Buy Back (26 page)

“What are you saying?”

“Just because I saved you once don’t mean I have to save you again.”

Now those bugged-out eyes were filling with tears. Funny, because like I said, Kootie was not a small guy; he should have been able to hold his own with just about anybody. Even if a guy is Mr. Muscles, it doesn’t mean he knows how to use them to defend himself.

Most important part of self-defense? Surprise. Like me elbowing Eye Bags. Punch the asshole before he punches you, or before he’s even made up his mind to punch you, or before he even knows you’re there. Some may think that’s chickenshit. Some of the same people are probably taking dirt naps.

Anyway, Kootie had sweat beading up on his forehead. He was trying to express his anxiety about me abandoning him, but couldn’t find any words. I filled in the blank.

“Kootie, I’ll help you out—but you have to come clean with me. Right now.”

“Whatever.” He sat down on the seat, drooping with exhaustion, bag on his lap. “I don’t know why we let Huey talk us into it.”

“Keep it coming.”

He winced. “We didn’t steal anything.”

“Explain.”

“We broke in. We taped the kitchen staff. We pried open the door to the museum. Whatever.”

The train began to slow, and the announcer came on to tell us the next stop.

“You better hurry, Kootie. Next stop I’m getting out if I don’t know what happened.”

Kootie boiled over red with frustration, the muscles and veins in his neck rippling. “Are you stupid? I just told you! We just walked out with the frames so it would look to the kitchen staff like we had them. But we didn’t!”

“Yeah, I’m real stupid. You’ll have to explain it to me so an idiot like me can understand, and in about five seconds.”

The train began to roll slowly into the next station, the white tiles and pillars sliding past the windows.

Kootie says, “That was the plan. We were just supposed to go into the museum and pretend to take the paintings. Then feed you the story about being ripped off. We popped them out of the frames and hid them in a janitor’s closet. That’s what we were supposed to do. That’s what we did.”

So I says, “An inside job.”

“That’s the buy back. Someone at the museum wanted it to look like we stole the paintings so they could steal them. They get the insurance money, and then they sell them. They get money two ways, not one. That’s how Frank and me figured it, anyway.”

“Who is
they
?”

“Whatever. The museum. Or someone at the museum. That’s the way Huey explained it. What the fuck do I care as long as I get paid.”

“Who told you this?”

“Huey.”

“Who told him?”

“Ms. French.”

I looked around to make sure nobody was going to kill Kootie before he answered my next question.

“Who is Ms. French?”

“Dunwoody Exports.”

“How did she get wind of our gig at the Whitbread?”

“Through Huey, that’s all I know. I’d tell you, man, because what the fuck does it matter now? Why would I lie?”

“Open the bag.” If he had his share of the money in there, it meant he was lying.

The train jolted to a stop.

“What?”

“The bag. Open it. You just went to see her to get your cut, didn’t you?”

The doors opened.

Kootie made a run for it.

I grabbed the strap to the bag and jerked him back into the subway car. Kootie spun and fell to the floor, one hand on the bag strap.

I glanced through the forward car window into the next car. Eye Bags wasn’t in sight. Kootie didn’t know that. He could have been.

“He’s coming.” I pointed toward the next car. “I’m giving you to him.”

The loudspeaker said, “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

Kootie let go of the bag and rolled out the door just as it closed.

I was kind of surprised. Most of these goofballs would sooner die than let go of their take. Maybe he wasn’t totally convinced I wasn’t the one who tweaked Huey and Frank.

I went to the doors and watched him get to his feet. He grinned at me like he’d won. Then his eyes snapped toward the front of the train. That terrified look was back, and the winner took off down the platform.

A second later Eye Bags flew by after him, shooting me a glance as he passed by.

The train jolted and began moving forward, out of the station.

The Latino boys were smiling. I guess they enjoyed the show.

I hope Kootie kept running and didn’t stop until he was out of state. That was the last anybody ever saw of him.

Not a bright guy, but I still like to think he got away.

