Marked Man Read online

  I glanced at my watch. “Oh, I’m sorry, Rhonda, I have to cut this short. Maybe some other time we could talk in depth about fairness and the law. I have some very interesting theories about that.” Smarmy smile. “Over drinks, perhaps.”

  “I’d like that, Victor. Very much.”

  I tastefully refrained from punching the air and letting out a whoop.

  As I was escorting Rhonda through the hallway and toward the stairs, I caught a whiff of something precious in the air.

  “Are you wearing a new fragrance, Ellie?” I said to my secretary as we stopped at her desk and I sniffed deeply. “Because I must say, whatever it is, it’s lovely.”

  She didn’t respond, she didn’t even smile at the compliment. Instead she just let her eyes shift to her left. I followed her gaze.

  He stood there, short and slight in a purple suit with lace shirt cuffs and very shiny, very small black shoes. “Mr. Carl, is it?” he said in a Southern drawl so thick it seemed to drip with kudzu.

  “That’s right.”

  “I wonder, sir, if I could have a smidgen of your time.”

  I glanced at Ellie, who was fighting to keep the smile off her face.

  “I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Are you press?”

  “Oh dear, no. Do I look reptilian to you? And if you see me in brown corduroy, please shoot me. This won’t take but a moment, and I can assure you that our meeting will be very much worth your while. Oh so very, very much.”

  “You think?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  I stared at him for a moment, tried to figure out what he was all about and failed. I turned to Rhonda Harris, who, surprisingly, wasn’t smiling. I suppose some people just have no sense of humor about their profession.

  “Thank you for coming, Rhonda,” I said. “I hope we meet again sometime.”

  “Count on it, Victor,” she said.

  As Rhonda Harris passed the little man, she stared down at him and he stared back and I felt something spark between them, like the tension between two dogs circling a dead squirrel. I almost thought I heard a guttural growl. Then Rhonda was off, heading for the door, and both the man and I stared at her as she walked away. Her skirt was as tight as her sweater, and her pumps were sturdy.

  “Do you know her?” I asked the little man as she swung open the door and disappeared.

  “Never saw her before in my life.”

  “You seemed to know her.”

  “I know the type.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “Cold-blooded killer.”

  I turned my head to stare once more at the man, then I checked my watch. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have much—”

  “Just a pinch of time is all I need,” he said, his voice flying high like a startled sparrow at the last word, “just the tiniest pinch.”

  “What exactly is this about?”

  “Oh, let’s just say I’m here to discuss the fine arts, one patron to another.”

  “I’m not really a patron of the arts.”

  “Oh, Mr. Carl, Mr. Carl. Don’t slight yourself.”

  I thought about it for a bit. “All right, Mr.…”

  “Hill,” he said. “Lavender Hill.”

  “Of course it is. Why don’t we go to my office?”

  “Splendid,” he said. “Simply splendid.”

  I gestured him down the hall and watched as he minced his way toward my office door. His walk wasn’t so different from Rhonda’s. I leaned over to Ellie.

  “Any idea who he is?” I whispered.

  “Not a pinch,” she said.

  “He give you a card?”

  She took a card off her desk, passed it under her nose, and then handed it to me. It smelled as if he had dipped it in his perfume. I gave it a quick read. His name in a florid script, a phone number with an area code I didn’t recognize, and the words “Procurer of the Sublime.”

  “What’s a ‘Procurer of the Sublime’?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Carl,” said Ellie. “Do you need me to stick around?”

  “No, you can knock off for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. But can you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Can you find out what scent he uses?” she said. “Whatever it is, I like his better than mine.”

  11

  “Such a charming office, Mr. Carl,” mewed Lavender Hill as he settled into the chair across from my desk.

  Not a promising start to our interview: one sentence, one lie. My office was officially a dump, scuffed walls, dented brown filing cabinet, a desk covered with useless papers that should have been tossed out weeks ago. It was utilitarian, maybe, it had an unsentimental personality, maybe, it suited me like a cheap, ill-fitting suit, maybe, but it was not charming.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I try.”

  His brown eyes filled with amusement at my counterlie. My God, they almost sparkled. He was quite a sight, I had to admit, with his legs daintily crossed, his paisley silk scarf around his neck, his black hair parted to the right and cut round, as if it had been styled in 1978. And he had the face of a jockey, anorexic, sharp, and corrupt. Lavender Hill.

  “You are such a dear to see me on short notice,” he said. “Normally I wouldn’t barge in like a barbarian, but I felt our conversation just couldn’t wait for the usual pleasantries. I’m sure the subject will be close to your heart.”

  “What exactly is the subject?”

  “Art.”

  “So we’re going to discuss aesthetics, is that it?”

  “And money,” he said as one small hand fussed with a purple lapel.

  “Yes, now I see, Mr. Hill.”

  “Oh, call me Lav, everyone does. Do you know the Spencers of Society Hill? Simply the best people. They’ve called me Lav for years.”

