Crooked (18 page)

C h a p t e r                           2 6

 
B
. Belarus’s downtown gallery opened a week later, in what some considered a bit of a rush. But the place was packed with art, talent, scene-makers, swillers, buyers, and sellers. Some expressed mild astonishment over the domestic champagne, while others thought the Korbel more acceptable than the “finger sandwich” catering. But make no mistake, it was a feeding frenzy. Bargain prices were the blood in the water, and it was all BB’s new assistant, Winnie, could do to keep up with the sales amid the gnashing teeth.

“Bea, you’re looking thin, babe, you really are.” Ozzy wagged a finger in her face. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Ozzy isn’t such a monster—I won that round, and I’m sure you’ll get me next time but good! Everything’s going to work out fine, hon, really. You’re a survivor!” He chortled, and buzzed away.

“Rat bastard,” BB fumed. She waded through the sea of excited chatter to where Xavier Gliche was holding court with a gaggle of fresh sycophants.

“Xave, I was so sorry to read about the robbery at your studio.”

He nodded, looking suitably outraged.

“What times we live in.” BB tsked. “And just think of what it will do for the provenance of those pieces, hm?” She had to get her digs in too. BB had little doubt Gliche had orchestrated the robbery to give his product a boost.

He sighed, eyebrows up, as if the concept had only just occurred to him. Pompous fop didn’t even register the sarcasm. No satisfaction in that, she thought, and moved on toward Winnie.

“We going to make it?” BB said through smiling teeth.

The blond Spanish girl looked up slyly, very much like she had the first time BB met her at the gym.

“Just topped a million five. All we gotta do is collect.”

“Mind if I cut in?”

BB turned, and was confronted by a man in a teal-checked tweed suit.

There was some commotion as people called for water, then for air. Moments later, BB found herself on a balcony at the rear of the gallery, Winnie waving a docket in her face.

Behind Winnie stood Nicholas, looking concerned but very much alive.

BB recovered quickly.

“Winnie, get that out of my face and get back in there. I’ll consult with…Mr. Palihnic…privately.”

Winnie retreated without betraying any suspicions.

“What happened to Karen?” Nicholas stepped up to where BB stood at the railing, savoring that edgy twitch in her strained smile, the black malevolent eyes aflame like those of a cornered viper. “Split when she realized you were passing hot canvasses?”

“She has her life, I have mine, and apparently…you have yours.”

“I know H was supposed to come get the Moolman, but I wanted to make sure it was the genuine item. I know how resourceful you can be.”

“Go downstairs.” BB popped open a compact, turning her back on him. “The guard at the cellar door will give it to you.” She vainly tried powdering the flush from her cheeks. “And may I say, I hope you choke on it.”

Nicholas had expected a more spirited response from BB, what with her being confronted by her victim’s ghost. Something in the way of screaming, throwing ashtrays, or scorching invectives struck him as more appropriate. But he guessed his disappointment wasn’t as great as hers.

“Lighten up, kiddo. You might actually need me sometime.
Ciao.
”

He exited, picked up the crate, and hailed a cab.

But a van cut off the cab before it got to him. It screeched to a halt, the side door slammed open, and two hockey-masked hoods latched their hands onto Nicholas’s shoulders and hauled him inside.

C h a p t e r                           2 7

 
M
el was hard at work in her time machine. The Oklahoma DMV was open on one screen, the Federal Corrections database on another. The door buzzer broke her concentration. She glanced at the time on the screen. That would be the laundry delivery. She grabbed three dollars from atop a monitor. The gratuity.

Tiptoeing through a field of Legos spread across the living room floor, she buzzed open the downstairs door and stepped into the hallway. Looking down the stairwell, she expected to see the stocky Ecuadorian with her red laundry bag.

“Angie?”

“Hi!” Angie smiled from one flight down.

“What are you…well, I mean…”

“Oh, I’m sorry to barge in. I was just in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by.”

Angie came up the last flight, carrying a large box tied with string.

Mel crossed her arms, then put them in her pockets, then took them out. Angie was the last person she expected to see.

Angie reached the top step and smiled. “I’m lying, of course.”

Mel’s cordial smile wavered.

“Here.” Angie handed her the box.

“What’s this?”

“Well, Dottie loved the tookie tookie bird so much, Garth and I decided she should have it.”

Mel looked at the floor, handing the box back. “Thanks, Angie, that’s very nice of you, but really, we couldn’t.”

