Paul Levine - False Dawn

“What art?”

“C’mon, Abe, don’t pee on my leg. Granny was fishing off the rocks at South Pointe day before yesterday. She told me the place was crawling with federal marshals, and a barge was in place, dredging the spot where the freighter blew up.”

“All true.”

“So what’d you find? Did anything survive?”

“Sure.” He allowed himself a snicker. “A couple tons of rocks.”

I propped myself onto one elbow and leaned toward him. There’d been a ringing in my ears and I wasn’t sure I’d heard him.

Socolow pulled a cigarette out of a pack, watched me scowl, and slipped it, unlit, into his mouth. “What was supposed to be the coins turned out to be rocks. Like in your head, Jake. The statues, slabs of concrete. Paintings, just newspapers stuffed into wooden crates.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Outside my window, old mimus polyglottos, the mockingbird, was chirping his song. In my bedroom, Abe Socolow was pacing and berating me. “You’re an okay guy, but a half-assed lawyer, Jake. Where was your due diligence? You never inspected the goods. How’s your malpractice coverage, anyway? If I was in charge, I’d have the government sue you for the two hundred million that’s in Fidel’s bank account.”

Suddenly, there wasn’t anything wrong with my hearing. “You’ve got it backwards, Abe. I didn’t represent the government. I represented Foley. Your guy was Soto. If he hadn’t been so wound up in his revolutionary rhetoric, maybe he would have taken inventory. The last time I saw the art, it was in a convoy of trailer-trucks headed east on the Airport Expressway.”

“Right. Foley went straight to the port, where he intended to put everything on a ship to Cuba. Unfortunately for him, Nikolai Smorodinsky and some pals from the Russian Agency for Federal Security were waiting. They’re all ex-KGB agents still trying to atone for Krvuchkov taking part in the coup. They relieved Foley of the contents of the trailer-trucks, which by now ought to be under lock and key in St. Petersburg.”

“Then you knew all along that Foley didn’t have the art.”

“No way.” Socolow pulled out a pack of matches and lit his cigarette. “The Russian government didn’t want to admit that things were so far out of control, so they never told Washington that Kharchenko had gotten out with the biggest load of treasure anyone had ever seen. Of course, we knew it from our sources in Finland and from tapping Yagamata’s phone here. But in the eyes of Yeltsin’s people, the art was never officially stolen, so it was never returned. They simply clammed up and didn’t tell us a thing. Hey, regardless of the form of government, the Russians are still a secretive bunch who hate to be embarrassed.”

“Foley,” I said. “What about Foley?”

Socolow paused long enough to blow smoke in my direction. “Picture him, Lassiter. For an hour or so, he was the richest man in the world. Then he’s left holding nothing but his dick. On one hand, he’s lucky to be alive. The Russians could have killed him. But he looks at it differently. He’s going crazy, figuring how close he came. He has a freighter at the port, but no cargo, at least not until he gets a bright idea.”

I shook the cobwebs out of my head. “He pulls a scam. Even if he doesn’t have the art, he can pretend he does. He loads the freighter with rocks and newspapers and heads to Havana.’’

“Right. Foley tried using his contacts with Cuban intelligence to worm his way onto the island, but they thought he was full of shit, a guy saying he had billions of dollars of art on a Polish freighter that could barely float. So they call their most valuable double agent, one Severo Soto, who confirms Foley’s story because the CIA tells him it’s true. The CIA, of course, was relying on information provided by one Jake Lassiter, who reported that Foley had the art on trucks leaving the warehouse. When Foley turned up in Havana, everybody just assumed he had it, can you fucking believe it?”

The mockingbird was growing louder. Its tune reminded me of a piano concerto. Tchaikovsky maybe. “Of course,” Socolow continued, “by this time, Soto had his own plans.”

“A revolutionary statement,” I said, “a funeral pyre of capitalist treasure.”

“Yeah, turns out he blew himself up on a garbage scow.”

“So, the Russians get their art back, and except for giving two hundred million in foreign aid to the bearded dictator, the mission was accomplished.”

We both thought about it a moment. “What about Foley?” I asked.

Socolow looked for an ashtray and couldn’t find one. He tapped his cigarette into the neck of an empty Grolsch bottle. “Yeah. The last we heard, that shithead was swinging a machete in one of Fidel’s cane fields. As you can imagine, the boys at Langley didn’t shed any tears. Hey, we even recovered a load of stuff from Yagamata’s house. All of it in perfect shape except for some fancy egg that was supposed to have a train inside.”

“Faberge’s Trans-Siberia Railway Egg.”

“Right. You know about it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said, with less than complete candor.

“The egg was in Yagamata’s gallery, but the insides were missing, and so was Yagamata. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

When given a choice, I prefer not to lie. Sometimes I stall. “About what?”

“About the train…”

Sometimes I evade. “What would I know?”

“… and Yagamata.”

And sometimes I just tell the literal truth. “His love for the art was obsessive. I always thought he might lose his head over it.”

Socolow scowled, told me he had work to do, and left.

I swung my stiff legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit up straight, fighting off the dizziness. I reached under my mattress and pulled it out, a shiny twenty-four-carat gold choo-choo train. There was an engine, a tender, and five coaches. Each car was connected to the next by a tiny gold hinge, and they folded together like a penknife. A pretty piece, all right. It took a brilliant artist to conceive it, great craftsmen to execute the handiwork. It was one of a kind, and probably could not be duplicated today. But I couldn’t imagine killing for it, and I wouldn’t want to die for it. Enough people already had.

T wo weeks later, Charlie Riggs said I’d been an invalid too long. He wanted to get me out on the water. I said no thanks.

He tried to entice me with an invitation to chase bonefish in the flats off Key Largo. I declined because of the lobster mobsters. For two days each summer, just before the commercial season begins for the spiny lobster, every jerk with an outboard motor gets to trample the coral and shoot spears at all living creatures in our shallow waters. Not that it’s legal to spear, hook, or trap the little crustaceans. You’re supposed to catch them by hand or hand-held net. You’re not supposed to take egg-bearing females and undersized lobsters of either sex. But these bozos don’t care, and I wasn’t about to get speared, shot, or just plain annoyed while fishing.

So why did I let Charlie talk me into a ride on his old Boston Whaler?

To talk.

We said to heck with the flats and headed into the ocean in fourteen hundred feet of water, seeking a measure of solitude. Charlie had the binoculars out looking for osprey and frigate birds feeding on small fish at the surface. In the food chain hereabouts, the dolphin-the bluish gold fish, not Flipper the marine mammal-chase tiny fish to the surface where the birds eat them.

We follow the birds and find the dolphin, which, with any luck, will be in Granny Lassiter’s frying pan by sundown.

I used a light spinning rod baited with a yellow feather and came up with some seaweed. Charlie used mullet and got a strike from a five-pound dolphin. It jumped, fought, ran, fought some more, skipped along the surface, then gave up. Charlie hauled it in, wriggling, and tossed it into the cooler. “ Coryphaena hippurus, a magnificent animal. Fast and full of fight.”