  “No, I don’t know the Spencers. We probably run in different circles.”

  “Oh, I suppose so, yes. They are horse people.”

  “The things they do with genes nowadays.”

  “One look at her, Victor, and you wouldn’t doubt it. I can call you Victor, can’t I?”

  “You can call me anything you want, Lav, when we’re talking about money.”

  “Oh, very good. You have a pleasing sort of directness I find quite…exhilarating. So let’s get down to it, shall we? You have a client, Charles Kalakos.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he has access to a certain painting, from what I’ve been told.”

  “That seems to be the word on the street. What about it?”

  “I represent, Victor, a collector, a man with impeccable tastes and a private collection of the most exquisite objets d’art.”

  “Objets d’art?”

  “Oh, you’re right. Good for you, Victor. Why put on all kinds of pretensions and airs when we’re talking about stuff? He collects stuff, quite valuable stuff, but stuff all the same. What you buy when you already have everything. Still, his hunger for collecting can be quite lucrative for those of us in the position to feed it. Which is where we both now find ourselves.”

  “He wants the painting.”

  “Of course he does, you clever boy. A Rembrandt self-portrait would mark the pinnacle of his efforts. He is quite adamant about adding it to his collection.”

  “I’m sorry, Lav, but selling a stolen painting would be illegal. I couldn’t possibly be part of such a transaction.”

  “Oh, Victor, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. You are a lawyer, bound by the boundless morality of your profession. Of course your selling the painting would be wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet”—a sly smile—“you are bargaining for the painting right now in a very public way, are you not? Trying to use it to get the best deal for your client.”

  “It’s very different.”

  “Is it so different? Maybe the best deal for your client is not to turn himself into a gymnast for the prosecutors or return to Philadelphia and put his life at the mercy of his
former gangland companions.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Oh, Victor, you are a charmer, aren’t you? Maybe the best deal for your client is something else. A new home, a new identity, a new fat bank account to keep him smelling clover for the rest of his days. These things could be arranged.”

  “In return for the painting.”

  “I must say, Victor, all the negative things I’ve heard about your intellect have been completely overstated. You are quite sharp for a lawyer. I approve. And rest assured those of us in the middle would be amply rewarded. You might even be able to afford a can of paint for your office. Ralph Lauren has some marvelous colors that would do wonders. Maybe a teal.”

  “You don’t like beige?”

  “The color of cheap coffins. So there we have it, Victor. The offer has been made. Your interest is apparent. All that is left is the details.”

  “Like how much money we’re talking about.”

  “Yes, for one.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “Are we negotiating now?”

  “No. I can’t be part of the selling of stolen art.”

  “As I suspected you would say. But why talk money if we’re not negotiating? This was only a preliminary meeting. Let me tell you how I believe things might proceed from here. You will tell your client about this meeting, keeping him informed of all developments in his case, as you are required by the bar association. He’ll be interested, because he is a man with a healthy lust for money. You will give him my phone number. He will call. I will mention amounts in the six figures. And if there is a deal, we will take care of the transaction without your input. You, however, will still receive a healthy commission of, say, fifteen percent. It is so simple, really.”

  “I can’t accept a commission.”

  “Of course not, that would be improper. But a retainer, from a new client, for a case that might never come to trial, maybe renewed for a couple of years, a substantial retainer, that you could accept. All the best law firms do. You have my card?”

  “Yes, I have your card.”

  “Splendid. So our work here is done.”

  “Not quite, Lav. Before I do anything, I’ll need to know who you represent.”

  “I represent a man with money who lives far away. You need know nothing more. An art collection of his sort, where provenance is not a concern, can be maintained only in absolute secrecy.”

  “Everything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  “Your confidence doesn’t impress him. All negotiations will go through me.”

  “I need a name.”

  “You need nothing of the sort,” he said, the sparkle in his eye replaced with a flash of anger. “You have a job to do and you will do it and you will be paid for it. That is all that must concern you. And I have every faith that you will make the call.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because you are not representing Charles Kalakos only as a lawyer. He is a friend of the family. There is history that must be honored. You owe him the opportunity.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Ask your father.”

  “My father?”

  “This has been so pleasant,” said Lavender Hill as he stood from the chair. “We should do this again. Maybe over a cocktail. I do adore a stiff cocktail.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I can see myself out, Victor. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Just as he stepped out my door, I said, “Six figures won’t be enough.”

  He stopped, swiveled his hips to face me, put an expression of amusement on his face. “Are we negotiating now?”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t negotiate such a deal. But, knowing the value of the painting, I couldn’t advise my client to take anything less than seven.”

  “So we’ve both done our research. Very, very good. I’ll discuss it with my client.”

  “And lawyers generally get a third.”

  “Yes, and auctioneers generally only get a tenth. Somewhere in the middle seems more than fair. But this is all so promising. I’ve made an offer, you’ve made a counteroffer, we’re haggling over percentages. I know you can’t be part of this, Victor, but already it feels like a negotiation to me. Ciao, dear one. I’ll be waiting for a call. But don’t keep me waiting long.”

