by Todd Cohen
As we walked, we saw almost no signs of life. The Vicks’ place was unfazed in the middle of the neighborhood, well off the water. I paid particular attention to that one, given the matching last name from our research. The Tudor-style house and its historic barnlike structure still stood in complete silence, and there was no sign of a light or Mr. Vicks’ sons. The rest of the residences also showed no life, except at the very end of the road where a roofer was repairing a roof and securing a large blue tarp across its corner.
There were no cars on the road, and no sounds other than a stray egret, or some local Canada geese. When we headed back around the circle, I caught a glimpse of a truck pulling out between two houses on Shepard, a side road off Homans that ran perpendicular to Quantuck Bay. Was I seeing something? As we approached the truck’s egress, I examined the driveway. It was not a driveway at all but a loosely graveled path between some trees and brush between two of the smaller neighborhood houses, each however considerably larger than “my shed.” I walked up the path to get a glimpse of where it headed.
It was the same house that stood catty corner to the Weisbergs’ estate. The one that was central to the neighborhood and belonged to the Vicks family. As I looked in again from this vantage point, I still saw no signs of life and proceeded back to the road with Alex.
“I have no clue what that was,” I said.
“Maybe a contractor checking on their house?” he responded.
Within five minutes we were back at my place, but this time there was no coffee to be had. “Shaw would not be Shaw without coffee,” I thought. I heated up some water and gave him a mixture of that and a stale, opened-up Lipton Tea bag that was sitting on the shelf in my closet.
“Tea? For a Frenchman?” Alex complained.
“Alex, the tea should be the least of my worries. Here are some biscottis to keep you going.”
The doorbell rang, and I opened it with barely concealed anticipation. It was Amy back with a caramel walnut apple pie from Holy Moses Bakery. She had picked that one up from Cor-J’s, the local seafood store. They just reopened, and even though fresh fish was their specialty, they also carried an array of freshly baked breads and cakes. “Holy Moses is legendary out here,” I said. “Perhaps we needed a taste of religion to solve this crime.”
Amy smirked at that one. Perhaps my puns were getting to her. When I am nervous and tense, I would always use humor as a release. But with Amy, I now had a better release.
“How the hell, did Holy Moses get the power to bake pies?” I asked.
“He must have had some divine help,” replied Amy.
“Touché,” I said.
“Two could play at the game,” she rebutted.
I was lucky I didn’t pig out on the biscotti. Although Alex already had two, he took a big hunk of pie and washed it down with black tea. I savored each bite, as did Amy.
My cell phone rang and it was Gale. Checking into Mr. Seymour Vicks of East Hampton, he had gone first to City Hall in Riverhead and then over to the Village Hall in East Hampton. No luck. He was trying to see if he could get the address of Vicks, as recorded at the time of the Cole Haan purchase. After two hours of work, Alex decided to bid me a fine adieu and head back west.
I was all alone with Amy, and I had our one and only sexual escapade on my mind. Naturally. Constantly. But that would only get us so far, and eventually we would have to convincingly find Mrs. Weisberg’s killer and recover the Pollock. It was nice that I had a pleasant walk with Alex, but I was curious as to what might be open in Westhampton Beach.
“Amy, do you recall what was open in town?” I asked. By town I was referring to the little thoroughfare called Main Street that went through the Village of Westhampton Beach. Quiogue had no downtown. It was just a quaint, little historic hamlet slightly off the beaten path at the beginning of the South Fork on the East End of Long Island. And Quiogue didn’t even have its own post office. In fact, Quiogue and Westhampton Beach shared the same zip code: 11978. All our deliveries and packages said “Westhampton Beach” and went to the Westhampton Beach Post Office. Despite this fact, those who resided in Quiogue did not share the same privileges as the Westhampton Beachers. Quioguers had to pay for a beach pass and would only get one car pass to Westhampton Beach’s Rogers Beach or Lashley Beach. Guests of the Quioguers were ten dollars per day. The Westhampton Beach Villagers had their passes covered by a modest village tax and received two, not one, car passes, plus free endless guest passes.
