Pollock No. 5

by Todd Cohen

  The replica Pollock was carried over by the team’s gorilla-type men, laid carefully back into the crate, covered with Plexiglas once again, and secured. Then the wooden crate cover was hammered shut. The crate was reloaded back on the truck, while the original Hampton’s Pollock was repackaged in a different, less-secure container, which was more bubble wrap and cardboard than plywood and Plexi.

  “Confusing,” I thought.

  The other “Pollock” was also loaded in the truck. I heard the back doors of the truck shut and then the noisy engine sound as wheels took off, then faded into the distance. The vehicle vanished.

  Chapter 78

  “Dr. Dawson, I presume,” said a short, chubby, baldheaded man. The man spoke with a heavy Brooklyn accent. He wore a gold chain around his neck with a large cross in the middle. The cross intermingled with his greyish-black chest hair and almost touched the V made by his half-unbuttoned black silk dress shirt with a wide collar. My only thought was that this man was very Guido.

  “Who are you?” I angrily replied.

  “Let us say, I am not a big fan of yours,” he taunted. He paused and then continued. “Call me Harry!”

  “Let us go! You are not going to get away with this,” I shouted back without getting an ounce of sympathy.

  “Says who, Dr. Dawson? You don’t even know who I am.”

  “No, Harry, but I did recognize the two guys out front. The man with the mustache and his oversized sidekick helped me with the mess from the storm. At least, I thought they helped me.” Helped me my ass. Yeah, they hauled and cleaned and worked for their money, but what they really did was aided and abetted the art theft, and who knows what role they played in Angela Weisberg’s murder.

  “Anything else you want to say, Dawson. If so, say it now, before it’s too late.” Harry was not one to mince words.

  “Yes. Who the hell are you, Harry? Come on, this is some operation you’ve got here. And that one over there is a great artist. A regular Leonardo da Vinci.” I pointed to the large 3-D printing machine that had just re-created a duplicate masterpiece. What a joke. This was not art, but science, just like I do science.

  Tiki and The Fish were orchestrating the loading of all the crates into the truck. Mustache man and Sidekick provided the muscle.

  “Hey, Tiki, come here,” shouted Harry from inside. Tiki brought Fish back inside the complex.

  “Get a load of these guys,” said Harry. “They are who you were looking for, aren’t they?”

  “That’s them, bastards! How the hell did you guys escape?” The Fish was puzzled. He had orchestrated the kidnapping of the good doctor and his female attorney friend. And the word was out on the street. Kind of like an APB to the police—the Mafia equivalent. Yet there was no sign of either of them. Not until now.

  “Let’s take care of them the old-fashioned way!” shouted the shadowy Tiki.

  Mustache man returned, interrupting the party.

  “Hey, boss, do we take these crates and that sack as well?” He was pointing to the smaller elongated crates on the ground and a green army sack nearby.

  “Yes,” responded Tiki as he walked the guys out. “Just be careful.”

  Mustached Man and Sidekick hauled the ten elongated crates, along with a green army sack, into the back of the truck, along with the replica painting. The door quickly closed.

  “We are in trouble,” I whispered to Amy.

  “I hope you have Plan B?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t,” I quietly snapped.

  “We are in trouble,” Amy stated.

  “Well, I might as well, tell you and your friend Dawson who I am. You will not live to tell anyone. So here goes. First, I am a master, just like you are. The best there is. You could take samples, analyze X-rays, even place the painting under an electron microscope, and you would be hard pressed to tell my paintings from their originals. Second, I am a master scientist, and yes, also an artist!” He paused and paced for a few seconds, then smiled back at us and continued.

  “I am the supplier of the best forged paintings throughout the world. In fact, it is my belief that what I am doing is actually cloning. Because in the art marketplace, I can take a priceless painting such as the Mona Lisa and with 3-D computerized scanning and printing I can create two Mona Lisas.” If one painting was worth a billion dollars, now my two paintings, the real one and the clone, could yield two billion dollars. Simple math! Not just anybody can do this! Like you, Dawson, I have put my IVY LEAGUE education to good use!”