“We insist!” Angie studied Mel.

“I can’t.” Their eyes met.

“Oh.” Angie blushed. “I’m sorry. I guess I…we assumed…”

“It’s not your fault.” Mel tried to laugh it off. “The other night was just one of Nicholas’s little subterfuges. You know.”

“Well, don’t I feel like a jerk? Garth told me this wasn’t a good idea.”

“I appreciate it, though, Angie. It was a nice thought.”

“Angie!” Dottie ran into the hallway. “How’s the tookie tookie bird? Do you know the Tarzan song? Nicholas taught me the Tarzan song, and there’s a tookie tookie bird in it that goes
AW! AW! EE! EE! TOOKIE TOOKIE!
”

“OK, Dottie, that’s enough now.” Mel tried to shoo her back into the apartment.

“Angie?” Dottie pointed. “What’s in the box?”

Mel loosed a frustrated sigh at the ceiling, tucked her hair behind an ear, then looked at Angie. “You want some tea?”

C h a p t e r                           2 8

 
A
week had passed since Barney had returned from the dead and reconciled with Nicasia. He’d been called on the carpet, make no mistake. The illegal nature of his romp with Drummond had caused quite a stir. But love can be a lenient master to contrition, and things were beginning to settle back to normal.

Barney had never much cared for life on Manhattan’s Upper East Side where he and Nicasia lived. He had himself pegged as more of a West Village/Tribeca sort. Even though he was hard put to knock Nicasia’s civilized door-manned digs, what with amenities like elevators and terraces, it was just a little too nice, a little too “just so.” The dingy store where he bought coffee in the Village, for example, had sawdust on the floor, an ancient flame-fed roaster, two irritable Italian proprietors, and a clientele comprised mainly of whiskered matrons preoccupied with pinching loaves of semolina. Uptown, on the other hand, Barney found himself in a white-tiled shop queued with professional types cooing about mocha double-lattes.

“No Mocha Java? No straight Mocha Java beans?” Barney rubbed his jaw, handing the countergirl his plastic “Take One” number.

“But our Mocha Java Blend is rich and creamy and…”

“I don’t want rich and creamy. How about Kona?”

“Yes! See, I have decaf and…”

“That’s preground.”

“And vacuum-packed in Hawaii!”

“And about twenty-seven bucks a pound.” Barney sighed. “I’ll take Sumatran beans, two pounds.”

He tried to console himself with the idea that in a matter of days he and Nicasia would be winging their way to a Costa Rican vacation—an actual trip to Costa Rica—where native beans would be plentiful. With that in mind, he peeked inside his jacket to make sure the tickets were still there. The travel agent had been his first errand, coffee the second. The first was a gift for Nicasia, the second a gift for himself. She’d had a pretty tough go of it. Barney thought the prospect of a tropical getaway and vows of eternal legitimacy might just calm stormy seas. And it might have the bonus effect of calming Barney’s nerves. It couldn’t hurt to be out of town if Drummond came to call.

Saluting Roger the doorman, Barney sauntered through the apartment lobby hefting a duffel bag over one shoulder, shopping bag with coffee in the other. As he boarded the elevator, his thoughts focused on how Nicasia would welcome him, what he would say. His nerves were on edge. He had betrayed her trust. Could he win it back?

A hand jammed into the closing doors. “Mr. Swires?”

“I almost forgot,” Roger the doorman drawled. “This here came for you.” He handed Barney a shoe-box–sized package neatly wrapped in brown paper and string.

The doors closed and Barney inspected the parcel as the elevator whizzed him toward his lofty floor. He stabbed the fifth-floor button, changed elevators, and headed for the garage. If it was a bomb, it might have an anaerobic fuse meant to go bang with barometric change, like going from the first to the twentieth floor.

Barney knew the unmarked, forbidding package was from Drummond just by holding it. He’d been hoping that even if the Hell Gate gang had survived the ruckus, they’d left town thoroughly discombobulated. And perhaps with subsequent infighting, they would not pursue the matter further. Wishful thinking.

He sat on a curb in the parking garage and considered his parcel, finally deciding that until Drummond had the gold, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to kill Barney. But just to be safe, he tossed the box across the garage a few times before popping the strings.

It was the pistol box, but it was too light to contain that big silver automatic. Instead it contained a note and Nicasia’s wallet.

His heart slid up into his throat. “My God.”