“I went the back route down Mill Road and saw Hampton’s Coffee and Cor-J’s open,” she said. “Then I looped around back through Main Street. Not a sign of life. That is, of course, except Simon’s Beach Bakery.
The Beach Bakery was a local legend. With its old Victorian façade and showcase windows with their signature yellow-and-white awning, locals and tourists all flocked there for their baked goods, coffees, and sweets. In Westhampton Beach there was no better place to sit and have a coffee, other than the beach or bay, of course, than in front of Simon’s place.
Prior to the storm, everything was boarded up. And immediately after Sandy hit, when I passed through Main Street, I saw everything—and I mean everything—still boarded up. The most memorable was the plywood-boarded window on the front of the Shock clothing store on Main St. On the sign it read in black magic marker: sandy shock you! Nothing was open then, but that was days ago.
“Would you like to go back to town and get some coffee from the Beach Bakery?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she responded. “Looked like a happening place!”
Of course, it was a happening place. It was a happening place when everything in town was open. But now it was even more of a happening place, when almost everything else was closed. Simon, the Beach Bakery’s owner, had a captive audience much like Terry’s much smaller and more out-of-the-way Hamptons Coffee. The latter would have been another half mile and was a less-spacious hangout in comparison. The thing I liked about the Beach Bakery was that place essentially never ever closed! “The Bakery That Never Sleeps,” I thought. Kind of like Manhattan, you know, “The City That Never Sleeps.”
But there was a difference between never closing on New Year’s Eve and never closing from a hurricane. Power is Power. And you need power to run a bakery, and at least some kind of power to brew coffee.
“Let’s check it out,” I said. I grabbed her hand and proceeded out towards my car by the side of the driveway. As I opened the passenger side door of the Honda Pilot for Amy: “BAM!” I didn’t know what hit me. All I could remember was being struck in the head by heavy object.
Chapter 54
Harry Massino, The Fish, and The Shadow all walked unobtrusively into town and got picked up by a black Mercedes and dropped off at the Francis S. Gabreski Airport just outside of Westhampton Beach. Within seconds they were on a NetJets plane headed westward.
“Massino, I hope you have this one done,” said the shadow of a man.
“No problem! Just another roll in the hay. This one should be a big payday.” Massino chuckled.
“Just do your thing,” said The Fish. “Hey, any news on Sam?”
“Yes, The Shadow responded. He is recovering in the hospital. Jared told me he would be released Tuesday. It’s hard to do his job.”
“Hey, somebody has to play tough guy,” said Massino.
“What about that troublemaker Dawson?”
“Our two guys have him and his girlfriend covered. In fact, as we speak, they are sitting in a warehouse, waiting to be interrogated by Maxwell. Well, more than interrogated. Shall I say, interrogated and then disposed of properly.”
At that instance a stunning cocktail-waitress-dressed airplane stewardess walked by.
“Cigars, cigarettes?” she joked. She was wearing an old-fashioned miniskirt with her boobs hanging out up top. She was not there for the usual flight safety or security, but for pleasure. “Who goes first?” asked The Fish.
“Hey, Massino, you’ve had a full day of work. How
about you get the first quickie,” leered The Shadow.
“Nah,” not in the mood. “Take it Tiki.” Tiki was The Shadow’s first name, and his only name. He had earned it by his well-timed killer instincts. In fact, Tiki stood for just that: Timed Killer. His targeted victims only got sixty seconds to squeal. If they failed, they would die, by either a shot to the head or a knife to the heart.
“Well, okay.” Tiki got up and headed with the hooker acting like an old-time “cock”-tail waitress to the back of the plane, where he pushed a folding door open that lead to a makeshift playboy pen, toys and all. When they were both inside, Tiki closed the door.
After four hours of fun and frolic, the plane was ready to land. The jet plane hit the Tarmac, and Massino, The Fish, and The Shadow, aka Tiki, left through the Chico Municipal Airport’s terminal.