I TOOK THE TRAIN ALL
the way to Lorimer Street, transferred to the L train into Manhattan, switched to the R train, and came all the way back to Brooklyn the long way in a giant counterclockwise circle. Best to remain a moving target, especially with Robay making a clean sweep of things. It was going on ten before I exited the subway at Union Street and Fourth Avenue. I still hadn’t opened the bag. Not that I hadn’t wanted to, but I knew it probably contained some serious cash, and it was better not to risk having anybody on the train see I had such a thick wallet.

On the street I checked my phone. I had a message.

“Hello, Mr. Davin! This is Pete at Fido Feed. You never called and seemed in a hurry for the information about your cat sitter. Yes! Chuck’s Pet Food Wagon down on Fourth Avenue. They sold the Pristine Pet and Lab 1 Adult Diet Dry to your Russian friend. Anyway, not to worry, they delivered the food two days ago to the Holiday Inn Express. I didn’t know they took pets. Thought you’d like to know. We’ll deliver that food you ordered first thing Monday. Thanks, and have a nice evening.”

I ducked into a deli on Fourth Avenue for a cup of coffee and a refuge from the traffic roar. I rang Detective Doh. He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Yes?”

“It’s Davin. I think you’ll find Gustav staying at the Holiday Inn Express on Union Street. If you need the gun he lost, I might have a line on that, too. If I do get it, the weapon may turn up on your doorstep anonymously. I don’t want any static about how or who had it all this time.”

“What makes you think he’s at the Holiday Inn?” Doh sounded like he was eating and in no hurry.

“Because Pristine Pet and Lab 1 Adult Diet Dry were delivered there two days ago by Chuck’s Pet Food Wagon.”

“Huhn?”

“The cats. He took them from me, and he has to feed them, right?”

“Mmm.”

“They only eat that specific food. He only took enough food for a day when he swiped the cats. So he needed to find more, and it’s not that easy to find. I asked around, and they delivered the food to a Russian staying at the Holiday Inn Express.”

“Damn, you sure?”

“Sound like worth checking out?”

“Later.”

I felt pretty smart as I walked back across the Gowanus Canal on Union Street. That cute bit of intelligence should have had me in the pink, the killer kid out of my hair.

At the green loft, the lights on the second floor didn’t seem to be on, but Bridget could have been entertaining a customer by candlelight. I keyed myself into the first-floor apartment.

Bridget was in the living room reading the
Economist
, glasses perched on her nose. Turner was at the scratching post.

Bridget says, “There you are.”

So I says, “Just barely. Any trouble?”

“None here. Did you hear about the barbershop?”

“Not news to me.” I unzipped the duffel bag. At the bottom was a black plastic bag. I took it out and dumped ten stacks of Jacksons on the coffee table. Looked like thirty grand—a thousand dollars in twenties is about half an inch thick. Kootie’s payoff from Ms. French. Once they had him located, it was just a matter of following him. Robay sent in Eye Bags to tie off the loose ends and take back the money.

Bridget tossed her magazine aside. “That’s serious cash!”

“I need you to keep an eye on it for me. I can’t exactly deposit that in the bank, and it would strain my wallet.”

“Are you OK?” Bridget brushed her hair away from her eyes, which were now on mine, not the money. “What happened to you today?”

“Been a long one. And it’s not over. Yet.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I had something on the ferry.”

“The ferry?”

“Staten Island.”

“Don’t move, I’ll make you some soup, pour you a drink.”

“No time for that. No more threats? Nobody hanging around outside? No tall Russian kid?”

“Uhn uhn. But Tommy, you have to rest. Just for a little while, get your strength. I heard you go out early this morning. You’ve been going all day.”

I continued to paw through the duffel bag. Just clothes, toiletries.

“Honey, I’ve still got the strength of a couple of guys on a bad day, which is enough. Just tuck the money away somewhere for me, OK? That will be doing a lot right there.”

The duffel over my shoulder, I made for the door.

