William Lashner - Marked Man

I glanced at Ellie, who was fighting to keep the smile off her face.

“I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Are you press?”

“Oh dear, no. Do I look reptilian to you? And if you see me in brown corduroy, please shoot me. This won’t take but a moment, and I can assure you that our meeting will be very much worth your while. Oh so very, very much.”

“You think?”

“Most assuredly.”

I stared at him for a moment, tried to figure out what he was all about and failed. I turned to Rhonda Harris, who, surprisingly, wasn’t smiling. I suppose some people just have no sense of humor about their profession.

“Thank you for coming, Rhonda,” I said. “I hope we meet again sometime.”

“Count on it, Victor,” she said.

As Rhonda Harris passed the little man, she stared down at him and he stared back and I felt something spark between them, like the tension between two dogs circling a dead squirrel. I almost thought I heard a guttural growl. Then Rhonda was off, heading for the door, and both the man and I stared at her as she walked away. Her skirt was as tight as her sweater, and her pumps were sturdy.

“Do you know her?” I asked the little man as she swung open the door and disappeared.

“Never saw her before in my life.”

“You seemed to know her.”

“I know the type.”

“And what type is that?”

“Cold-blooded killer.”

I turned my head to stare once more at the man, then I checked my watch. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have much-”

“Just a pinch of time is all I need,” he said, his voice flying high like a startled sparrow at the last word, “just the tiniest pinch.”

“What exactly is this about?”

“Oh, let’s just say I’m here to discuss the fine arts, one patron to another.”

“I’m not really a patron of the arts.”

“Oh, Mr. Carl, Mr. Carl. Don’t slight yourself.”

I thought about it for a bit. “All right, Mr…”

“Hill,” he said. “Lavender Hill.”

“Of course it is. Why don’t we go to my office?”

“Splendid,” he said. “Simply splendid.”

I gestured him down the hall and watched as he minced his way toward my office door. His walk wasn’t so different from Rhonda’s. I leaned over to Ellie.

“Any idea who he is?” I whispered.

“Not a pinch,” she said.

“He give you a card?”

She took a card off her desk, passed it under her nose, and then handed it to me. It smelled as if he had dipped it in his perfume. I gave it a quick read. His name in a florid script, a phone number with an area code I didn’t recognize, and the words “Procurer of the Sublime.”

“What’s a ‘Procurer of the Sublime’?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Carl,” said Ellie. “Do you need me to stick around?”

“No, you can knock off for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. But can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Can you find out what scent he uses?” she said. “Whatever it is, I like his better than mine.”

“Such a charming office,Mr. Carl,” mewed Lavender Hill as he settled into the chair across from my desk.

Not a promising start to our interview: one sentence, one lie. My office was officially a dump, scuffed walls, dented brown filing cabinet, a desk covered with useless papers that should have been tossed out weeks ago. It was utilitarian, maybe, it had an unsentimental personality, maybe, it suited me like a cheap, ill-fitting suit, maybe, but it was not charming.

“Thank you,” I said. “I try.”

His brown eyes filled with amusement at my counterlie. My God, they almost sparkled. He was quite a sight, I had to admit, with his legs daintily crossed, his paisley silk scarf around his neck, his black hair parted to the right and cut round, as if it had been styled in 1978. And he had the face of a jockey, anorexic, sharp, and corrupt. Lavender Hill.

“You are such a dear to see me on short notice,” he said. “Normally I wouldn’t barge in like a barbarian, but I felt our conversation just couldn’t wait for the usual pleasantries. I’m sure the subject will be close to your heart.”

“What exactly is the subject?”

“Art.”

“So we’re going to discuss aesthetics, is that it?”

“And money,” he said as one small hand fussed with a purple lapel.

“Yes, now I see, Mr. Hill.”

“Oh, call me Lav, everyone does. Do you know the Spencers of Society Hill? Simply the best people. They’ve called me Lav for years.”

“No, I don’t know the Spencers. We probably run in different circles.”

“Oh, I suppose so, yes. They are horse people.”

“The things they do with genes nowadays.”

“One look at her, Victor, and you wouldn’t doubt it. I can call you Victor, can’t I?”

“You can call me anything you want, Lav, when we’re talking about money.”

“Oh, very good. You have a pleasing sort of directness I find quite… exhilarating. So let’s get down to it, shall we? You have a client, Charles Kalakos.”

“That’s right.”

“And he has access to a certain painting, from what I’ve been told.”

“That seems to be the word on the street. What about it?”

“I represent, Victor, a collector, a man with impeccable tastes and a private collection of the most exquisite objets d’art.”

“Objets d’art?”

“Oh, you’re right. Good for you, Victor. Why put on all kinds of pretensions and airs when we’re talking about stuff? He collects stuff, quite valuable stuff, but stuff all the same. What you buy when you already have everything. Still, his hunger for collecting can be quite lucrative for those of us in the position to feed it. Which is where we both now find ourselves.”

“He wants the painting.”

“Of course he does, you clever boy. A Rembrandt self-portrait would mark the pinnacle of his efforts. He is quite adamant about adding it to his collection.”

“I’m sorry, Lav, but selling a stolen painting would be illegal. I couldn’t possibly be part of such a transaction.”

“Oh, Victor, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. You are a lawyer, bound by the boundless morality of your profession. Of course your selling the painting would be wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet” – a sly smile – “you are bargaining for the painting right now in a very public way, are you not? Trying to use it to get the best deal for your client.”

“It’s very different.”

“Is it so different? Maybe the best deal for your client is not to turn himself into a gymnast for the prosecutors or return to Philadelphia and put his life at the mercy of his former gangland companions.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Oh, Victor, you are a charmer, aren’t you? Maybe the best deal for your client is something else. A new home, a new identity, a new fat bank account to keep him smelling clover for the rest of his days. These things could be arranged.”

“In return for the painting.”

“I must say, Victor, all the negative things I’ve heard about your intellect have been completely overstated. You are quite sharp for a lawyer. I approve. And rest assured those of us in the middle would be amply rewarded. You might even be able to afford a can of paint for your office. Ralph Lauren has some marvelous colors that would do wonders. Maybe a teal.”

“You don’t like beige?”

“The color of cheap coffins. So there we have it, Victor. The offer has been made. Your interest is apparent. All that is left is the details.”

“Like how much money we’re talking about.”

“Yes, for one.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Are we negotiating now?”