Firm Ambitions (22 page)

I got there just as the skinny driver rang the doorbell to the gallery. I raised the camera and kept the angle wide enough to get the man and the gallery sign.

Click
.

A few seconds later a light went on somewhere near the back of the gallery. I could make out the shape of a man moving toward the front of the gallery. I focused on the door just as it was opened by a large man in a white turtleneck and dark slacks.

Click
.

He was more than large. He was obese. Everything about him looked oversized—his nose, his bald head, his mouth, his hands. He towered over the skinny guy with the goatee.

Click
.

The skinny guy gestured toward the van. The big guy nodded. They both stepped inside the gallery and moved to the back and out of sight.

“What's happened so far?”

I jumped at the sound of his voice, almost losing my balance. “Oh, God, Benny, don't sneak up like that.”

“Sorry. What did I miss?”

“The guy from the van is in the gallery.”

“What did he take out of the storage space?”

“Three big flat objects covered with sheets. I'd guess framed pictures.”

“Here he comes,” Benny said.

The skinny guy came out of the gallery with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. The big guy waited at the door. I got the camera ready. The skinny guy took the first shrouded object out of the van.

Click
.

He walked with it back to the gallery and handed it to the big guy at the doorway.

Click
.

The big guy took it into the back of the gallery somewhere.

They repeated it twice more, although the final time the skinny guy paused at the entrance to the gallery and looked back at the van.

Click
.

Then he took the sheet-draped object into the gallery himself. Once inside, the big guy had him stop for a moment so that he could lift the sheet up and take a peek.

Click
.

It was definitely a painting, although the peek was so brief that I hadn't been able to tell what the painting was. The two men disappeared into the back of the gallery.

“That's all he took out of the Mound City storage area,” I said to Benny. “Just those three.”

“It's got to be a fencing operation.”

“Here they come,” I said. “You stay here.”

The skinny guy was twirling his car keys as he came out of the gallery. Behind him, the fat guy locked the door.

“See you back home,” I whispered to Benny as I turned toward where I had left my car.

Benny touched my shoulder. “Remember what you said. No heroics.”

***

The van sped past the sign on 1-64 announcing LAST MISSOURI EXIT. I was in the right lane two cars back of the van, which was in the center lane. My speedometer showed sixty-eight miles per hour. We held that speed as we crossed the Mississippi River on the Poplar Street Bridge. The van moved to the right lane as it passed under the WELCOME TO ILLINOIS sign that marked the halfway point across the river. I was still two cars back.

I gripped the steering wheel as we came off the bridge high above East St. Louis and zoomed through the dizzying latticework of merging and branching lanes as the various highways that had squeezed into two lanes to cross the river began veering off to the north or south. Up ahead the van pulled onto an exit ramp on the right I caught the word “Sauget” on the exit sign as I sped down the ramp. I could see the van turn right onto the undivided state highway.

After less than a mile the van slowed as it approached a lighted sign that pointed the way to P.T.'s Showplace. The van followed the flashing arrows into the immense parking lot. I parked one aisle over from the van and waited inside my car until the skinny guy passed through the front doors of P.T.'s. As I stepped out and approached the entrance to the best-known topless dance bar in metropolitan St. Louis, there was no need to remind myself that I had no idea what I was doing. The two enormous bouncers nodded politely as I walked past. The cover-charge guy waved me past, explaining, “No charge for the ladies, ma'am.”

As I walked into the main area, Madonna's “Like a Virgin” was wailing over a sound system so powerful that the walls seemed to vibrate. There were twelve extremely sturdy octagonal tables—mini-stages, actually—strategically placed throughout an area the size of a ballroom. Each table was ringed by eight chairs, and each chair was occupied by a man in heat. There were well over a hundred men in the large room—young and old, T-shirts and Armanis, construction boots and wing-tips, motorcycle jackets and Lacoste shirts. From the odors, most were drinking lots of beer, smoking lots of cigarettes, and sweating lots of sweat.

I counted seventeen other women in the room. Five were barmaids, tarted up in English chambermaid outfits and moving through the room with trays of drinks balanced on one hand over their heads. Twelve were in various stages of undress up on the tables, gyrating to the music, some still with their full costumes on, others down to spike heels, G-strings, and a garter. And then there was female number eighteen: little ole inconspicuous me, way behind in sleep and fresh from several hours cooped up in a car, dressed in faded jeans, a St. Louis Cardinals jersey, and jogging shoes.

