Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

He and Art got out of the Bentley and walked into the warehouse. A man sat in a glass booth, reading a Racing Form . Stone tapped on the glass. “Rocco Maggio, please?”

The man looked them up and down. “What’s your business?”

“The kind you’d rather not know about,” Stone replied.

The man picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Maggio? Two gents down here to see you.” He covered the phone. “What’s your names?”

“Mr. Barrington and Mr. Masi.”

He relayed that information and listened, then hung up. “Third floor. Elevator’s over there. His office is at the rear of the building.”

It was a freight elevator, but it beat climbing stairs. They got off and started walking toward the end of the building; there were stairs up half a floor, and a man stood at a window, watching them come.

Stone rapped at the door, then let Masi precede him.

“Rocco Maggio?” Masi asked.

Maggio pointed at a nameplate on his desk. “Who else?”

“Mr. Maggio,” Masi said, flashing his badge and tossing the warrant onto his desk, “you’re under arrest for the non-payment of a hundred and twenty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty dollars in unpaid parking tickets.” He walked around the desk and produced handcuffs. “Stand up.”

Maggio gaped at him. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I said stand up. You want me to help you?”

Maggio stood up. “Listen, gentlemen, this is unnecessary. I’ll write you a check right now.” He reached for a desk drawer, but Masi clapped a cuff on that hand, spun him around, and cuffed the other hand, then he frisked the man thoroughly and came up with a small 9mm pistol.

“I’ve got a permit for that,” Maggio said. “It’s in my wallet. You can get it out for me, inside jacket pocket, left.”

“Are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Maggio?”

“No, no, listen, we don’t have to go through all this.”

“Let’s go,” Masi said. He marched the man to the elevator, then they rode down to street level, with Maggio protesting all the way.

Outside, Stone said, “Would you prefer the Ford or the Bentley?”

“Are you kidding me?” Maggio asked. He looked around. “Hey, my car is gone — it’s been stolen!”

“I would imagine,” Stone said, “that given your history as a scofflaw, the NYPD finally got around to towing it.”

“Oh, shit!” Maggio yelled as he got into the Bentley.

Stone put him in the rear seat, then got in beside him. “I thought we’d have a little chat on the way downtown,” he said.

“About what?” Maggio asked.

“Art,” Stone replied.

Fred headed them downtown. Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Finally, Rocco Maggio did. “This can’t be about parking tickets,” he said. “I’ve gotta get my car back. Can we run by the towing place so I can do that now?”

“That’s not the procedure,” Masi said. “Your car is safe. You can get it out when you’re out. It will still be there.”

“C’mon, guys, how can I fix this? My kid’s got a soccer game in Jersey later, and if I miss another one my wife will kill me, then divorce me.”

“In that order?” Stone asked.

“Are you married?” Maggio demanded.

“No.”

“Then you wouldn’t have a clue what I’m up against here. Can’t you empathize, just a little bit?”

“I don’t remember them covering empathy at the academy, do you, Art?”

“Nope.”

“Look,” Maggio said, pleading in his voice, “I’m not trying to bribe anybody, I’m just asking, sincerely, what can I do to fix this?”

“Well, paying your parking tickets is a start,” Stone said.

“I’ve got a checkbook in my pocket,” Maggio replied.

“But that alone won’t do it.”

“What else, then?”

Stone and Masi exchanged a glance. “You could return some stolen goods,” Masi said.

Maggio’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of goods?”

“I don’t know,” Masi said, “what kind of stolen goods have you handled lately?”

“C’mon, give me a hint. I’ll help if I can.”

“Oh, you can,” Stone said. “Here’s a hint — it’s a painting by a famous artist, but with a dicey provenance.”

Masi looked out the window but said nothing.

“Doesn’t that sound just a little bit familiar?” Stone asked.

Still nothing.

“Okay, try this — you loaned André Eisl the money to buy it.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Maggio said.

“You’re not trying hard enough, Rocco,” Masi said.

“I don’t know how I can help you. Anything else?”

“Well, a few days at Rikers Island while we sort out the tickets might improve your memory.”

“That would make you a no-show at your son’s soccer match,” Stone chimed in. “Maybe several matches.”

Maggio flinched, as if something had bitten him. “You want me to incriminate myself.”

“Well, Rocco,” Masi said, “give us what we want, and maybe you’ll make the soccer match, and maybe you’ll walk — if you give us all the information we need.”

“This is screwy,” Maggio said. “You walk into my place of business wearing really expensive suits, and tell me you’re cops.”

“I showed you my badge,” Masi said.

“How about him?” Maggio asked, jerking his head toward Stone.

Stone produced his own badge.

“And you’re riding around in a Bentley?”

“The department doesn’t own that,” Stone said.

“I’m in the shipping business, not the art business.”

“Describe your relationship to André Eisl,” Stone said.

“He’s an old friend. I help him out once in a while.”

“Help him out at, say, ten points a week?” Masi asked.

Maggio shrugged. “I do what I can to help my friends.”

“You’re a prince of a guy, Rocco,” Stone said.

“Yeah,” Masi chimed in, “and listen to this. We’re going to find that picture, one way or another, with your help or without it. If we find it without your help, we’re going to nail you for fencing it and transporting it, and you’re going to miss all your son’s soccer matches until he’s in his forties.”

“On the other hand...” Stone said, letting Maggio finish the sentence in his head.

“I’ll walk? If I tell you where the picture is, you’ll guarantee it?”

“We’ve made our best offer, Rocco,” Masi said. “You can pick it up or just let it lie there.”

“It’s not as simple as that — it’s complicated.”

“Explain it to us,” Stone said. “We’ll do our best to follow.”

“If I give up the picture, two people are going to die.”

“Which two?” Stone asked.

“Eisl and me.”

“Tell us why, Rocco.”

“Eisl, because he can’t pay back the money I loaned him. Me, because I loaned it to him.”

“So you’re telling us that there are people above you who control all your actions?” Masi asked.

“Not all my actions, but I hardly ever have five million lying around the office.”

“Okay,” Masi said, “let’s start with whose safe the money came from.”

“Come on, if I wander that far astray my family dies, too.”

“Okay, we’ll leave out that part of the story,” Masi said. “Let’s start with Eisl’s first phone call to you about the picture.”

Maggio sighed. “Okay, he calls me and says he can lay his hands on an honest-to-God van Gogh for five mil.”

“And you bought that, sight unseen?”

“Not exactly. I got a good look at it. This guy brought it to the gallery.”

“Are you an art expert, with a specialty in van Goghs?” Stone asked.

“No, but I’ve got my ear to the ground. If something big turns up stolen, I’ll hear about it. Sometimes.”