  Right then and there he paused and looked me in the eyes. And then he turned to Fish and Tiki and said, “Guys, you have my permission to slit Dawson and his beautiful friend’s throats. Do it now!” Massino quickly exited back into Mission Control. Tiki pulled out his Stiletto knife and started moving towards us, along with the Jimmy “The Fish.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you, Dr. Dawson? You have sixty seconds,” said Tiki as he pulled out his pocket stopwatch and pressed start!

  Chapter 79

  CRASH, BAM, BANG!”

  “SMASH!” came from the front Mission Control Room.

  The rapid-fire sound shook me right to the bone, reminiscent of that semiautomatic AK 47 machine gun that I had fired with James Nicholas at Osama Ben Laden targets!

  “What the hell is happening?” I whispered to Amy.

  And then I saw him.

  Olive-skinned, tall, and muscular, like Steven Seagal in Born to Raise Hell. He was wearing all black, including his classic black leather jacket, and was wielding his semiautomatic shotgun. And the best part of it all was that he was on our side.

  It was Alex.

  He quickly immobilized the tall, shadowy Tiki. One spin and a forward kick knocked the Stiletto to the floor. Another roundabout, and two forward thrusts and he removed Jimmy the Fish’s sawed-off shotgun. The result was both victims were barely alive on the floor, reeling in pain.

  “Krav Maga,” I whispered to Amy.

  “Quick Draw McGraw. Is that what you said?” she replied.

  Both remarks were technically correct. He was a master martial artist for Shaw, quick at taking down his opponent’s weapons and inflicting pain. The other folks—Massino, Mustache Man, and Sidekick—all exited stage right, whereupon Alex took out a special tool and jimmied open the locks, freeing us from our handcuffs.

  “Alex, how the hell did you find us?”

  “Been tracking you ever since you were in Port. I knew your phone was seldom on, but while it was on, I tracked it, found your whereabouts, and then followed you to this place. What the hell is going on in here? I was hoping you would make it all the way to San Francisco, but then I smelled something was wrong!”

  Alex always had this sixth sense about him. Always knew the right time for everything.

  He continued: “I was actively tracking your phone up until an hour ago and knew it was on. When you failed to reply to my text, I knew something was wrong—way wrong!”

  Thank God for Alex’s sixth sense.

  Chapter 80

  The three of us ran out from the back and into Mission Control. Not a soul. Then we exited the complex into the junkyard parking lot. Everybody was gone, and so was the truck.

  “Ah, shit,” I said. “We lost our chance.”

  Alex looked at me, and then back to his cell phone screen.

  “No, you didn’t, MD. Look here.” He pointed to his Find My iPhone App, which showed a moving blue dot on a map. “Your phone is still on, and moving closer towards San Francisco. It is now on an interstate, Route 5, and heading towards 505 South. Follow me.” He gave us the universal “come with me” arm swing, and we followed him back to his all-too-familiar Honda Pilot.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  Alex quickly pulled out the Pilot, and Amy and I with it, out of Pick and Pull and raced to Route 5.

  “You guys look like hell. What happened? How’d they catch you?” asked Alex.

  “Just another joyride cross country. Le
t’s just say we got a little banged up.” Putting it mildly.

  “Banged up is an understatement,” laughed Amy.

  “Anything to eat, Alex? We have been through hell, and I had no clue where it would end. Food was not our main concern, survival was. But now that you're here, Alex, I’ll take anything. Just lucky to be alive!”

  “There’s a case of Muscle Milk in the back, MD, and plenty of Tiger Milk bars as well.

  “Oh, yummy!” I said sarcastically.

  “Got Milk?” joked Amy.

  “Can you picture Shaw on a billboard, with his oversized physique in a business suit, doing a karate chop with a milk mustache, and the caption got milk? Shaw, you missed your calling,” I joked.