I moved slowly through the room, trying to hang back in the shadows beyond the mini-stages as I scanned the faces for the little guy with the goatee. I tried to avoid eye contact, but it wasn't always possible. Some of the men started when they saw me, quickly averting their eyes, as if caught masturbating. Others gave me a big grin and tried to sidle over for some conversation or to buy me a drink. I kept moving.

I spotted my guy at a tableside seat. I arrived just in time to see him take a big swallow of beer, set his beer glass back on the table, and put a dollar bill between his teeth. He was staring up at the dancer, who had her back to him as she entertained the other side of the table. She was a tall black woman in a red G-string. Her garter was festooned with dozens of folded dollar bills. My guy strained upward as she turned to his side of the table, the dollar bill dangling from between his teeth. He had greasy hair and a scraggly goatee. The bright overhead spots highlighted the pockmarks on his cheeks, forehead, and neck. His hands were on the table, each clenched into fists. The letters H-A-T-E were tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and L-O-V-E on the left.

The black dancer smiled down at him as she rotated her hips in time to the beat. Her large, round breasts moved in syncopated time. Squatting in front of him, she cupped a hand under each breast and let him press his face between them. She squeezed her breasts together and moved away slowly, pulling the dollar bill out of his mouth in the process. Still grinding, she stood up, took the bill, folded it longways, and slid it under the elastic garter belt as she turned to the next guy. He had his hand resting on the table and was holding a ten-dollar bill. When he saw he had her attention, he rolled the bill lengthwise into a tube. Holding the tube pointed upward, he waggled it at her. As she squatted over the money tube and started running her fingers up and down the front of her G-string, my guy took a big gulp of his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, and jammed another bill between his teeth.

I turned and pushed through the crowd toward the exit. I decided to wait outside in my car for my guy to leave and, presumably, go home. I'd seen enough of P.T.'s action for this lifetime.

The parking lot was brightly lit. Although it was after three in the morning, there were still carloads of men pulling into the lot. I ignored the honks and shouts of “Hey, mama” and “Yo, baby” as I walked to my car. Are there guys out there who actually think a honk of the horn followed by a “Yo, baby!” has an aphrodisiac effect on women?

I got in my car, locked the door, and turned on the radio. I tried several stations until I came across one of those golden-oldie formats. They were playing “Love Is Like a Heat Wave” by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, which only happens to be one of the five greatest songs of the twentieth century. I yawned and stretched my arms over my head, pressing my palms against the car ceiling. Bobbing my head in time to the beat, I decided that finding a radio station playing Martha Reeves had to be a good omen. I folded my arms and scrunched back into the corner by the door to wait. I could just see the top of the brown van.

***

It was exciting at first—arousing, actually. I stood above them, wearing a white wedding dress, white gloves, a white veil, and white spike heels. What none of them knew but would all soon discover was that under that virginal white was a black pushup camisole and matching string bikini. The long white gloves came off first, one at a time. The men cheered and applauded as I slowly unpeeled the second glove, waved it over my head, and tossed it to one of them. Then the dress. I sashayed around the mini-stage in my black camisole, black bikinis, and spike heels.

As the music shifted to Marvin Gaye's “Heard It Through the Grapevine,” I suddenly stood still, legs apart, head down. Then my left leg started moving in time to the beat. The men began rooting and pounding the table as I slowly unbuttoned the camisole. There were six buttons. When I reached the fourth one, someone grabbed my leg. I looked up, startled. Nick Kazankis was holding my leg. His face was bright red and his eyes were blazing. He was roaring drunk. “Get over here, pussy!” he shouted. “Sit on my face.” Standing directly behind him was Christine Maxwell, dressed as a homecoming queen. She glared up at me, the diamonds in her crown sparkling. “I told you not to fuck with me, bitch,” she said with a smirk.

Appalled, I tried to back away. Someone behind grabbed my other thigh. Someone else slid a rough hand up my leg under the back of my panties. I jerked around. Another Nick Kazankis. And another. Stumbling away, I saw eight Kazankis clones, each with a homecoming queen behind him. I spun around. Two of them were climbing onto the table. One had his zipper down and was waggling an enormous half-erect penis at me. There was the scrape of metal as the others started pushing back their chairs. As one of them grabbed my left breast I tried to lurch away.

