Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Then he packed.

Conner was disappointed to find all the clothes he wanted to keep fit into one large tote bag. A baseball glove, the remaining Macanudo cigars, various personal items, and the Webley revolver filled another small backpack. While searching the dark depths of the closet, he found a box of.45 bullets and the metal rings that would allow them to fit into the ancient gun.

He stood in the middle of the apartment, spun a slow, full circle, taking in everything, the shabby furniture, dull walls, light fixtures filled with dead mosquitoes. How alarmingly easy to abandon this old life, leave everything in dust and ruin and the lingering stink of vomit. It was so easy, Conner wondered why he hadn’t done it before.

He picked the tuxedo off the floor, went through the pockets. He found Randy Frankowski’s Planet X business card, put it in his pocket, and dropped the tux back onto the floor. He went into the kitchen and fetched Joellen Becker’s business card from the kitchen table.

Then he turned on the cell phone Rocky Big had given him, dialed the number. “Hello, Rocky? I’m coming to see you. I’m ready to settle up.”

Pete met Conner at the door to Playerz, escorted him past what looked to Conner like the same regulars watching the same dancers do the same things, like robots in an X-rated Epcot exhibition. Pete didn’t say much, but his little rat eyes were always moving.

Conner carried the Jasper Dybek paintings under his arms.

Pete took Conner to Rocky’s office door and left him. Conner knocked with the toe of his shoe. His arms were full of abstraction.

“Come in.”

Conner juggled the paintings until he could get a hand on the knob, turned it, went inside. “Hello, Rocky.”

Rocky squinted at Conner, looked at the paintings, raised a curious eyebrow. “Well, what’s this then?”

“An offer.”

Rocky motioned Conner to the empty seat across from him. Conner sat, leaned the paintings against Rocky’s desk. He was a little nervous about this, didn’t quite know if Rocky would go for it.

Today, Rocky wore a dark gray suit, obscenely bright floral tie. He spread his hands, indicated Conner should look at the item on his desk. “I’m trying to figure this thing out.”

Conner looked.

A plastic fish on a wooden plaque. Rocky snapped his fingers near the fish’s head. The fish sprang to life, body twisting, mouth opening and closing to the mechanical sounds of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” It sang a few lines, then went still again.

“What exactly do people do with these?” Rocky asked.

“You’ve never seen those?” Conner said. “It’s a singing bass, a very annoying novelty that was a trend about a million years ago.”

Rocky sighed. “And we have an entire truckload.” Rocky tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed in a pile of junk behind him. “So, let’s hear your offer.”

Conner put the paintings on his desk. “These are worth a lot more than two thousand.”

“What are they?”

“Paintings.”

“I can see that,” Rocky said. “Specifics.”

“By a guy named Jasper Dybek. He’s getting famous. His last painting went for nearly twenty thousand dollars.”

Rocky looked embarrassed. “I don’t usually take items in barter.”

“There’s like sixty grand worth of art here.”

Rocky considered, picked up the phone. “Julie? Get me Burt Rosenthal at Sotheby’s. Yes, I’ll wait.” He put his hand over the phone. “Only because Otis vouches for you. I really am becoming a ridiculous softy. Sometimes I think- Hello, Burt? Yes, it’s Rocky. How’s your boy? He still at New Haven? That’s grand, really. Super. Listen, I’m calling about the usual. You know what I mean. Uh-huh. I know it takes time. No problem. Three abstracts by an artist named-” Rocky looked at Conner, raised an eyebrow.

“Jasper Dybek.”

“-Jasper Dybek,” Rocky said into the phone. “Yes, it does look like some sloppy work. I’ve never been a fan of abstract myself. Can we move them? Uh-huh. Right. No, that’s good for now. Call me later with the details. Thanks, Burt.” He hung up.

Rocky sighed. “Okay, I’ll take them.”

Conner clapped his hands. “Thanks, Rocky. You won’t regret it. What’s my cut?”

“Your cut of what?”

“That’s sixty thousand dollars worth of art!” Conner’s voice had leapt up an octave.

“We’re square.” Rocky’s voice was flat, a warning tone.

“But-”

“Conner, these are original paintings, not DVD players. You can’t put them through a legit auction. That means we have to find a private collector or somebody in Europe or somewhere to buy them. Burt will take a cut, and the fellow down the line will take a cut, and maybe they won’t sell for a year or two or maybe never. I’ll probably lose money on the whole deal. Do you understand?”

Conner nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Rocky.”

“Don’t pout,” Rocky said.

At least Conner’s slate was clean, and right now that was no small thing.

Conner Samson walked out of Playerz, climbed behind the wheel of the Plymouth Fury, and put plan B into motion.

Planet X was a small shop in a plaza on the navy base side of town, wedged in between a pizza joint and a computer store. Conner walked in with the binder full of baseball cards.

The owner of Planet X had gone all the way. Models of spaceships and dragons hung from the ceiling on fishing line. Life-size cardboard cutouts of Batman, Green Lantern, Spider-Man, and the Punisher. Movie posters on the walls, Star Wars, Blade Runner, and others. Conner moved around a big display of Dungeons & Dragons accessories to look at a display inside a glass dome. It was a model of a castle under siege, lead figurines with swords and spears assaulting the defenders along the castle walls. The figurines had been painted with excruciating detail. Even dabs of red blood on the tips of the spears.

Somebody had a lot of time on his hands.

Conner bypassed several shelves of sci-fi and fantasy novels, Star Trek toys, and found what he was looking for. A long glass case filled with baseball cards. They ranged in price from $1.50 to $125.00. Conner put the binder on the counter, flipped through it, and wondered what he could get for them.

“Conner?”

Conner turned. “Hi, Randy.”

Randy Frankowski looked just as awkward in denim shorts and a Wookie Anti-Defamation League T-shirt as he did in a tuxedo, but the kid seemed happy and comfortable, in his element with the Star Trek collectibles and comic books and sci-fi stuff all around.

“Did you hear about the Dybeks?” Randy said. “Somebody stole them. Can you believe it? Right in the middle of the reception. Professor Dan was livid.”

“Wow. Do they know who did it?”

Randy shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. The cops crawled all over the place looking for clues or whatever, but last I heard they were stumped.”

Good.

“I really didn’t expect you to come in here,” Randy said. “You didn’t seem like a comic-book sort of guy. Unless you want to start reading The Incredible Hulk again. We have the latest issue.”

“Do you guys buy baseball cards?” Conner asked.

Randy pointed to a poster on the wall. It depicted a triple-breasted, green woman riding a unicorn and wielding a flaming whip. “That’s one of mine over there. I drew it and went to this place and had a hundred posters run off. We sell them here in the store, and I’ve sold like eight or nine already. That’s pretty cool, huh?”

“Focus, Randy. I asked about baseball cards.”

Randy looked at the binder, nodded. “Ah. You want to unload the collection, huh?”

“I could use some cash.”

“The boss set up two standard methods,” Randy said. “First, we can sell them on consignment. We’ll put them on display with whatever price you want, and when they sell, Planet X gets 15 percent. You get more money that way, but it’s a slow sort of system.” He pointed at a card in the case. “That Wade Boggs has been in the case a year. I could have sold it ten times, but the owner won’t come down on the price.”