Buy Back (19 page)

I opened my phone and checked the e-mail he sent me to see if there were any interesting details. The front name on the company, who ran the day to day, was someone named Molly Lee. Not familiar. The alleged mobster: Jimmy Robay. Not familiar.

Where did an art clearinghouse fit in with this? Sure, Dunwoody could have helped Jo-Ball move paintings overseas and internationally. Just mix the goodies in with junk and what customs official would know?

“Next job, nephew. Find me everything you can on Molly Lee.”

“Oh, yes, master! How can I
serve
you?”

“You want more money or not?” I held out forty. He took it without a smart remark. “I’m paying for the next information in advance because I don’t want you directing latent hostility at me. I have enough problems.”

“Like my life is problem-free? Do you have any idea what it’s like being thirteen?”

“Gee, I guess not. I went directly from twelve to fourteen.”

I gave serious thought to acting out. Strangling him with his own arms seemed like it would be a nice emotional release for me. I closed my eyes and imagined it instead.

He says, “What are you, like, smiling about?”

So I says, “You really want to know, Skip?”

He felt the negative energy I was giving off and shrank back into his seat.

I dropped Skip in Windsor Terrace a block from his house and headed back to the tiki bar. I could only imagine what Frank and Kootie were up to.

“WE GOT THE KEYS.” FRANK’S
eyes were sparkling with triumph, with the fireplace, and with a little too much of whatever brown stuff he was drinking.

Kootie was next to him with a glass of water, biting a nail. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Let’s go get the money, Tommy, what do you say?”

I stood over them, making a point of looking able to crush them.

“Sure, but I have to make sure you guys don’t try to rip me off. Kootie and I will go. We’re too much of a match for each other to try anything. I’ll have to pat you down, though, Kootie.”

“Hold it hold it hold it.” Frank waved his hands in the air. “How do I know Kootie will bring me my cash?”

Kootie pushed his water away and gave Frank a look that could have bruised fruit. “You want to explain that commentary?”

“Kootie, I’m just saying. Sweet Jesus, I trust you as much as I’d trust anybody. It’s just there’s a lot of money. People act different when they have a big pile of cash, you know that.”

Eyes on mine, Kootie says, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Frank isn’t going with you alone. Look, Tommy, we’re on the up-and-up.”

So I says, “If it’s two of you going, I need someone to watch my back.”

Frank’s glass swerved away from his lips. “Who?”

BLAISE JONES SAT BETWEEN FRANK
and Kootie. His gold chains, metallic teeth, sequined Yankees hat, and sunglasses twinkled in the passing streetlamps. Blaise could sense the discomfort of his seatmates and seemed to be enjoying it.

We’d agreed to give Mr. Jones a small percentage off the top to referee.

I was in the seat ahead of them. We were in a minivan I’d ordered from Blue Diamond, headed toward the storage facility.

“Driver? Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course, of course.”

“Did you drive Sunday for Blue Diamond?”

“This last Sunday? Sunday?”

“Yes. This last Sunday did you maybe pick a woman up on Court Street, at Donut House, and deliver her to the Williamsburg Savings Bank?”

There was a chilly silence. “I work Sunday. Airport. Not Donut House.”

“Thanks. If you happen to find another driver who did, and he’ll tell me about the woman, I’ll pay him for his time and give you forty bucks. Here’s my card.”

The driver took the card, looked at me, and then looked back at the road without another word.

“Heh. So, Tomsy, I appreciate you calling me in on this, I really do. It’s like a part-tay, right, boys?”

I flashed him a smile. Blaise cracked me up. “Turn right here, driver.”

Minutes later we were standing in front of the storage facility. Blaise had the bling, but he didn’t have height. He was shorter than Frank, but probably a lot nastier in a fight. So I figured they were a matched set.

“OK, so Kootie and I will go in, you two watch each other out here.”

“Wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute.” Frank was waving his ugly hands around. “Why don’t we all go in? Kind of brisk out here?”

“Yo, be steady, Eddie, be cool.” Blaise stirred the air with his fingers. “Two on the outside, two on the inside, that’s jake.”

Kootie inflated his chest. “Let’s do it his way and get out of here, get the money.”

“Keys?” I put out my hand to Frank, and he handed them to Kootie. Cute.

