Quick & Dirty

51

It was nearly midnight before Rocco Maggio got home, and his wife was still up and fuming.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Is Mario still up?”

“He cried himself to sleep,” she hissed.

“What could I do? I was in jail!”

“Jail! What have you done now?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing!”

“Start talking or start packing,” she said.

“All right, awready, it was parking tickets.”

“Jail? For parking tickets?”

“For... a lot of parking tickets.”

“How much are we talking about here?”

“Look, we’re both tired, let’s get some sleep and talk about this tomorrow.”

“Let’s talk about it right this minute!” she spat. “How much?”

“A little over a hundred grand.”

“How much over a hundred grand?”

“Twenty-two five, give or take.”

“A hundred and twenty-two thousand five hundred dollars in parking tickets?”

“Give or take, plus a fine.”

“How big a fine?”

“Fifty percent,” he murmured.

She picked up her iPhone, opened the calculator, and began punching keys. “A hundred and eighty-three thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars?”

“Give or take.”

“For parking tickets? How long were you in jail?”

“I don’t know, sometime after lunch, which I didn’t have, until about an hour ago. It took two lawyers and a judge to get me out, and I had to wait for two cashier’s checks to be hand-delivered.”

“How did you get a bank to write two cashier’s checks after closing time?”

“I know people, all right?”

She was calculating again. “Do you know that you could have rented twenty garages in Manhattan for a year for that kind of money?”

“I don’t need twenty garages, I just need a little space at the curb.”

“At the curb, next to a fire hydrant?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m in a hurry.”

“Well, I’m going to bed. You find somewhere else to sleep, and don’t you forget that breakfast is at six AM in this house!” She stalked up the stairs.

Maggio went into his den, took a throwaway cell phone from his desk drawer, and dialed another throwaway cell phone.

“Huh?” a sleepy voice said.

“You know who this is?”

“Sure, Rocco, I know—”

“Don’t say my name, schmuck!”

“I’m sorry, Rocco—”

“Shut up and listen.”

He shut up.

“You know Sol Fineman?”

“Works for the late, great Sam Spain? Sure, Rocco.”

“You say my name one more time and I’m gonna come over there and shoot you in the head.”

“Sorry, R—”

“I want you to find Sol Fineman and put two in his head from up close. I want him to see it coming.”

“Okay. You want me to tell him anything?”

“No, but I want him to tell you something. I want him to tell you where is the five mil I paid him for a certain piece of art, and I want the five mil and the piece of art back before you shoot him. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And feel free to persuade him by any means you choose, as long as it’s effective.”

“Got it, Rocco.”

Maggio threw the phone across the room.

“Honey,” the former Sol’s wife said, “why are we leaving in such a hurry?”

“Sweetheart, it would only disturb you to talk about that.”

“It will only disturb me if you don’t talk about that.”

“You know the five million we got for the picture?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now we’ve got another five million for the picture.”

“Honey, did you spend the day at the track?”

“No.”

“A casino?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s all from the picture.”

“And where is the picture now?”

“In a safe place in Manhattan.”

“What for?”

“To make the exchange easier.”

“You’re going to exchange the painting for something?”

“For another five million.”

“Baby, you must be making a lot of people really, really angry.”

He thought about that. “Only one, actually.”

“And who’s that?”

“Rocco Maggio.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, he’s enough all by himself.”

“Yeah, but everybody else is going to be really happy when I’m done.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Like this — the owner of the painting is going to be very happy because she gets her picture back, and her insurance company is going to be really happy because they only have to pay five million instead of the tens of millions it’s insured for to the victim of the theft. That leaves only Rocco Maggio, and I grant you, he’s going to be very, very angry at Sol Fineman. His problem is, Sol Fineman don’t exist anymore.”

“Is that why we’re driving west, instead of south, to Florida?”

“Yep. There are other sunny places like New Mexico and Arizona. Mexico, if things get too hot.”

“You don’t want to take a plane, maybe?”

“The government X-rays your luggage these days.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s been so long since I’ve flown anywhere, I forgot.”

“Once the sun comes up, it will be a beautiful drive. We’ll drive through Pennsylvania and Indiana — those are very beautiful states, even from the interstate.”

She was quiet for a while. “Do you want me to drive for a spell?”

“No, sweetheart, I’m not sleepy, I’m excited about our new life.”

She was quiet for a little longer. “Is there something else I can do for you?” she asked, unzipping his fly.

“Sweetie, you could always read my mind.”