  When he vanished from the doorway, I was left with his lingering scent and the throb of my pulse that always accompanies the flash of big money. He hadn’t even blinked when I told him six figures wasn’t enough. Hadn’t even blinked.

  I sat at my desk, rubbing my hands together and thinking it through. To sell the painting would be illegal, and a lawyer really can’t be involved in anything illegal. Really. And yet Lav might have been right when he said his offer would be the best for Charlie and maybe for Charlie’s mother, too. I could imagine the tearful reunion on a lovely cay off the coast of Venezuela, mother and son, together again, under a bright Caribbean sky. And passing on a mere phone number surely wouldn’t violate any of my legal oaths. Surely. And what about the law of either/or? If I wasn’t going to be able to bank the retainer, I should at least get something out of this whole mess, don’t you think? Either/or.

  This favor for my father was getting more interesting by the moment, and more troubling, too. Who did this Lavender Hill represent, and how did he know so much about Charlie Kalakos and his situation? And what the hell did my father have to do with any of it? I needed some answers, and I knew who could get them for me. So I made a call and set up a meeting with Phil Skink, my private investigator, for the very next morning and then walked out of my office.

  Beth was gone, Ellie was gone, the place was sadly deserted as dusk crept in. I was already dog tired, but I had no great desire to head to my ruined home. A drink, I decided, would be the perfect thing. Only one, maybe two, nothing much, just enough. And off I went, toward Chaucer’s, my usual tavern, and toward what must have been a hell of a night, if only I could remember it.

  12

  “You look like a beaten dog,” said Phil Skink, staring down on me as I lay on the old leather couch in his dusty outer office.

  “I feel worse,” I said.

  “Impossible, mate. If you felt worse than you look, you’d be dead. I’ve eaten mutton what looked more alive than you. What the devil were you up to last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sounds like trouble, it does. A dame involved?”

  “I think.”

  “Sounds like more than trouble. Next time you give me a call before it gets out of hand.”

  “And you’ll pull me out?”

  “Don’t be daft,” said Skink. “I’ll be joining in. No reason you should be having all the fun.”

  Go to your butcher, ask for all the gristle and bone he can scrape off his floor. Pile it onto a roasting pan, dress it up in a natty brown suit with thick pinstripes, a brown fedora, a bright tie. Give it high cholesterol and pearly teeth. Add the brains of a mathematician, an irrational fear of canines, a weakness for wine-soaked women. Throw in a squeeze of violence and a dash of charm, season with sea salt, bake to hardboiled, and right there you’d pretty much have cooked yourself Phil Skink, private eye.

  I had set up a meeting in his office after my interview with Lavender Hill, and now I had arrived, late and limping from the night before, with my eyes still red and my jaw still slack.

  “Your head hurt?” he asked.

  “Is there a thunderstorm roiling through your office?”

  “No.”

  “Then it hurts.”

  “You take anything?”

  “Two Advil. Like shooting a woolly mammoth with a BB gun.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, there he stood, in one hand a glass with some thick brown sludge that was bubbling and belching, in the
other a long green pickle.

  “Sit up,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

  I did as he said and felt my consciousness slip as the blood drained from my swollen head.

  “Drink this and eat this,” said Skink. “A sip, a bite, a sip, a bite. You get the idea.”

  “I don’t think so, Phil.”

  “Do as I say and you’ll be good as new.”

  “Really, I’m okay.”

  “Look, mate, it hurts me just to look at you. Do it or I’ll pour the drink down your throat and then stuff the pickle in after.”

  “Hell of a bedside manner,” I said even as I grabbed hold of the drink and the pickle. With my eyes closed, I took a sip. Not terrible, actually, spicy and sour all at once, and with a bite of the pickle to chase it down, it was almost palatable. “What is it, hair of the dog?”

  “The only thing you lose by chasing alcohol with alcohol is sobriety, and you lost enough of that already. Finish it up.”

  “All of it?”

  “Well, hell, I don’t want none of it.”

  “And if I throw it all up on the rug?”

  “Be sure to miss my shoes.”

  I finished it all, closed my eyes, belched loudly, tasted it all again, and gagged twice. But strangely, when I opened my eyes, I did feel better, almost renewed.

  “What’s in that?” I said.

  “A secret recipe taught me by a hostess name of Carlotta I was seeing in Salinas.”

  “Carlotta, huh?”

  “She had tricks, she did.”

  “Oh, I bet.”

  “Hey, strictly management, she was. I still gots all my choppers. So what did you want to meet me about? This thing what’s got you all over the news, this Charlie the Greek with the painting?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  I handed him the card Lavender Hill had left with my secretary. He looked at it for a moment, brought it to his nose and took a sniff, raised his eyebrows.

  “He came to me with an offer to buy the painting. But he knew enough about what was going on to leave me uncomfortable. Find out who he is and who he’s working for.”

  “Lavender Hill.”

  “His friends call him Lav.”