Chapter 55
When I woke up, I was on the floor in the back of either a van or truck of some sort, gagged with what felt like duct tape. My eyes, arms, and legs were immobilized. My arms were pulled around my back, and I felt the pain. Lots of pain, mostly coming from my head. In medical school they talked about the worst headache of your life, referring to an intracranial hemorrhage, or bleed within the head. Such a bleed could be caused by an aneurysm, in which a weakened blood vessel spontaneously burst. Or by trauma, such as a fall, car accident, or some motherfucker hitting you in the head with a blunt object. The latter was clearly what happened. But still my head was ringing and hurt like hell. Certainly, the worst headache of my life. I could not feel for a bump on my head, due to the physical restraint, but I knew at least one was there. And pain is pain—I was seeing double. This sensation had only happened once before.
It was in 1979, when I went with the Johns Hopkins sailing team down to Annapolis to compete in a sailing regatta. My partner was almost as much a novice as I was. We were sailing a traditional NAVY 420 dinghy, on a leeward tack, and there was an abrupt change of wind. The boom swung around and hit me squarely in my head, knocking me overboard. Within seconds, a seaman in a tall naval ship threw me a life preserver, to which I hung on for dear life, until I was pulled to safety. After the entire mess, I saw double for two days.
And now I had the same kind of headache. “Annapolis Bay all over again. That was merely a concussion and eventually went away. But this time it could be different,” I thought.
I couldn’t see, speak, or move.
But I could hear and smell.
And I smelled the fragrant smell of the Vera Wang that Amy had been wearing. And heard her breathing as well! Thank God.
She too could not see, speak, or move!
And I could also feel the movement of the vehicle we were trapped in. It was driving on some sort of busy road, maybe even a highway, I could tell from the background noise of moving traffic, a honking horn, and even an occasional police siren in the distance. If only I could get some message to that officer, I thought.
Chapter 56
But I also heard one more thing.
It was Mustache Man talking to Sidekick from the front of the truck. The voices were unforgettable. I listened very carefully and was able to make out the following:
“Do we dump the bodies in the river?” Sidekick asked.
“No, that’s not what Mr. Big wants,” replied Mustache Man.
“They are just trouble—that’s all they are,” snickered Sidekick.
“Trouble, but trouble that the Big himself wants to deal with personally before we do what we were paid to do,” said Mustache Man.
I started shaking in my boots, even though I wasn’t even wearing boots. Our destiny was being determined by two assholes. And the ending was not looking like it was going to be pleasant. Not unless we were able to do something and escape. But at least I realized something. Someway, somehow, Mustache Man and his sidekick were certainly involved. Not at the highest level, but as muscle, thugs, and scum. The latter two terms, Alex had used time and time again. Mostly referring to corrupt politicians. But the terms were still relevant to these two assholes, nonetheless. “Thugs and scum,” I said to myself. They were thugs and scum, and the kind of thugs and scum that would give me a headache for a long, long time.
My mind was spinning. Question after question followed. And each of these questions was spoken inside my aching head!
“This Mr. Big, who the hell is he? Is he the head of the entire operation? And what precisely is the operation? Stealing priceless paintings? And what about Angela Weisberg’s murder? What could she have done to justify her death? All this to meet Mr. Big? What the hell did he want from me? And what did I ever do to him?”
Chapter 57
I could not see a thing. Just pure darkness, and my eyes were starting to hurt from the pressure of the duct tape. That pressure combined with the pain from my headache was making me nauseous. But I believe we had pulled up into an area where there were other trucks. I heard a loud honking sound coming from what was probably an 18-wheeler or some other large transport vehicle. I heard the noise of different engines, mostly loud noises, with a variety of bass and vibrato. More like the sounds at Port Authority. A bus or dump truck perhaps. Or both? I also heard the sound of sea gulls, and some type of foghorn. How much time had passed by? Was it an hour? Maybe half a day?
