It was dark and I was sitting on a bench at the corner of the park where I eat my lunch when the weather is nice and I want to watch receptionists and secretaries snake by in short skirts. Downtown buildings shot up crookedly into the night, the leftover office lights dotting their sides with squares. I looked around at the empty streets: a few darkened parked cars stood idly on the other side of the road, the traffic lights shifted up and down through their colors, a light breeze rolled a paper cup from a fast-food restaurant along the curb until it stuck in a gutter.
I couldn't remember why I was there. Or for whom I was waiting. So I got up and began walking down the street toward the parking garage I housed my car in when I was in the city. Oddly, all of the buildings seemed baroque or rococo, all of them twisting upwards seemingly higher every time I cocked my head back and gazed at the stars. There was something wrong about them, too, as if they were all the same exact distance in the sky, none of them brighter or dimmer than any of the others. And none of them twinkled.
A freshly-washed cab pulled over to the corner next to me and the passenger window slid into the door silently. The cabbie, a short, plump balding guy with a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, leaned toward the open window.
"Hey, buddy, do you know how to get to the Glockenspiel from here?"
"Yeah," I said as I walked up to the cab and leaned on the open window frame. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I gave him directions anyway.
"Down four blocks, left onto Theresienstrasse, through Rotkreuzplatz, and right onto Gotterdammerung. Three blocks from there, can't miss it."
The cabbie touched his forehead with his finger and pulled away from the curb. I watched as he drove down three blocks and turned right. I ran down the street after him, wondering what he was doing when I heard the grumble. It was a grumble realization -- the grumble of the giant realizing Jack was now in the castle -- loud and reverberating preternaturally off the concrete, granite and glass of the buildings.
"Shit." It was a sound I had heard before: The Monster. "Shit."
I looked around. There was nothing but breeze, darkness and silence. That would change. It always did. I began walking quickly toward where the Glockenspiel should be, ignoring where the cabbie had turned. My upper lip and underarms were moist with sweat from fear and exertion. There was another grumble
"Shit," I said again, looking over my shoulder and seeing nothing.
A few minutes later I was standing on the cobblestone that paved the square, the shops all closed up and the Glockenspiel illuminated by several lights trained on it. There was no one here. No tourists, no police, nobody. The characters on the Glockenspiel stood silently on their mounts as they waited for the gears to click into place for the next movement. I checked my watch, the next movement was only minutes away, and looked around the square again for somebody. Nobody.
Then it roared from across the plaza, a low rumble of contentment and victory. I froze, staring at the silhouette of the Monster as it trained its red eyes on me. It turned its head slowly left and right, and took a single step out of the shadows into the plaza's lights. It stood there as it always did, arms slack at its sides, eyes fixed on me, as if there were no hurry to close the fifty yards between us and rip me limb from limb. It was confident its time had come, even though it never had, even though I was always sure it each time was the time. And then it was coming toward me, a baseball-throw away, panting slowly, letting the fear build up in my throat as my feet melded with the cobblestones. The tall Gothic spires of the cathedral swayed and twisted with the Monster's roar as it began walking across the plaza toward me.
I turned to run, stumbled into the cabbie and fell to the ground. The cabbie looked down at me angrily and pulled his cigar stub from his mouth.
"Hey, buddy, watch where you're going."
I jumped to my feet and looked across the plaza at the Monster as it lumbered slowly toward me.
"Where's your cab? We've got to get out of here." I said quickly.
The cabbie screwed up his face. "Buzz off, I'm waiting for a fare, here."
"I'm your fare, c'mon, let's go," I said.
"Yeah, right, buddy. You don't look like no Princess von Hindenburg to me. Beat it."
From behind me I could hear the solid slaps of the Monster's feet against the cobblestones; could smell the scent of his fur on the light wind that shifted through the plaza. I stood in front of the cabbie and stared him the eyes. He was unbothered, as if everything was as it should be. Then the steps behind me stopped. I looked over my shoulder and there, just a few feet away, was the Monster, glowering down at me, its lips curled upward, its maw a glistening white of teeth and rivulets of saliva.