  In fact, I didn’t have to picture it. I once saw or dreamt of Steven Seagal on a “got milk” billboard!

  From the back seat, Amy reached way back into the Pilot, pulled out the Muscle Milks and Tiger Milk bars, and tossed a few to me.

  “Want any, Alex?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I am well fueled,” he replied.

  Amy and I were like savage animals. Ripping the gold-and-silver wrappers off Tiger Milk bar, after Tiger Milk bar, and wolfing them down like they were nothing. Nearly simultaneously we both yanked the little plastic off the tiny juice box type straw attached to each Muscle Milk, then punctured each container with said straw, and sucked down the protein-filled concoction.

  “Quite a combo of nutrients, Shaw. I guess you need your protein. Hey, Amy, just like when we were kids with our juice boxes, aye?” Humor was the salve for our dehydrated, beaten, wounded state, but the “Milk” bars and drinks didn’t hurt.

  “Yeah, just like when we met,” said Amy almost tearfully.

  Alex had the Pilot at full throttle, roaring straight down the highway. The occasional curve’s centrifugal force threw us to the door.

  “Look out, Alex. You’re going ninety-five!” I shouted.

  “No choice, MD. We’ve got to catch them,” he replied.

  “Not at the expense of our lives!” shouted a tremulous Amy.

  “We’ll be okay. Just hang on! They’re twenty miles ahead of us,” Alex said as he made the looped turn onto Route 5.

  “Twenty miles and we’re dead?” I shouted.

  “No, twenty miles ahead,” Alex shouted back.

  Chapter 81

  None of us felt good about this, and the speeding was the least of it. A passing sign said, sacramento wildlife refuge, but there was no glimpse yet of the shipping truck. Ten more miles and the delevan national wildlife refuge sign loomed ahead. Then we spotted the truck.

  “There it is,” I shouted. “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan, for now?” answered Alex. “We’re just going to follow from a distance, and stay out of trouble. Our low-tech tracking system works like a charm.”

  “You think you can do that all the way to San Francisco?” asked Amy.

  “Think so, especially if it is just the shipping crew in the truck,” replied Alex.

  “Shaw, Harry something is in that truck. I don’t know his full name, but he claims to be the artist behind the forgeries. What an arrogant asshole! The truck also has the operation’s muscle. You know, the guys that helped me at the Weisbergs’ Estate before this whole fiasco unraveled. They were involved from the get-go. How do you think we got so banged up? We’re just clumsy? No, these were the goons who took us captive and almost got us killed. Plus, I think they’re armed with guns as well as knives that we’ve already seen.”

  As we pulled around the bend, we began to lose visual sight of the truck.

  “I can’t see them,” I stated.

  “No worries. They are still on the screen, a half a mile ahead. It’s good to give them some distance. Remember, MD, the Honda Pilot was at the Weisbergs’ when you first met your Mustachio friend and his sidekick!”

  “You got a point there!” I was jarred by this fact, shaken to be more precise. Shaw always had a point. He was sharp as a needle, and never missed a beat, and he was Shaw good at what he does! Whatever that will be.”

  The plan worked great! South on Route 5, then South to Route 505, all the way down to Route 80. We even knew the destination—heard it as clear as day. Fort Mason! And then it happened.

  Chapter 82

  Just like a bad magic trick. Presto change-o. It happened. We were just getting on the long, expansive Oakland Bay Bridge into San Francisco. We were closer to the truck than we were on the interstate highway. It was much safer, now that other cars, trucks, and buses all were flooding the highway into the beautiful metropolis by the Bay, and I’m not referring to Oakland.

  The view was magnificent—gorgeous bay water on both sides of the bridge, Treasure Island to our right, and San Francisco in the far distance. Treasure Island was a real treasure, with its 1939 World’s Fair exhibition buildings. What remains is not only a historical relic, but also has the island’s Administration Building which serves as a museum, while other hangars have been used for filmmaking. Parts of The Matrix, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and even Bicentennial Man were filmed on-site. And even though this bridge did not have the glamour of the more familiar orange facade on the other side of the bay, i.e., the Golden Gate Bridge, it was still magnificent.