Then the door opened, and I was crated out by the two of the thugs, one grabbing my feet, the other my shoulders. I was being tossed around like a sack of potatoes. But where to? Will this be my final resting place? Was I—God forbid—going to be tortured? And—not only me—Amy too? I tried to push aside the pictures that began to crowd into my brain.
A large, heavy metal-sliding door screeched open. I based this deduction almost entirely on my hearing sense, although I knew my feeling sense also detected the motion and vibration. The sound and pitch of metal sliding on metal, as well as the duration, all helped me come to that conclusion. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me a large heavy, metal garage door that led to a storage facility of some sort. And then both my beautiful Amy and I were brought inside and tossed in the back. But the toss was just another PAIN as I hit what felt like a metal floor. No soft landing, just some more pain. But this one was on my right side, my right gluteus maximus—or buttocks, for those nonmedical readers. The same one that had been giving me pain from my sciatica: a long-standing condition from wearing the heavy lead vest and skirt protection required by my profession. I heard a second thud echo from within the chamber and knew it was Amy. Then they departed and slammed the door shut with a repeat of the screeching sound, followed by another loud thud, as the garage-type door hit the ground with its heavy mass. Besides our breathing, there was only one other sound, the sound of silence. A typical oxymoron, I thought. No, the true sound of silence, and I’m not talking about Simon and Garfunkel.
Chapter 58
Silence, that was, until I heard the door open up, with the now all-too-familiar screech, though slightly more distant. It was not coming from our door, but another one nearby—close enough that I could hear everything the man said. His voice was much less gruff than that of those other two scum and thugs, working for Mr. Big. And whoever gave him that name was certainly not trying to hide his role in this mess. No matter what, this Mr. Big had to be the mastermind of the murder and the art heist. Or more precisely, he was the mastermind at least of the art heist! My headache started pounding, and again I heard inside my head a rash of questions that came along with it! “Was the murder a consequence of Mrs. Weisberg’s seeing something she shouldn’t have seen? Maybe she caught the thieves in the act? The same way I caught my wife in the act? And what would the Pollock thieves do, just take the painting and say goodbye? Did they have any choice? Couldn’t they have just knocked her unconscious on her head like they did mine and let her recover? Not if she saw too much or knew too much and could easily identify the thief or thieves. Was that our problem too?” But more immediately, Mr. Big appeared to be pulling the strings to whatever was to become of Amy and myself. Our final
resting place.
“RIP,” I thought again as my head continued to pound.
He spoke like a high-powered salesman. “Yes, I am the Schlepper! That is what they call me. Ship My Bike, Ship My Art—all the same biz. Three months ago, Mr. Trump wanted me to ship his Harley to him. Gave him the best price in all the US. Saw the guy at the US Open in Flushing Meadows, but he wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Not even a pass to the Open. Cheap bastard!”
“Well, if I could do all this for ‘the Donald,’” I’m sure I can help you. Ship My Bike, Ship My Art. Been in business nearly twenty-five years, and let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. But you want a deal, I’ll give you a deal. Crated and shipped to wherever you want. Think of me like “the Transporter”. And I don’t ask questions. Ship My Art, Ship My Bike!”
The voice continued. But I was sure this was not MR. BIG at all.
“Contract—ah, yes, contract! Have I got a contract for you! I am an attorney, you know. An attorney and a shipper. A shipper and an attorney. Almost as unique as what I ship, just Bikes and Art. Art and Bikes. Nothing more, nothing less.”
This guy was as talkative as Crazy Eddie, that weird techno-commercial guy who used to come on TV, trying to sell you a TV or stereo, with his famous ending: “Crazy Eddie, Our Prices are INSANE!!!!” But where is Crazy Eddie now? Not sitting pretty on some remote island in the Caribbean, for that I was certain. Crazy Eddie was Eddie Antar of Brooklyn fame. Crazy Eddie was also the name of a chain of popular electronics stores that started in Brooklyn around the same time I first met that little cute girl named Amy. The same Amy who was trying to help get me out of this mess, and the exact same Amy I could still smell, though we were both bound and gagged. How ironic!