Bridget followed. “Tommy, I’m worried about you!”

“Pop used to say,
Don’t drop anchor in stormy seas
. I’ll just be extra worried if I don’t keep at this and see it through.”

“What did your father say about knowing when to take a breather?”

“I don’t think he covered that. He covered a lot, too.”

“Damn you, Tommy.” Bridget practically spit she was getting so worked up.

“Look, try that tantric exercise. It will calm you down.” I wasn’t quite sure why she was experiencing so much anxiety.

“So because your father said … what are you, your father? Did he not know when to stop? When to butt out?”

I guessed that was supposed to be some sort of pop-psych button to make me do what she wanted.

“Pop was an optimist, and so am I. But he lost his way and blew his brains out in our living room. I’m not Pop.”

Bridget blinked. Hard. “What?”

“I’m not like Pop. He gave up. I keep going.”

I opened the door and looked both ways along the street. Just a couple people in the shadows, walking their dogs for the last time that evening.

“Tommy—”

“See you in the morning.”

Making tracks for Fourth Avenue, away from Smith Street, I kept a sharp eye out, crossing the street whenever someone was ahead on the sidewalk. Eye Bags would have reported in, and Jimmy Robay would be arranging a hit on me just about then.

If he hadn’t already.

THE WHITBREAD MUSEUM’S DRIVEWAY WAS
a parking lot of limousines, so I guessed the board meeting, dinner, and reception were still under full swing. A special entrance for the invitees was on one side of the flying saucer, with event security in tuxedos. I’d forgotten to bring my invitation, so went to the employees’ entrance on the other side.

My pal Unsteady Freddy was at his post. His sad, watery eyes widened when he saw me. “Good evening, Mr. Douglas. Pretty late for a meeting with the boss.”

I patted the poor guy on the shoulder. “How are you, Freddy? Get home OK?”

He smiled. “Always do, somehow. Thanks for swinging by this morning.”

“Like I said, I was in the neighborhood. Atkins and McCracken here?”

“Both. Only McHitler is at the reception with the board, giving a presentation.”

“That so?”

“So she’s busy, but I can call up to Atkins, see if he’s in his office.” He began to fumble with his radio.

“Or I can just go up. He’s probably expecting me.”

“Sure. Just don’t steal anything, Kirk.”

I laughed softly at his soft joke. “I promise.” Then I noticed the banner for the Lee J. Rosenburg wing. “Actually, could you call Atkins and have him come meet me in the Mondrian collection?”

“You got it, pal.”

Buy a drunk a drink, pals for life.

I veered again into the Mondrian wing. Catering staff were folding tables, rolling away a bar, and sweeping up. Looked like they’d had the cocktail reception in Lee J. Rosenburg’s wing of the museum. Real political move on Sheila’s part. I wondered how long she’d get traction with the board director with such obvious brownnosing. Atkins, I guessed, was there to make an appearance and suck up to Rosenburg himself, try to keep his job cemented in case Sheila was bad-mouthing him.

There they were. I stood in front of the two Mondrians that were also in Atkins’s closet. I wandered away and then looked back at them from a distance. I came up close, looked at the brushwork, the cracks in the paint. I wanted to flip one of them over and look at the tacks, see if they were cloven, but Atkins entered the room behind me. I actually heard him gasp and felt his nervous energy.

“Davin, this is not a good time. The board is here.” He stayed where he was, I guess trying to draw me away from the two Mondrians.

“Atkins, do you like art?”

“What?”

“Do you like art? Like these two paintings?”

He looked a little unsteady on his feet, sort of swaying a little as all the blood drained out of his head. His mouth made a couple attempts to say something. I helped him out.

I whispered, “Look, if you want to put them back, I think this is the perfect time to do it, don’t you?”

He looked like he might faint, and steadied himself on the wall.

“Atkins, I’m willing to be big about this, because I know you’re not a bad guy. You could use some stress management. Maybe some aromatherapy candles in your office would help. Raking leaves isn’t the answer.”