Marked Man

9

I had missed the early wave of evening broadcasts, but I caught the eleven o’clock news, and there it was, on all three channels, narrated by each station’s organized-crime reporter, the whole story of the missing painting. They broadcast shots of the Randolph Trust building, pictures of the painting itself – Rembrandt as a young man with his bulbous nose and sharp eyes and goofy hat – they had mug shots of a younger Charlie Kalakos squinting for the police camera, and they had file footage of me talking exuberantly to the press about one of my prior cases.

All in all a good night for a publicity hound, which I shamelessly admit to being, but a lousy night for a lawyer trying to keep his sensitive negotiations on the QT. Which was proved with the very next phone call.

“Carl, you make me so very weary,” said Slocum.

“It wasn’t me.”

“First, this morning I get a call from some high-toned lawyer representing the Randolph Trust, barking in my ear about some missing Rembrandt. Then A.U.S.A. Hathaway calls up, irate as can be, complaining about sudden pressure from higher-ups concerning that selfsame painting. And, funny how it works, both conversations seemed to include your name.”

“That I had something to do with.”

“It was no small thing to calm Hathaway. Watch out for her, Victor, she’s a hard case. But I worked it, yes I did, and just as I’m about to get a meeting set up, you leak the whole thing to the press to apply even more pressure.”

“That’s the part that wasn’t me.”

“You didn’t talk to the press?”

“No, I did not.”

“But you love talking to the press.”

“Like Hoffa loves cement, true, but this time I refrained. And everyone I talked to understood that keeping the whole thing quiet was in everybody’s interest.”

“Obviously not everyone.”

“So do we still have a meeting to work out a deal?”

“Not now, not after this. Hathaway called back and said if they deal now, it will look like stolen art was being used to buy off the righteous arm of justice.”

“Which of course would be true.”

“Of course. Except that when it’s done behind closed doors it is one thing, and when it is headline news it is another. You should have kept it quiet.”

“I tried.”

“So who spilled?”

“I don’t know. That Randolph Trust is a hornet’s nest, with everyone holding their own agendas. There was an old lady there who wasn’t included in the discussions, but I don’t doubt that she knows every nook and cranny in the place and the best locations to eavesdrop. And then, of course, our friend in the U.S. Attorney’s office could have leaked the information herself to give her an excuse to torpedo the deal.”

“Are you accusing a federal law-enforcement official of using the press to further her own ends?”

“It’s happened before.”

“Yes, it has. Why didn’t you just let me know about the painting right off?”

“I thought a little outside pressure would get the lard out of the FBI’s ass.”

“Well, you were right about that. The search for Charlie the Greek has been accelerated. All the field offices in New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland are in on the hunt.”

“Crap.”

“I knew you had stepped into it, yes I did.”

“Hey, Larry, you ever hear anything about some hit man from Allentown?”

Pause. “Where’d you get that?”

“Just something I heard in the street.”

“Oh, I bet you did. Remember all those murders through the years we’re trying to link up to the Warrick Brothers Gang?”

“Yeah.”

“Word is the finger man was some old pro from Allentown.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t so good, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. Sleep well, Victor, ’cause you’ll be needing it.”

It took me a while to figure it out, what I could do to salvage my client’s chances to make it home, to give his dying mother his heartfelt good-byes, to let me cash in my pile of jewels and chains, and for both of us to survive it all without prison time or serious bodily harm. It had to be something that would push the feds to deal and something that would work fast enough to kick in before their revived manhunt pulled in Charlie, or the friend from Allentown mooted the issue. It took me a while to figure it out, because usually when a solution to a difficult problem congeals in your consciousness it ends up requiring sacrifice and daring, it ends up requiring you to transcend your baser instincts and rise to the occasion. But not this time. This time my baser instincts were spot-on.

I hadn’t courted the wave of press attention that flowed like sewage into Charlie’s messy life story, but now that it was here, I was going to ride it for all it was worth. Time for A.U.S.A. Jenna Hathaway to learn how low I could go.

The next morning at my office, the phone didn’t stop ringing and I didn’t stop answering. The television crews were lined up like rush-hour aircraft on the runway, waiting for their exclusive interviews.

“Channel Six, come on in, it’s your turn. Channel Twenty-nine, we’ll be with you next, and then Channel Three. But I might have to take a moment when the New York Times calls – don’t want to keep the old gray lady waiting. And then I have a photo shoot with the Inquirer scheduled for two. Will that give us all enough time?”

And in each discussion about the painting and its whereabouts, because that’s what the press all asked about, I talked about my client Charlie, who was simply trying to come home to say so long to his dying mother but was being stymied by the heartless autocrats at the FBI.

“My client wants to return this painting, not for his own benefit, or even for the benefit of Randolph Trust, but for the people of this great country and for all the generations to follow. He wants to return it for all the children who will someday find their lives enriched by this preeminent work of art. If only the FBI would show a little flexibility. If only the Bureau could stop thinking of its own selfish ends and consider the children. The children are what really matter.”

And, of course, there was one key statement I made in all my interviews, the most important point I drove home that day and in the days to follow.