Kootie and I were back out in five minutes. The duffel bag was under my arm.

Frank pointed at it. “Got it? Jesus, did we get it?”

I put the bag in his arms. “All yours. C’mon, Blaise. I owe you a drink.”

OVER BY THE HOUSING PROJECTS
where Blaise lives is a bar called PJ’s. It’s not anything like the bars up on Smith Street. It’s where the homeboys hang. You might think I’d be uncomfortable hanging around all the gangsta types. Most white guys are intimidated by it. I think they’re supposed to be; I think that’s part of the point. I never asked Blaise about it, and he never offered, but I always took it for granted there was some humor built into the whole scene, and a touch of self-deprecation, like they were goofing on themselves a little. Maybe I was wrong. Anyways, it didn’t bother me any, and at least I could be pretty sure I was safe in that crowd from any snipers.

There wasn’t any music in the bar itself, but there was a car out front that was more or less a giant speaker with about eight homeys leaning on it drinking cans of malt liquor.

I think Blaise enjoyed making an entrance at PJ’s with a giant white guy carrying a suit bag. There were some looks, and some comments that I couldn’t make out. For Mr. Jones, it showed his reach went beyond Hoyt Street and Third Avenue. It kept them guessing. The walls of PJ’s were scrawled with graffiti. So was the ceiling, and the tables, and the mirror behind the bar. It was like a bombed subway car from the seventies. We sat at a table in the back so we could talk. The bartender automatically brought us a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor and two glasses.

I put a hand on the bartender’s arm. “I want mine on the rocks. Please.”

He looked at me, then at Blaise. He came back with a glass of ice and put it next to me.

“Thanks.”

Blaise was chuckling. “Why you always have to do that, Tomsy? Damn.”

I smiled. “It amuses me, Blaise. It’s from a movie.”

He was nodding, his bloodshot eyes looking at me over the sunglasses. “You told me.
Brother from Another Planet.”

I nodded along with him. “And right now I’d go a mile for a chuckle.”

“What kind of game you playing?”

I sighed and sipped. You know, malt liquor actually is good on the rocks. Next time I’d ask for a twist just to mess with Blaise. “Usual game. Missing paintings. Only I’m looking for the money that was paid for the paintings. The artwork is long gone.”

“So your man, the bistro dude who lost his hat, he made a sign on you.” In Blaise’s world, a guy who loses his hat gets shot in the head. Making a sign on me meant pulling a fast one on me.

“Huey was probably worried that the people who paid him off were following him to the storage place. That they might try to take the cash back after they had the paintings. Or he didn’t trust Frank and Kootie not to tag him. So in the car on the way to the storage locker he must have switched out the money, and sent the money on in the car to someone else. His wife, Ariel, probably. Which means I’ll never get that money.”

“I see but I don’t see. Why folks losing their hats in your hood? Heh. I even hear you did it.”

His eyes had false laughter in them.

“Is that what you want to know?”

He shrugged and drained his glass. “I wouldn’t dis you if you did cap the mofos who diced you. That’s law around here.”

I looked over at the bar, and some of the homeys turned away. Blaise filled his glass and mine.

“Well, Blaise, what can I say. I have a little rule about killing people. I don’t. It’s bad karma, just for starters. Bad energy just gets you more bad energy.”

Blaise laughed, his gold teeth flashing. “You bust me, Tomsy, you really do. If that’s your creed, it’s cool. You know, I think that’s why I like you, Tomsy. You got creed. Not my creed, I got my own. But I like a man with a creed.”

“Yeah, I’m loaded with creed.”

We clinked glasses and drank.

“Can I ask you something, Blaise?”

He wrinkled his brow. “Maybe.”

“You think good things happen to good people?”

“Say what?”

“Do you think good things happen to good people, to people with creed, say?”

“Hell no!”

“Never?”

“Look, my man, creed only means you have a code, a method to your mad-ass capers.”

“Survivors don’t tend to get too cute and double-cross their friends. If they do, eventually it comes back to bite them in the ass, right?”

Blaise leaned forward. “Why you asking me about this, Tomsy? I mean, this is Blaise you’re talking to. I’ve messed people up.”

“Just the same, but you’re a good person.”

“You crack me up, Tomsy. I’m only a good person where it pays to be a good person. I’d sell you out in a second if your sorry ass were worth anything.”