  There they were on the phone screen. The moving blue dot was just ahead of us on the cell phone’s map. Their truck, though on the bridge, was nowhere to be seen by our eyes. They were too mixed in with the crowded bridge traffic to be visually identified from all the other similar-looking vehicles. I looked back at the screen, and the blue dot appeared to be heading for the Freemont Exit. I knew this route all too well. That was the way to the Marina District, and the best way to get there. After about thirty seconds we were in the same position. As we pulled off the exit, I looked at the screen to identify the truck’s San Francisco location.

  “Alex, the blue dot is GONE! It just disappeared. What the hell happened?”

  “MD, just try to reboot it. It should bring it back.”

  I did just that, but no luck!

  “Not working, Shaw,” I said anxiously. “What do you think happened?”

  “MD, this is a no-brainer. No, I don’t think they detected your phone and tossed it in the Bay. I think your phone died! How long did you think that thing could last, no matter what you did, and that includes your extended-charging case powering off your phone, etc.? It has been days. Your phone is DEAD! We’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  As we pulled off the bridge into San Francisco, Alex took his Pilot into hyper mode. He went left down the Embarcadero, and then left on Bay Street, and within a minute or so he was heading down Buchanan and crossed over Marina Boulevard, entering Fort Mason Center.

  “Lucky we didn’t get caught by the police,” I proclaimed.

  Chapter 83

  Alex had notified the authorities of the fact that there was a major interstate transport of stolen goods in progress. The notification included the FBI, CIA, New York Police Department (NYPD), and the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD). Based on intel gathered from my text messages, Alex had arranged for the FBI’s Special Weapons and Tactical (SWAT) team and SFPD’s Special Operations and Security Unit’s Tactical Operations Division, a division of Homeland Security, to stake out Fort Mason. How Homeland Security got involved was anybody’s guess. But it was not really anybody’s guess, it was Dr. Shaw’s insightful decision. Shaw was seldom wrong! Both tactical units arrived at MacArthur and Pope Streets a full day before we even entered California.

  According to the bronze plaque near the entrance, “Fort Mason was established November 6, 1850, on the site of Battery San José. Erected by the Spanish Government A.D. 1979.”

  FBI and SFPD saw nothing out of the ordinary. Fort Mason consisted of an upper and lower area. The upper area had an array of army barracks, and the lower area had a number of warehouse buildings and pavilions. From the upper area, one could see a magnificent view of the Golden Gate
Bridge.

  The Feds and police all caravanned down a lengthy road to a long, white building with a large blue sign that read: hostelling international, san francisco—fisherman’s wharf. This was a hostel, laid out as a large lodge with multiple rooms filled with bunk beds.

  It was an inexpensive place to stay, but for the time being, it was where they would hide out. Six SFPD police vehicles and five unmarked FBI SWAT vehicles parked far to the left of the hostel, out of sight. They entered the hostel and set up camp—one plainclothes officer near the entrance and one near each barrack.

  Chapter 84

  We pulled into the quiet stately entrance to Fort Mason and followed the eucalyptus tree lined road around to the back of the upper state park-like area near the hostel. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. There was no sight of the delivery truck, any other criminal activity, or even a strolling policeman. At the hostel, the SWAT team’s leader, Sergeant Peter O’Leary, greeted us. He flashed his badge towards us. “Another Irish cop,” I thought.

  “Park your car back here,” instructed O’Leary. He was a somewhat oversized, six-foot-tall, middle-aged man. There was not too much hair on top, and his shirt was hanging out from an equally oversized belly. He seemed to be quite familiar with Alex.

  “Good to see you again,” said Alex.

  “Top of the morning to you too, Dr. Shaw,” replied the sergeant.