Barney hadn’t been stupid enough to underestimate Drummond’s resolve. Like any stage magician, he hadn’t entirely pinned the success of his act on a flappable audience. Following the Hell Gate to-do, he’d spent a few days doing research for another illusion, a precaution that he now prayed would be the showstopper. And the duffel bag he’d retrieved from his storage locker contained the props for pulling the rabbit out of his hat. He’d just been hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

But if they killed Nicasia, he had no idea what he would do. To Drummond, or with the rest of his life.

Twenty minutes later, Barney shoved his way through a sliced chain-link fence and trudged quickly over broken macadam toward a vacant Sanitation Department barge depot. The float plane was parked at the pier next to the building. As instructed in the note, Barney tromped to the first-floor entrance.

He stopped at a filthy metal door atop the stairs and listened. He scanned his surroundings and gave his jaw an anxious rub. “Showtime.”

He shoved the door open. The place looked empty.

“Greetings,” Drummond’s voice hailed gloomily from above. He stood on a railed gantry next to where the garbage trucks had once dumped refuse into the barges. The place still had the sickly smell of sour milk and oranges, the stink of garbage. He wore a black turtleneck under a blacker trench coat, a long red scarf, and the expression of a gambler with a stacked deck.

The Pazzos stood at Drummond’s left wearing their dirty driller’s coveralls, goalie masks flipped atop their heads, chewing gum for all it was worth. The white-bearded pilot del Solar stood sheepishly behind them, one eye blackened and a palm-sized bandage on his forehead. Silvi stood just to the right of Drummond, her face covered in small scrapes and badly wind-chapped. Beside her were Nicholas and Nicasia. They were both inverted, hanging by their feet from rope slung over the rafters.

“Nicasia!” Barney stepped before his jury and dropped the bag. A metallic crunch from the bag caused his inquisitors to stand a little taller with expectation.

“Barney!” Her cry was part desperation, part anguish.

Barney looked up at Drummond. His tranquil blue eyes were raging seas. “If you want to see any of that gold, you cut her down right now!”

“You miss the point, Mr. Swires.” Drummond adjusted his scarf. “Silvi, cut the woman’s ear off.”

“OK, people, let’s settle down,” Nicholas piped up. “Barney will give you the gold, won’t you, Barney?”

“Cut off his ear first.” Drummond smiled.

“Hey!” Nicholas protested as Silvi turned toward him. “Hey!”

Barney’s anger nestled back into the strategic certitude of measured but deliberate debate, his hands slipping down into his pockets. Showing panic would only reinforce Drummond’s advantage. Barney’s eyes were locked with Drummond’s, and he didn’t watch as Silvi clicked open a stiletto and knelt next to Nicholas.

“Barney!” Nicholas boomed.

“Barney!” Nicasia screamed.

Cocking his head at Drummond, Barney let slip his secret smile.

“You cut either of them and you’ll never see a cent of that money.” He spoke quietly, but the words seemed to echo around the depot like a yodel.

Silvi paused, Nicholas’s ear in her grip, knife poised.

“In the first place”—Barney looked to the floor, pursing his lips—“the
Bunker Hill
never carried the sixty thousand ounces of gold.”

“Smith, Barney’s right. There’s no gold,” Nicholas grumbled.

Drummond stepped up next to Nicholas and gave him a short kick to the back of the head. “Silence, dear Nick. Didn’t I always say that when you’re in the hands of hostile forces and don’t know what to say, it’s always best to say nothing?”

Limping to the railing, Drummond leered down at Barney. “Sam, get that bag next to Swires.” Drummond sneezed loudly into a hanky.

Sam broke rank with Joey and the pilot to descend the ladder.

“You’re a poor liar, Mr. Swires,” Drummond sneered. “After your little party, we went back to the borehole and found traces of the gold you took. We know there was gold in that ship! Now for the last time…”

“Newcastle didn’t look close enough at the historical record.” Barney began to pace before his jury. “Look at the documents in the bag, Drummond. The gold you found was part of what New Haven Steam Ship Line used to dupe Newcastle Warranty back in 1855.”

Sam hustled the bag up to Drummond’s feet and unzipped it. Drummond pushed him aside, found a folder of documents, and opened them on the railing.

“Le’go my ear!” Nicholas squirmed free of Silvi’s grip, and she gave him a quick backhand slap to his face.

“Drummond, they just put gold in the top of some of the most accessible bags so that when they were inspected…” Barney rolled one hand in the air. Perry Mason had nothing on him.

