Quick & Dirty

52

Dino’s secretary buzzed him. “Yeah?”

“Commissioner, there’s a Lieutenant Levine on the line, says he’s in charge of the Sol Fineman investigation.”

“Put him through,” Dino said, and waited for the click. “Bacchetti.”

“Commissioner, it’s Dave Levine, about the Sol Fineman thing?”

“Yeah, did you find him?”

“Nossir, but the thing is, somebody else is looking for him, too, and they ain’t carrying badges.”

“Anybody we know?”

“I recognized one guy — he works for a Jersey don named Maggio. He and his crew are tearing Fineman’s apartment apart as we speak. I’ve had calls from two other locations we’re watching, Sam Spain’s Bar and a chop shop in East Harlem. People are also looking for him there.”

“Have you found any trace of Fineman?”

“Nossir, it’s like he never existed.”

“Then follow the other guys who’re looking for him. Maybe they’re smarter than you.”

A brief pause, then, “Yessir.”

“Just kidding, Dave, but maybe they know something we don’t.”

“Gotcha, Commish, we’re on it.” Levine hung up and got conferenced with two sergeants who were working for him. “All right, guys, it’s like this — we don’t have to worry about where Sol Fineman is anymore, all we have to do is tail the goombahs who are scouring the city for him. We’ll let them do the work, and when they grab him, we’ll grab them and take the credit. Got it?”

“Got it,” one sergeant said.

“Sounds good to me,” the other echoed.

Everybody hung up.

Stone hung up the phone. He and Art Masi were sitting in Stone’s office, wondering what to do next. “That was Dino,” Stone said.

“Good news?”

“I don’t know — maybe, maybe not.”

“Tell me anyway,” Art said.

“Rocco Maggio has got every soldier in the Maggio family in Manhattan looking for Sol Fineman.”

“What happens if the NYPD doesn’t get Fineman first?”

“Terrible things, no doubt, but Dino has them following the soldiers. The cops will let them do the work, then bag Fineman and get the credit.”

“I like it, as long as the soldiers don’t have Fineman for too long before the cops show up. They might get money and the picture, and then we’re off to the races again.”

“You’re a pessimist, Art, you know that?”

“I wasn’t until I started looking for this van Gogh. I was happy as a clam, pulling down my pay and my consulting fees, and now I’m a nervous wreck because I’ve got a million bucks at stake.”

“That’s supposed to motivate you, Art, not make you nervous,” Stone said.

“I think I’m going to be nervous for the rest of my life, no matter what happens.”

“Art, just think about what you can do with a million dollars.”

“You think that hasn’t crossed my mind? First of all, I’m going to have to hand my Uncle Sam forty percent of it, and then I’ve got six hundred thousand. Then I’m going to pay off my mortgage, and I’ve got four hundred thousand. Then my wife is going to spend two hundred thousand, if I’m lucky, gutting the house and making it the way she always dreamed it would be, then she’s going to spend fifty thousand on clothes and spa treatments to celebrate the dream house, and if the spa treatments don’t do it for her, she’ll spend another fifty thousand on cosmetic surgery, ‘to make you proud,’ she’ll say. So now I’m down to a hundred grand, and my bookie’s going to take fifteen of that, and by the time the wife and I get back from our European holiday for the month of vacation time I’ve got built up, I’ll be back to zero, maybe even in debt again.”

“Then it’s a fresh start and your house is paid for, and your wife is more beautiful than ever,” Stone pointed out. “That’s not too bad, is it?”

“No,” Art replied, “but it’s depressing.”

Rocco Maggio sat in the back room of an Italian restaurant in New Jersey and looked across the table at the three men who constituted the loan committee, sort of.

“So, Rocco,” the taller of the three, who did most of the talking, said, “you’ve got your dick caught in a wringer, and we’re out five mil, plus vigorish.” This was how a bank’s loan committee talked in Rocco’s neighborhood.

“Listen, guys, this is temporary. I’ve got sixty men combing Manhattan for Fineman as we speak, and if that’s not enough, we’ll work our way up the Hudson.”

“And you expect us to wait until you’ve found him and persuaded him to give up the five mil — call it six mil by then — to get our money back?”

“Guys, you know I’m good for it.”

“That’s what we believed when we loaned you the money you loaned the art guy, but even after asking politely, we’re not seeing our money. Is the art guy good for it?”

“Well,” Rocco said, “he’s not exactly on the hook for it.”

“And how did he get off the hook?”

“He never had the money. I took it to his gallery in a suitcase, Fineman showed us the picture, I gave him the money, then I put the picture in my trunk and left.”

“Did the art guy ever touch the painting? That would be good enough.”

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, he just smiled, and I gave Fineman the money for Sam Spain. Sam would be on the hook for it, but he’s very dead, and we don’t exactly have collateral.”

“Rocco, every word you say, you’re digging yourself in deeper,” the chairman of the committee said.

“Look, I’ve got maybe two mil in ready cash spread around. I’ll need a few days to collect it.”

“That’ll take care of the vig and some of the principal,” the chairman said, “but what about the rest?”

“I’ve got other assets — the shipping company, the warehouse, and three liquor stores.”

“It takes time to liquidate,” the chairman said, “and all the while, the vig keeps going up.”

“Worse comes to worst, I’ll sign over a couple deeds,” Rocco said.

“Worse comes to worst, you’ll sign over everything, Rocco. Now get out of here and use your time well. Find Sol Fineman.”