I grabbed the cabbie and spun him into the Monster's legs and ran as the two of them tumbled to the ground. Above me, the ever-growing buildings seemed to curl in the winds of the stratosphere like the smoke plumes from leaf pile fires dragged by Saturday afternoon breezes. Behind me the Monster roared loudly and I heard the cabbie shout something as I
"Nick, what's the matter with you?" asked Sarah loudly as she stared down into his eyes, one hand on either shoulder and her hair streaming around the left side of her neck like a golden waterfall.
Nick opened his eyes wide and took in a deep gulp of air. "Holy shit," he said quietly.
"Were you having a nightmare?"
Nick nodded. Sarah lowered herself down on him and hugged him before rolling over onto her side of the bed and sitting up.
"This is really strange, Nick. You've been having these a lot. Was it about the same thing?"
Nick told her the dream.
"I don't know what all this is supposed to be about, Nick."
"Me neither. It's just so weird. The Monster never used to come after me like this, like it was trying to capture me or kill me or whatever. It just used to scare the hell out of me and kill everyone else."
"Maybe you should see a therapist."
Nick frowned and shook his head.
"Well, it's two hours before we have to get up; do you think you can get back to sleep?"
"Yeah," Nick said as he slipped out from under the covers and headed out of the bedroom.
"Where are you going?"
"Getting a glass of water," Nick said to the darkness as he walked into the hall.
By ten o'clock that morning, Nick had downed a three-day dose of coffee and was still shrouded in a fog of sleep deprivation. It was difficult to concentrate on anything for very long, his mind easily lost to wandering either through the previous night's dream or some ponderous thought about some mundane object lying upon his desk.
And there was Detective Tagget to call, a wholly unexpected run-in that roused Nick's suspicions about the stolen art of Bill Maxell. Maxell had not been at the gallery opening, something that hadn't occurred to Nick as odd until Tagget had accidentally introduced himself to Nick. Tagget's expression, as Nick remembered it, seemed to indicate that the detective was unsure how much Nick knew about the missing paintings and now Nick thought there might be something more to it. Nick shook his head as he stared out the window onto the street below, wondering why he had convinced himself and his editor that there might be something interesting in the disappearance of a handful of paintings. Now, he wasn't so sure, and wished that he had just written up the theft in the police blotter and forgotten about it.
And just what had that painter given Sarah Friday night, anyway? Nick wondered, remembering her stuffing the small piece of paper into her purse.
He picked up his phone and pressed in seven numbers.
"Dave Kryzcapowicz, how can I help you?"
"Hey, Cap, it's Nick."
"What's going on, man?"
"Can you meet me for happy hour after work today?"
"It’s Monday, man. Happy hour is on Friday.”
“It’s gotta be Friday somewhere, right?”
Cap was silent on the other end for a second. Then, resignedly, “Yeah, where?"
"The Grove, of course," N
ick said.
"I'll see you after five."
"Ciao." Nick hung up and flipped through his Rolodex for Detective Tagget's number and dialed. After a quick conversation, Nick agreed to meet the detective at the precinct station at the end of the day.
Nick stared back out the window, making a mental note to remember to ask Sarah about the artist. He would have to make it seem like he had seen the artist drawing her, but not giving her the slip of paper which, Nick thought, must certainly be his phone number. Why would she need his phone number? Nick took a gulp of luke-warm coffee and rubbed his eyes. Why had he drawn her? Why hadn't she said anything on the drive home? And why these damned dreams?
Tagget was sitting on a bench bordering the sidewalk and working on the stub of a cigar when Nick clambered out of his car. Tagget puffed a large cloud into the afternoon and smiled as he watched Nick lock his car.
"You're parked in front of a police station, Case, with a cop sitting on a bench outside. What are you locking your car for?" Tagget said, shaking his head slightly.
Nick shrugged. "Positive habit reinforcement. If I stop doing it here, I might stop anywhere."