As I lurched, I banged my head on the window and immediately woke up, completely disoriented. I was alone in my car. I sat up, blinking in the sunlight as “Heard It Through the Grapevine” came to an end. The DJ announced that it was time for the traffic report. I massaged my left side, which was painfully sore from the way I had slept. I looked out the window and scanned the parking lot. There were several dozen cars and trucks, but no brown Ford Econoline van.

I banged my hand against the steering wheel in frustration.

Chapter Twenty-four

I called home from a gas station pay phone to assure my mother that I was okay.

“Thank God,” she said. “Oy, what a night.”

“Have you heard from Benny?”

“Heard from him? He's been here for hours. He can't sit still from worrying about you. He's got
spilkes
, poor thing. And you know how he eats when he's nervous.”

“How bad?”

“He stopped by Dunkin' Donuts on his way here. He brought a dozen doughnuts.”

“Oh, no. How many?”

“Nine so far.”

“Is he sick?”

“Sick? Him? He's got the digestive tract of Godzilla.”

“Tell him I'll be there soon.”

“Listen, Rachel.” She lowered her voice. “Don't get upset when you see the front window.”

I could feel my heartbeat accelerate. “What happened?”

“What a night,” she said with a weary sigh. “Maury was asleep in the living room when Benny got here. Maury got startled and grabbed for his gun. It went off by accident.”

“Oh, my God. He shot at Benny?”

“No, no. No one's hurt. Nothing like that. Maury didn't even aim before it went off. The shot blew out the front window. The only damage was the window and the curtain.” She paused. “Maury feels terrible, the poor man. He called one of those board-up outfits and he's already been on the phone with the claims adjuster for the insurance company. They'll have someone out this morning.”

I couldn't help smiling at the vision of a startled Tex Bernstein blasting out the front window. “Is he still there, Mom?”

“No. He had to go home to change. He's in the middle of that jury trial.”

On the way home I dropped the roll of film off at a photo lab that promised to develop it and make prints by noon. When I pulled up to the house there were two men from the board-up company in the front yard taking measurements of the window. They had two sheets of plywood resting against the side of the house. The entire front lawn was sparkling with shards of glass reflecting the morning sun.

Benny and my mother were waiting inside.

“You okay?” I asked him with concern, trying to keep a straight face.

“Me?” Benny said with an ironic chuckle. “Nothing like walking up to your front porch at four-thirty in the morning, the whole world asleep, and suddenly—KA-BOOM!—I'm in the middle of goddamn
Terminator 3
.”

Biting my lip, I gave him a hug. “Poor Benny,” I said, patting him on his back.

“I'll tell you one thing,” he said with a shake of his head. “The explosion seems to have forced my bowels into compression shock.”

“I'll get some Ex-Lax,” my mother said.

“Ex-Lax,” he said with a look of disbelief. “How 'bout a jackhammer, Sarah?” He turned toward me and checked his watch. “Meanwhile…” He wagged his finger at me. “Out all night?” he said, slipping into his Desi Arnaz impression. “Lucy, you got some essplaining to do.”

I filled them in on the evening's adventures, leaving out only my bad dream at the end. “How 'bout your guy?” I asked Benny when I was finished.

“There is no God,” he said glumly. “You end up in a strip joint surrounded by naked babes and I get to spend some quality time watching a fatso stand in front of a filing cabinet in the back office of that gallery. He stood there for close to an hour leafing through the files with one hand while using the other to deal with what appeared to be a massive UD problem.”

“What's a UD problem?” my mother asked.

“Underwear displacement,” I told her, still looking at Benny. “And then what?” I asked him.

“And then he went home.”

“Where's home?”

“Downtown. Mansion House.” The Mansion House is an apartment complex overlooking the Mississippi River. “He got there around four-thirty. Parked his car in the building garage. I hung around for another half hour and then headed back here for a run-in with Davy Crockett at the fucking Alamo.”

“What's his name?” I asked as I walked over to the telephone.

