William Lashner - Marked Man

“No. I can’t be part of the selling of stolen art.”

“As I suspected you would say. But why talk money if we’re not negotiating? This was only a preliminary meeting. Let me tell you how I believe things might proceed from here. You will tell your client about this meeting, keeping him informed of all developments in his case, as you are required by the bar association. He’ll be interested, because he is a man with a healthy lust for money. You will give him my phone number. He will call. I will mention amounts in the six figures. And if there is a deal, we will take care of the transaction without your input. You, however, will still receive a healthy commission of, say, fifteen percent. It is so simple, really.”

“I can’t accept a commission.”

“Of course not, that would be improper. But a retainer, from a new client, for a case that might never come to trial, maybe renewed for a couple of years, a substantial retainer, that you could accept. All the best law firms do. You have my card?”

“Yes, I have your card.”

“Splendid. So our work here is done.”

“Not quite, Lav. Before I do anything, I’ll need to know who you represent.”

“I represent a man with money who lives far away. You need know nothing more. An art collection of his sort, where provenance is not a concern, can be maintained only in absolute secrecy.”

“Everything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

“Your confidence doesn’t impress him. All negotiations will go through me.”

“I need a name.”

“You need nothing of the sort,” he said, the sparkle in his eye replaced with a flash of anger. “You have a job to do and you will do it and you will be paid for it. That is all that must concern you. And I have every faith that you will make the call.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you are not representing Charles Kalakos only as a lawyer. He is a friend of the family. There is history that must be honored. You owe him the opportunity.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Ask your father.”

“My father?”

“This has been so pleasant,” said Lavender Hill as he stood from the chair. “We should do this again. Maybe over a cocktail. I do adore a stiff cocktail.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I can see myself out, Victor. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Just as he stepped out my door, I said, “Six figures won’t be enough.”

He stopped, swiveled his hips to face me, put an expression of amusement on his face. “Are we negotiating now?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t negotiate such a deal. But, knowing the value of the painting, I couldn’t advise my client to take anything less than seven.”

“So we’ve both done our research. Very, very good. I’ll discuss it with my client.”

“And lawyers generally get a third.”

“Yes, and auctioneers generally only get a tenth. Somewhere in the middle seems more than fair. But this is all so promising. I’ve made an offer, you’ve made a counteroffer, we’re haggling over percentages. I know you can’t be part of this, Victor, but already it feels like a negotiation to me. Ciao, dear one. I’ll be waiting for a call. But don’t keep me waiting long.”

When he vanished from the doorway, I was left with his lingering scent and the throb of my pulse that always accompanies the flash of big money. He hadn’t even blinked when I told him six figures wasn’t enough. Hadn’t even blinked.

I sat at my desk, rubbing my hands together and thinking it through. To sell the painting would be illegal, and a lawyer really can’t be involved in anything illegal. Really. And yet Lav might have been right when he said his offer would be the best for Charlie and maybe for Charlie’s mother, too. I could imagine the tearful reunion on a lovely cay off the coast of Venezuela, mother and son, together again, under a bright Caribbean sky. And passing on a mere phone number surely wouldn’t violate any of my legal oaths. Surely. And what about the law of either/or? If I wasn’t going to be able to bank the retainer, I should at least get something out of this whole mess, don’t you think? Either/or.

This favor for my father was getting more interesting by the moment, and more troubling, too. Who did this Lavender Hill represent, and how did he know so much about Charlie Kalakos and his situation? And what the hell did my father have to do with any of it? I needed some answers, and I knew who could get them for me. So I made a call and set up a meeting with Phil Skink, my private investigator, for the very next morning and then walked out of my office.

Beth was gone, Ellie was gone, the place was sadly deserted as dusk crept in. I was already dog tired, but I had no great desire to head to my ruined home. A drink, I decided, would be the perfect thing. Only one, maybe two, nothing much, just enough. And off I went, toward Chaucer’s, my usual tavern, and toward what must have been a hell of a night, if only I could remember it.

“You look like abeaten dog,” said Phil Skink, staring down on me as I lay on the old leather couch in his dusty outer office.

“I feel worse,” I said.

“Impossible, mate. If you felt worse than you look, you’d be dead. I’ve eaten mutton what looked more alive than you. What the devil were you up to last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sounds like trouble, it does. A dame involved?”

“I think.”

“Sounds like more than trouble. Next time you give me a call before it gets out of hand.”

“And you’ll pull me out?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Skink. “I’ll be joining in. No reason you should be having all the fun.”

Go to your butcher, ask for all the gristle and bone he can scrape off his floor. Pile it onto a roasting pan, dress it up in a natty brown suit with thick pinstripes, a brown fedora, a bright tie. Give it high cholesterol and pearly teeth. Add the brains of a mathematician, an irrational fear of canines, a weakness for wine-soaked women. Throw in a squeeze of violence and a dash of charm, season with sea salt, bake to hardboiled, and right there you’d pretty much have cooked yourself Phil Skink, private eye.

I had set up a meeting in his office after my interview with Lavender Hill, and now I had arrived, late and limping from the night before, with my eyes still red and my jaw still slack.

“Your head hurt?” he asked.

“Is there a thunderstorm roiling through your office?”

“No.”

“Then it hurts.”

“You take anything?”

“Two Advil. Like shooting a woolly mammoth with a BB gun.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, there he stood, in one hand a glass with some thick brown sludge that was bubbling and belching, in the other a long green pickle.

“Sit up,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

I did as he said and felt my consciousness slip as the blood drained from my swollen head.

“Drink this and eat this,” said Skink. “A sip, a bite, a sip, a bite. You get the idea.”

“I don’t think so, Phil.”

“Do as I say and you’ll be good as new.”

“Really, I’m okay.”

“Look, mate, it hurts me just to look at you. Do it or I’ll pour the drink down your throat and then stuff the pickle in after.”

“Hell of a bedside manner,” I said even as I grabbed hold of the drink and the pickle. With my eyes closed, I took a sip. Not terrible, actually, spicy and sour all at once, and with a bite of the pickle to chase it down, it was almost palatable. “What is it, hair of the dog?”