Tagget took another puff on the cigar and waved his hand, palm downward, when Nick took out a notebook and sat on the bench.
"No notes. All of this is off the record, for now," Tagget said, taking the cigar stub out of his mouth and pinching it between two fingers. “And off-the-record as in you can’t even take unofficial off-the-record notes.”
Nick put the notebook away. "What can be so important about four paintings?"
"Well, look, I can't waste too much time, I've got to get home, so I'll just cut to the chase," Tagget said. "What we think we're looking at here is something more than just a couple of paintings being swiped. For a long time, the FBI has been following a group of people who seem to be stealing paintings, counterfeiting them, and then selling them overseas.
"So, it turns out the feds think the operation is based out of here, somewhere, and that this latest theft is part of the operation. But we haven't come up with anything concrete, yet, because this is the first time they've taken anything from around here," Tagget said, rolling the cigar stub between the fingers of his hand and sending a curlicues of smoke into the air.
"But these were small-time paintings, from what I understand of them," Nick said.
Tagget nodded. "Well, the theory is that this operation takes orders for specific works. You were there last night, who knows what somebody wants or thinks is art? I mean, that stuff last night was crap to me, but then, most stuff is."
"But, wait a second, how do you know they're counterfeiting the paintings? If they're stealing them, why not just sell the real thing?" Nick asked.
"They're making money off both ends," Tagget said, stubbing the cigar into his mouth and sucking until the tip glowed red. "“Apparently, they ransom the originals back to the owners after the copies are made. Everything is supposed to be kept very secretive, they let the owner of the original know that the work can be gotten back and they tell him to not tell anybody about the theft. Then, on the other end, after they copy the work, the new recipient knows that he's not supposed to tell anyone about the stolen artwork. Usually, that is."
"What do you mean, usually?" Nick asked.
"Sometimes the counterfeiters act as brokers, pretending to be buyers who can obtain certain works from private collections. They show the would-be buyer an upcoming, as-yet-unreleased auction catalog and say they can get it pre-sale, but the buyer has to act quickly. It's a very complicated, intricate operation," Tagget said. "Sometimes, they claim to be able to replace the original with a fake. There are endless possibilities."
"And what does this have to do with Maxell's paintings?"
Tagget looked Nick in the eyes. "Listen, it was an accident that report was made. It was supposed to be kept secret, but the officer misunderstood what we meant about keeping everything under wraps. He thought we meant to write a vague, uninteresting public report you guys would shrug off. We meant for him to write nothing," Tagget said, puffing on the cigar stub. "Too late, now. What we're asking you is too keep your story investigation low key. Don't press too hard for details about this ring we're looking for. Keep up the story that you're just trying to write about the art community."
"Why? What's in it for me?" Nick asked.
Tagget nodded his head slowly. "Well, you'll be in on the ground floor. This is big, international big. There's major millions involved, not to mention the reputation of a couple of museums, big-time collectors, artists, everything. You'll get the story first, just keep low key."
"So why'd you tell me all of this, then?"
"So you wouldn't stumble across it in a day or a week or a month and write some half-cocked story and cook our investigation," Tagget said evenly. "I can't tell you any specifics, yet, anyway, but you'll understand when this comes together."
"Let me ask you this: you were using your real name the other night, so who are you supposed to be in the art scene?"
Tagget smiled and let out a little chuckle. "Well, nobody asked. I was the only black man there last night, so I guess they didn't know what to make of me, so they just shied away. But I'm supposed to be some rich guy interested in acquiring some art. I'm using my real name so they can look me up in the phone book or on the Internet, if anybody thinks I don't really exist, and call me. No big deal using your real name in some investigations. I don't pick up the phone at home and say, 'Detective Tagget.' I say, 'hello.'"
Nick nodded.
"So, do we have a deal?" Tagget asked. "You stay quiet if you find anything out and we'll give you the story first."
"It's a deal under one condition."
Tagget rolled his eyes. "What?"