Benny shrugged. “Leo Beaumont, I assume. The place is called the Leo Beaumont Gallery. Sarah found a listing in the phone book for a Leo Beaumont at the Mansion House.”

I looked at Benny. “You and I are going to go see Mr. Leo Beaumont today.”

Benny nodded. “When?”

I lifted the receiver. “As soon as those pictures are developed.”

“Who are you calling?” my mother asked me.

“Kevin Turelli.”

“Kevin?” she said. “Why?”

“He can run a trace on the Illinois license plates.”

Kevin Turelli and I met as first-year associates at Abbott & Windsor in Chicago. In fact, we shared an office our first year—a twenty-four-year-old graduate of Harvard Law School and a forty-four-year-old ex-cop from the west side who had worked his way through night school at John Marshall Law School. We hit it off immediately, and remained good pals when, three years later, he left A&W to return to the Chicago Police Department under a fast-track arrangement. These days Kevin was a captain assigned to homicide down at 11th and State, which he called the “smart shop.” In a perfect system of government—i.e., not Chicago—he'd be police commissioner someday.

Fortunately, I caught him in the office. He told me all the family news: Kevin Jr. was graduating from college this year, his daughter was pregnant with number three, and his mother had asked him three times whether I was coming to Chicago for Memorial Day.

“Mama's planning one of her feasts,” he told me, “and she wants to know if you can come. If you're going to be in town, you'd better plan on coming if you know what's good for you.”

I was grinning. “I know what's good for me.” I was crazy about Kevin's mother, Katie Turelli (nee O'Donoghue)—a strong-willed Irish immigrant who shocked her family by marrying Mario Turelli, shocked Mario's family by wearing pants back when women didn't wear pants, and eventually won them all back over by bearing eight children named, in descending order, Vito, Patrick, Antonio, Kevin, Megan, Fiorella, Mary Pat, and Gina.

“So what do you need?” Kevin asked.

“I need you to trace an Illinois license plate for me.”

“Let me get a pencil.” There was a pause while he got it. “Okay,” he said.

I gave him the number. “Thanks, Kevin.”

“Just a minute,” he said, his voice taking on a law enforcement edge. “What's going on?”

“I'm not sure. I think the guy's dealing in stolen goods.”

“Uh-huh,” he said sternly. “And since when did you join the force?”

“Kevin, all I want to know is who he is and where he lives.”

“Rachel, Rachel,” he said with exasperation. “Okay, call me in an hour.”

I waited an hour and called him back.

“You wanna run this setup by me again?” he asked.

“There is no setup,” I told him. “Just some hunches.”

“Tell me about these hunches.”

I told him about the storage space at Mound City Mini-Storage and the apparent fencing operation I had observed.

“So who is he?” I asked.

“A real scuzzball.”

“Define ‘scuzzball.'”

“He served four years for burglary.”

“Where?”

“Missouri. Moberly. He's got a string of priors in southern Illinois as well. Mostly breaking-and-enterings, one DWI. Word is he does enforcement for a loan shark in Springfield named Zemeckis.”

“What's enforcement?”

“Collections, mostly, which includes roughing up the slow pays. Like I say, a scuzzball.”

“What's his name?”

“Ricketts. Pete Ricketts. Two t's. He lives in Belleville. His number's unlisted, and I'm not giving you his address. If it's important, you tell the homicide dick on your sister's case to call me and I'll give it to him.”

“Kevin, I—”

“Rachel,” he interrupted, “we went through something like this once before and you almost got killed. You need more, have that detective call me. Okay?”

“I'll try.”

“And promise me you won't contact this scuzzball before then.”

I gave him a weary sigh. “Okay, Kevin. Thanks.”

***

If Pete Ricketts was a scuzzball, he certainly looked the part. If Leo Beaumont was also one, he was cast against type.

When greeting a prospective customer in his art gallery, Leo Beaumont was anything but a sweaty fatso with a UD problem. No, he was a portly charmer, a perfumed rotundity. Especially when the prospective customer passing through the front door was none other than Marsha Newman, the recent divorcee back from Palm Beach with money to burn and a new home to decorate, which is how Benny had described me to Beaumont over the phone. With some help from Ann, I tried to dress the part: a gold Matka silk jacket over a navy-and-ivory batik print blouse and matching pleated skirt, a gold beaded necklace and matching drop earrings. I looked
très
elegant, dahling.

