Gauguin is somewhere in the mansion?” Jarrah asked. “How are we supposed to locate it?”
“Find Victor and make him tell us what he did with it,” I said.
“That’s your plan?” He looked over at Michael, who just shrugged.
“Pretty much.” At Jarrah’s dubious expression, I added, “I’m kind of an improviser.”
“How do you plan on getting in the building?”
“I’ve got that part handled. Listen, Victor values his membership in this stupid club. Can he keep that with a prison record? Jarrah, you’ll have to convince Victor that you met with his ex-houseboy Kyle Jones, and that Kyle told you everything before he died. That you have enough information to convict Victor if he doesn’t cooperate.”
Michael’s phone rang. He handed it over to me.
Mary was on the line, whispering. “Wesley wimped out, but Destiny made a phone call and helped me get in with the girls. This is awesome! You should see it!”
“I’ll take your word for it. Can you open the door to the tunnels for us?”
“I’m on it. No problem. By the way, I’ve got this great harem costume. You’ve so got to check this out, for serious.”
I led Michael and Jarrah to the sewer entrance. Using a crowbar from my truck, Michael helped haul the heavy iron top off the hole. I descended the ladder. Jarrah came after me. We stood at the bottom and looked up to the circle of light above us, with Michael looking down, backlit like an angel.
“I can’t,” Michael balked. “I’m sorry, I really can’t.”
“Michael, we need you. I need you.”
“I’ll find another way in, and meet you. I promise.” He replaced the manhole cover, and was gone.
Jarrah and I flashed our lights and looked around to get a sense of the place. I led the way down the corridor towards the scary fallen-in section. It was just as well that Michael wasn’t here; how did I think I was going to coax Michael past this stretch? This was like his own private hell.
I squeezed through on hands and knees, desperately trying not to think of all the icky things I might be touching or picking up on my clothing. I made it to the other side, then helped Jarrah stand as he came through.
“That was...interesting,” he said, speaking in a low voice. Something about these reverberating tunnel chambers seemed to inspire whispering.
“That was the worst of it,” I said. “From here on we can walk, though somewhat hunched over.”
We made our way down one passage, then took a right at the T. If I recalled correctly, this opened onto the b
igger tunnels, and then on to the short flight of stairs that led to the club’s wine cellar.
“Almost there,” I said. “Here they are—the stairs.”
Jarrah didn’t reply. I turned around.
He just stood there, staring at me.
Gun in hand.
“Jarrah?” I asked, looking behind me to see if he was aiming at someone else. Nope, just little old me. My heart fluttered. “What’s up?”
“I’m really sorry about this,” Jarrah said. “I tried to warn you off.”
“You hired me to look into it!”
“Yes, at first. But then I tried to fire you. But you wouldn’t quit.”
“My uncle was hurt. I had to find out why, and the Gauguin was mixed up in it all.”
“You had no way of really knowing that. But it’s a moot point. Now I have to kill you.”
“Says who? There’s no need for dramatics. I’ll just walk away.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, you say that now because of the gun.” I noted beads of sweat on Jarrah’s brow, and the hand holding the gun shook. “Honestly, I never thought I’d be in this position. But you have no idea how much money we’re talking.”
“You mean your company expense account wasn’t generous enough?”
“This is beyond anything I could hope to achieve at Augusta Confederated.”
“Am I supposed to care about your finances at this moment?”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, I for one take back all the nice things I said about New Zealanders,” I grumbled. I wrenched my eyes from the sight of that gun barrel, glinting dully in the dim light of the flashlights. I had been confronted with a gun up close before, not so long ago. That time it made me sick to my stomach with fear, but this time it seemed like I was standing outside myself, looking on with detached interest. I knew I should be scared, but mostly I felt weary and disillusioned. What right did the seemingly sweet New Zealander have to pull something like this? One simply didn’t expect this kind of behavior from Kiwis.
“This is why you didn’t know Elijah was staying at the mansion,” I said.
“What?”
“It just dawned on me. It seemed strange that my friend could find out over the Internet that Elijah had moved into the Fleming-Union, but you weren’t able to locate him as a trained investigator.”