"That I can start doing some on-the-record interviews with you and whoever else is investigating this. Only I won't publish anything until you guys say the investigation is over," Nick said.
Tagget puffed on the cigar. "That shouldn't be too much of a problem, but let me check with the team. I can't speak for the FBI, just me."
Nick nodded. "Okay. Thanks for the information, I appreciate it."
Tagget shrugged.
"Oh, hey, what does the Morning News know about this?"
Tagget shrugged. "Beats me, they never saw the report."
Nick smiled back and stood up from the bench. "Fucking awesome."
Nick thanked him, got in his car, and drove home. Thoughts of Pulitzer prizes, copyrighted stories, and an instant leap onto a New York or D.C. paper flooded through his brain as he turned his car through the streets. This was the story that could make his career, maybe send him onto the international desk of the New York Times where he could jet around the globe tracking the important stories of the world. No more one-inch briefs on car thefts or apartment break-ins. No more interviewing grieving parents or spouses about the murder of their loved one. No more sifting through police reports at dawn.
He parked his car and sprung out onto the sidewalk with helium-buoyed steps. What a coup, he thought, to find this story in the muck of daily crap afflicting the city: A story that would be read by everyone with bewilderment and awe; a story with his byline atop it, with readers waiting each morning for the latest installment of corruption, intrigue and subterfuge involving an international art counterfeiting ring; a story that would have the best reporters from papers across the world reading his story for leads; and, a story that would be printed, verbatim, in newspapers around the world. He could visualize his name in stories translated into French, German, and Japanese. He wouldn't even need to clip the story and submit it with his resume when he looked for the next job. Editors across the world would know his name.
He sprung up the steps, waiting for the moment later when he could tell Sarah of his good fortune, of how life in the news business was only a few months from changing to the big time. No more intermediate, second-string daily newspaper with an undersized staff, meager budget and few resources. It would soon
be a bag packed in the corner, awaiting a call from an editor telling him to be in Africa or Asia or South America to track down some lead. People everywhere would be willing to talk to him, knowing they could trust him because of how he had handled the art counterfeiting story. They would call him to give him the heads-up information and contact. Him. They would call him from half-way across the world to tip him off and he would tell his editor he was flying to some exotic locale to follow up in person, and the editor would tell him to go for it.
He pulled his tie off and hung it on the rack in the closet as he slipped his shoes off. But what about the piece of paper the artist had given Sarah? What if that guy was in on it? What if he told Sarah and she told him, even if accidentally? What if Sarah was ... he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at himself in the mirror above the chest-of-drawers. What was that piece of paper? A phone number? He pursed his lips as he stared into the green eyes of his reflected self. He'd have to wait before telling her anything. He'd have to wait until he could find out what was on that piece of paper. If it was a phone number, Josh Sammers’ number, Nick couldn't tell her about the story.
He grimaced as a sharp hot-flash coursed through his lower right side. It was several inches long and as wide as a strand of thread. He pulled his shirt out of his waistband and looked at the area where the pain was as he massaged it, kneading the skin and wondering what was causing the spasm. After a moment, it dulled into a wider area of warmth. He tried to trace the area that had been the pain, but it started nowhere and went nowhere. It was just below the skin, not deep inside like he thought a gall stone would feel, and ran along the length of the edge his hipbone, just above the fat deposit on his hip.
He should have told the doctor about the pains when he showed him the lump. It would have been nothing, too, but he should have asked for the medical explanation. He had always had pains in his body that seemed unrelated to anything. A spasm in a shoulder, a twitch in his chest, a headache. Whatever. It was just the body doing something, and they never lasted much longer than it took to notice them and deal with the problem. Aspirin, ibuprofen, Ben-Gay, or just ignore it. This pain was just like those, only he was noticing it more now because it seemed to recur more often, but that was because of the gym. He stripped off his work clothes, tossed them onto the lid of the hamper and rooted through the bureau and closet for something to wear to meet Cap at the Grove. He looked at the clock radio, scribbled a note to Sarah, and left the apartment.
TEN
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