Leo Beaumont glided across the floor toward me with surprising grace. With his large bald head and tiny pink ears, he reminded me of one of the hippo ballerinas in Walt Disney's
Fantasia
. There was a red carnation pinned to the lapel of his freshly pressed cream-colored suit. He had matching diamond pinky rings and gleaming black patent-leather shoes. His nostrils seemed to twitch at the scent of a big fee.

“Ah, Miss Newman,” he purred with delight as he took my hand in one of his and covered it with the other. His hands were soft and moist. The fingers were as thick as knockwursts. “I am honored to place my modest talents at your disposal.”

I nodded and said nothing.

Beaumont turned to Benny and smiled. “And you must be this lovely lady's, uh, personal assistant?”

Benny nodded gravely. He looked more than a little sinister in his dark suit, aviator sunglasses, and slicked-back black hair. His two-day growth added the perfect final touch.

Beaumont pivoted beside me and put a hand gently on my elbow. “Let us withdraw to my office, madame, where we can discuss your decorating concepts without distraction.” He had thick lips the color and texture of raw liver.

When we reached the door to the office I turned to Benny. “Gerald, wait for me here.”

Benny nodded. “No problema, Miss Newman,” he said with an exaggerated version of his natural New Jersey accent. He would have made Central Casting proud.

Beaumont ushered me into his office, which was furnished with chrome-and-glass furniture upholstered with soft white leather. He guided me to a chair beside a coffee table. On the table were three large loose-leaf notebooks filled with 8x10 color photographs of the gallery's inventory of art. The walls of his office were hung with framed art posters, mostly from European exhibitions of contemporary artists. The one nearest me was personally autographed by the artist “to Leo B. with admiration.”

Beaumont offered mineral water, which I declined, and then he offered white wine, which I also declined. He shrugged good-naturedly. “Very well, Miss Newman. Perhaps you'll develop a thirst once we finish.” Chortling with admiration of his little
bon mot
, he pulled a chair alongside me, presumably so that we could look together at the contents of the three notebooks.

“But in order to finish,” he said, “we need to know where to begin.” Leaning back in his chair, he placed both hands on his left knee and smiled appreciatively at what he no doubt believed was a clever segue into the business at hand. He leaned toward me. “Tell me about your preferences, Miss Newman.”

I gave him an arch look. “I beg your pardon.”

That triggered another chortle. He was a mouth breather who ended each laugh with what sounded like a gasp. “In art, my dear lady. In art. Some of my clients arrive with a strong predilection, be it for a period or a particular artist. At the other end, some—most, perhaps—look to me to suggest possible additions to their collections.” He ended with a tilt of his head, an expectant look, and a gasp through his open mouth.

“I'm the former,” I said.

“Excellent, Miss Newman. Excellent. Is your preference for a period or a particular artist?”

“Neither. I'm here for a particular painting.”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants.” Another chortle, another gasp. “Which one of my works caught your fancy?”

“This one,” I said. I opened my purse, removed the photograph, and placed it on the coffee table between Beaumont and me.

Beaumont leaned over to examine it.

It was the shot I had taken of him inside the gallery as he lifted the corner of the sheet to peek at the painting underneath. Pete Ricketts was holding the painting, and his face was visible in the shot.

Beaumont's breath rasped in his throat as he slowly straightened in his seat. He was still staring at the photograph, reluctant to look at me.

I reached into my purse and removed a second photograph. “Or this one,” I said as I placed it alongside the first. In this shot Ricketts was removing a shrouded painting from the back of his van. As a result of the foreshortened perspective caused by the telephoto lens, Ricketts was in focus in the lower left quadrant of the photograph while the gallery sign— LEO BEAUMONT GALLERY —and Beaumont himself, standing in the doorway beneath the sign, were clearly visible in the upper half.

Beaumont's eyes darted back and forth from one photograph to the other. Beads of sweat had formed on his upper lip and on his forehead. His breathing seemed to rattle. He still hadn't looked at me.

“You have a problem, Leo,” I said in a firm but patient tone. “A big one.”

He removed the neatly folded silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to mop his forehead. He stared down at his knees.

“I also have a problem, Leo. A little one.”

He continued to stare at his knees.