Drummond flipped through the documents, squinting. “You’re trying to tell me that you can prove an insurance fraud from 1855? If so, then why did you set up the elaborate double cross? With the boat, and the two sets of barrels full of gravel?”

“Because at the time I thought the gold really
was
at the bottom of the hole. But believe me, I wasn’t trying to double-cross you. I was just attempting to buy myself a little life insurance.”

“Bloody hogwash!” Drummond sputtered. “Silvi! Cut him.”

She didn’t move.

“C’mon, Drummond, I mean, it was pretty obvious once you told me to kill the Pazzos…”

“Whoa!” the Pazzos chorused.

“Fuck you, man!” Sam pulled off his mask, menacing Drummond like a rival hockey player.

“Shit yeah, Sam,” Joey added. “Fuck him.”

“Well, what was I to think, Drummond?” Barney looked hurt. “I couldn’t help but guess you meant to double-cross all of us. I don’t see where you hold any moral high ground.”

“We want that gold, Swires!” Drummond fussed with his hanky.

“I knew that if their lives were that cheap to you, what was I? For that matter, what was Silvi? And that pilot?”

Stiletto at her side, Silvi rose and took a step closer to Drummond.

Del Solar took a step back, eyes on Drummond.

“The gold, Swires!” Drummond produced a .38, cocked it, and pointed it at Nicasia. Silvi eyed him cautiously.

“The ‘gold’ is right here in my hand.” Barney pulled his hand from his pocket and held out a handful of green rocks. He tossed them up onto the gantry. “Brass. Oxidized brass pellets. You must have found some of those in the hole, too, didn’t you?”

Drummond was about to answer, but he sneezed instead, nearly squeezing off a round into Nicasia.

“If there was gold, I’d give it to you in a second for my friends.” Barney pulled another handful of green rocks from his pocket. “The sacks were filled with brass shot.”

The Pazzos, del Solar, and Silvi each picked up a few green rocks for inspection.

Drummond put his gun on the railing, snatched up the folder, and began a renewed inspection of its contents. Barney continued.

“So I wondered what happened and did a little research at the New-York Historical Society. What I came up with were some court records showing that New Haven Steam Ship Line was near bankruptcy at the time the
Bunker Hill
went down. Seems it had been bilked by the owner, James D. Bird, and creditors were on his back. So in April of 1853 he filed for protection under the 1841 U.S. Bankruptcy Law. According to the records you have there, and an assessment by their lawyer, they wouldn’t even have been able to honor the Bank of Boston courier contract if they got it. There’s also a bill of sale…”

“A bill of sale from 1855?” Drummond blinked at a photocopy of a handwritten invoice for “Muntz brass foundry shot.”

“It was part of the continuing bankruptcy protection filing. Seems they didn’t pay the bill for a few tons of rough brass shot they ordered from Redhook Foundries in Brooklyn. Same tonnage as the gold. Coincidence?”

“Surely you don’t think I’m that stupid, Swires,” Drummond spat. “LAD research shows that they obtained gold from the Bank of Boston for the shipment. What happened to that?”

Barney cocked his head. “I can only assume that James D. Bird swiped it, along with the insurance money. I included his obituary in the file. For someone who went bankrupt, he died a very rich man.”

“Where did you get these files?”

“The New-York Historical Society, the Public Library, and New York Custom House records. Have your people check it out.”

Drummond looked sour as Campari, and about as red.

“Fuck.” Joey gave Sam a disconsolate shove.

“If you’re through with us now…” Nicholas nodded in Nicasia’s direction.

“Cut us down, dammit!” Nicasia blurted, spittle hitting the floor.

Silvi waved a hand at the files. “Big losers, eh, Drummond?”

“What the fuck…” Joey began, but then wheeled a finger down at Barney. “Hey, so, if, like there’s no gold, what do you mean we’ll never see a cent of that money? What money?”

The echo of Joey’s voice was replaced by a moment of communal silence, all eyes on the duffel bag.

“However”—Barney smiled—“the venture was not a complete washout.” He nodded at the duffel bag. “I approximate that there was somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds of gold that Bird used to top off the bags, some of which I used to top off the barrels you flew off with. The rest is in a storage locker in Brooklyn. Key is in the bag. In all, I managed to vacuum about seventy pounds of gold. I took the precaution of removing my seven percent share, as we originally agreed. Which leaves you all with about three hundred seventy thousand dollars’ worth of gold. Split five ways, that’s seventy-four thou apiece.”