“It pay to be having a drink with me?”

“I consider it an investment.”

I grinned at him. “I consider your friendship an investment, too.”

Blaise wrinkled his nose, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging. “Friendship?”

Now I laughed. “Mad-dog me like you mean it, Blaise!”

That got him. He broke into a smile that lit half the room. “Damn, Tommy, I do like your creed.”

We clinked glasses again, and he said, “So how we going to keep you from getting iced?”

“Wish I knew. Whoever is doing these killings, it seems they have it out for anybody connected with these paintings.”

“Must be stacks of jacks out there on this.”

I shook my head. “It’s only a hundred thousand.”

Blaise put his elbows on the table. “Come again?”

“Kid you not.”

“Sounds like the sausage people. They kill if you step on their shoelace.”

I shook my head again. “But do they do it in broad daylight? No. The person goes missing, or takes a canal bath, or falls off a building. This is not the mob’s style at all.”

“What about the Russian flicks? They mean.”

“The Russians are way out in Coney. Not their turf.”

“How come the shooter ain’t capped your hat yet?”

“He took a wild shot at me when I was standing next to Jo-Ball, but I don’t think he was really trying. He tried again when I chased him after Huey lost his hat. Missed both times.”

“Maybe they trying to scare you.”

“Doing a good job. But scare me for what reason? I don’t have the money or the paintings.”

My phone jumped around in my pocket. I didn’t recognize thenumber, but maybe, somehow, it was good news. “Excuse me, Blaise. Yes?”

“It’s Bridget.”

“OK.”

“Can we meet?”

“Now?”

“You said to call.”

“You remember something?”

“Maybe. Can we meet at Bar Great Harry on Smith?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, nowish. You know…”

“Meet me at Canal Bar on Third.” Whenever someone you don’t entirely trust calls and wants to meet one place, always suggest another. A little rule I had. “Twenty minutes?” Always get there first. Another little rule.

“Um, OK.”

I hung up. “Got a date with an angel.”

Blaise waited for more.

“A fallen angel.”

“Bridget buzzed me yesterday about you. Heh!”

“What’s her deal, Blaise?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Just made the scene in February. Indies like her come and go around here. They make a stake and they gone. Can’t hustle too long in one spot. Cops hang with her, but they stay too long and something bad happens.”

“Like what?”

“Some john’ll give her both fists. Indies, they got to keep moving to new pastures.”

“Dangerous work.”

“They all get the fist some time. Just the way it goes.”

“Huey stopped by to visit her before he got popped, after dropping off the bag at the storage locker. His way of celebrating.”

“How much she know about the paintings?”

“Nothing. Huey just went there for a screw and to complain.”

“About his wife. Heh. Always. They tell me some
just
go to complain.”

“I’ve heard that.” I stood and drained my glass.

“Be cool, Tomsy.” Blaise put out a fist. “I like having you around.”

I bumped his little fist with my big one and hefted my suit bag.

“Let me know if you hear anything useful, OK? Be nice if I got that report on McCracken as soon as it comes in.”

“Peace out.”

CANAL BAR. IT WAS TRYING
to be a dive, but it didn’t have to try hard. Just the same, they didn’t have malt liquor on the rocks, or any other way, so I had to settle for brandy. My suit bag was on the bar stool to my right next to the wall. There was an open stool on my left, and then some stools filled with low-rent patrons beyond that. No homeboys, just grungy would-be starving artists and the stray slumming hipster or local. The place was lit with neon and bar signs. The bartender had enough sideburns for two.

The girl with the brown hair and moles saddled up on the bar stool next to me. There was a long red fuzzy scarf wrapped around her neck a hundred times, and there was a red beret on her head. The lipstick matched both.

I have to say that I’m always a little surprised by off-duty professional girls. By professional I mean the entire sex industry, to include strippers and all that. Up near Times Square there’s a “gentlemen’s club,” and if you pass by at certain times of day you see the second shift arriving. These girls stand out front and smoke before heading in to their jobs. Outside in street clothes they don’t turn a head. Inside with their hair pumped up, eyes spiked, nipples mentholed, and body dusted in sparkles, they look like every man’s dream come true. It’s not just the coats of paint and costume (or lack of it), but that the sex light is turned on inside them.