Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

“And you heard about the van Gogh?”

“Everybody in town heard about the van Gogh a year and a half ago. Lately, things went quiet, then this guy Sam Spain, up in Harlem, says he’s got his hands on it.”

“Yeah, we know about Sam Spain. We want to know about you and Eisl.”

“Well, Eisl makes an appointment with Spain, and he sends his guy over with a picture in a garbage bag.”

“This would be Sol Fineman?”

“Listen, if you know all this, why do I have to tell you?”

“Go on with your story.”

“Okay, we look at it, we compare it to the notice on the Internet that went out when it was stolen from this guy Tillman. I ask Eisl if it’s the real thing.”

“And you have faith in his opinion?”

“André is a third- or fourth-generation art dealer,” Maggio said. “His grandfather, I think, started in Vienna, then Hitler comes along and his father beats it out of Europe with a shipment of art and makes his way to New York.”

“How does one get from Vienna to New York with a shipment of art in, what, 1938?”

“He chartered an airplane and flew to Lisbon, then to the Azores, then to Newfoundland, then to New York. He had Swiss francs and gold, and he spread it around on his long flight.”

“So you took Eisl’s word for the authenticity of the picture?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, I did. André said he could turn it in twenty-four hours for twenty mil.”

“And?”

“And I made a phone call,” Maggio said. “The money was there in an hour.”

“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “let’s get to the point. Where’s the picture now?”

Maggio heaved a large sigh. “In the trunk of my car.”

Stone jabbed Maggio in the ribs. “The car that was towed?”

“That’s the one,” Maggio replied.

“How did it get in the trunk of your car?”

“I gave Sol Fineman a suitcase with five mil in it, then I put the picture back in the laundry bag and put it in the trunk of my car. André Eisl didn’t want it in the gallery, and I didn’t want it in my office. The trunk seemed a safe enough place.”

“And now it’s in the police garage,” Masi said. “I’d say the trunk is safe enough there.”

“Fred,” Stone asked, “do you know where the police garage is?”

“Ah, er, yessir,” Fred said hesitantly.

“And how do you happen to have that information?”

“Well, Mr. Barrington, I had occasion to visit that place — once before.”

“What occasion was that?”

“The occasion when this car was towed. I’m terribly sorry, sir, I just ran into a deli to get a sandwich, and when I came out it was gone.”

“And when was this?”

“About a month ago.”

“That was when I couldn’t find you for a couple of hours, wasn’t it?”

“It could very well have been, sir.”

“All right, forget it, Fred, just take us to the garage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone leaned back in the seat. “What kind of car is it, Rocco?”

“It’s a Maybach,” Rocco replied. He pronounced it “My-bach.”

“What is that?” Masi asked.

“It’s a sort of super-Mercedes,” Stone replied. “They made it for only a few years. At around three hundred and fifty thousand, they weren’t selling enough, so they stopped making them. I believe they’re doing very well in the used market.”

“Business has been good, huh, Rocco?” Masi said.

“Good enough. I got a good deal, it was a repo.”

“Let me guess,” Stone said. “You gave somebody a very big car loan, and he fell behind on the payments?”

“Something like that,” Rocco said.

“Art,” Stone said, “call the garage and have them root out the Maybach and have it ready when we get there.”

Masi got on the phone, then hung up. “It just arrived. They haven’t even put it in the garage yet. They said there had been some damage.”

“Damage?” Rocco spat. “Those bastards damaged my Maybach?”

“They didn’t damage it, Rocco, it arrived that way. They make a note of any damage every time a car comes in.”

“I’ll bet the sonsofbitches did it on purpose,” Rocco said. “Some people are just envious.”

“Oh, stop your whining,” Stone said. “You’re going to get it back, aren’t you?”

“And then you’re going to let me go to my kid’s soccer match?”

“After we see the painting, Rocco. Not until then.”

They arrived at the police garage, and there the Maybach was, staring them in the face with its big eyes.

“Thank God,” Rocco said, getting out of the car. “Will you take these cuffs off so I can pay the guy?”

Stone uncuffed him, and Rocco started toward the car.

“Hey!” the cop in charge yelled. “Don’t you touch that car until you’ve paid the tow bill and the ticket.”

Rocco reached in his coat pocket for his checkbook. “Sure, how much?”

The cop stared at the sheet on his clipboard. “Seven hundred and eighty dollars,” he replied.

“Seven hundred and eighty dollars? Are you kidding me?”

“Ticket is five hundred, plus the tow.”

Rocco swore under his breath. “Who do I make the check to?”

“No checks,” the cop replied.

Rocco swore again and produced a black American Express card from his wallet.

“We don’t take American Express,” the cop said. “Visa, MasterCard, or Discover.”

“This is the only credit card I use,” Rocco said, shaking it in the cop’s face.

“Like I give a shit,” the cop said. “So you’ll have to pay cash.”

Rocco put away his wallet and dug into a pocket. He counted bills. “I’ve only got six hundred and ten dollars,” he said.

“We’ll try and be patient while you go and get the cash,” the cop said.

Rocco dug into his pocket and came up with an iPhone, then pressed a button. “You got any cash in the till? Bring me three hundred.” He gave the address.

“Okay, now,” Stone said to the cop, “we need to look in the car. It’s a stolen-property thing.”

“Knock yourself out,” the cop said.

“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “unlock the trunk.”

Rocco got out his keys, and the three of them walked around the car and looked at the trunk. There was a hole the size of a half-dollar in the lid. Masi stuck a finger in the hole and opened the trunk. It was empty.

“I’ve been robbed!” Rocco yelled. “The picture was in the trunk!” He fingered the hole. “They’ve fucked up my Maybach!”

“Okay,” Masi said, “let’s get you booked.” He produced the handcuffs.

“Now, wait a minute, guys,” Rocco said. “I’ve cooperated, I’ve told you everything you wanted to know.”

“Not yet, Rocco,” Masi said. “Tell us who stole it.”

“How should I know?”

Masi reached for a wrist.

“Hang on a minute, Art,” Stone said. “Rocco, who knew the picture was in the trunk of your car?”

Rocco looked thoughtful. “Well, André Eisl saw me put it in there, so did Sol Fineman.”

“Anyone else know about it?”

Rocco thought about it. “No one else.”

“That kind of narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Stone said.

“Maybe it was just some junkie, looking for stuff to steal,” Masi replied.

“They didn’t break into the car,” Stone pointed out. “Just the trunk.”

“Then the guy we want is Sol Fineman,” Masi said.

“Yes,” Stone agreed, “and every cop in town has been looking for him since he disappeared from his apartment, with no results, not a trace.”

“Oh, shit,” Art said.

“He’s in the wind,” Stone replied.

“Well, gee, fellows, I’m awful sorry about that. The painting getting stolen wasn’t part of our deal, though. Can I go to my kid’s soccer game?”