Raleigh sat down on a carved antique chair with a needlepoint cushion, his chin hanging almost to his chest, and said, “Tell me the joke. I’m dying to laugh.”
Nigel said, “The joke would be, the butler really did it.”
Raleigh’s head was still spinning when he drove Nigel in the Brueger Mercedes to his Beverly Hills gallery, where his car was parked. Neither spoke for the first twenty minutes. Then Raleigh said, “If the paintings never surface, things can proceed as originally planned, right? You’ll help Mrs. Brueger pack and ship all the art to her storage facility just as you said?”
After a moment Nigel said, “Yes. Just as I planned. Except that I’ve spent a few thousand at the photo lab and I’ve lost a van, at least for now. And I believe that I’ve lost several years from my life as a result of this disaster. But if that should happen, I would be so happy that I’d throw a party and invite everyone I know. Except you.”
Raleigh continued his train of thought and said, “So a long time from now, if the switch is discovered when the art is taken from the storage facility, it’ll be blamed on one of the transporters or a storage yard employee, right?”
Nigel sighed and said, “From your lips to God’s ear.”
“A part of me would feel okay if that happened,” Raleigh admitted. “Maybe we dodged a bullet. I could just go back to being what I am and you can go back to being-”
“Bankrupt,” Nigel said.
“Whatever,” Raleigh said. “At least we won’t be in prison if those crooks never get caught.”
“Raleigh,” Nigel said suddenly, and this time his tone had softened. He sounded almost conciliatory. “If anything untoward should happen…”
There it was again, Raleigh thought. Untoward.
“Yes?”
“If something did go wrong sometime down the road… that is, if something came back on you, would you really bring me into it? I mean, haven’t I suffered enough?”
Raleigh turned to gape at Nigel and almost rear-ended the car in front of him at the stoplight. He said, “Haven’t you suffered enough?”
“Raleigh, there’d be nothing to gain by informing on me,” Nigel said. “What could you really profit from saying that you had a crime partner? I could take a second mortgage on my condominium and sell my business if I had to do it. I could put half of everything I realize from the sale into a trust account for you. I’d do it, gladly.”
“You really are a piece of work, Nigel,” Raleigh said. “Please forgive my clichés, but you are a piece of fucking work.”
“So you’d bargain with my freedom just to curry favor with a prosecutor and have maybe a year or two lopped from your sentence, is that it?”
Raleigh said, “I’d trade your ass to have two months cut from my sentence. Or two weeks. I’d do it for no sentence reduction at all, just to see how you handle your inferiors in the prison yard, you pompous flouncing popinjay!”
There was no more said until Raleigh parked behind Nigel’s gallery, where they unloaded the light stand, floodlight, and toolbox.
Nigel Wickland said, “I don’t suppose we shall need to see each other after tonight.”
“Not in this life,” Raleigh Dibble replied, and headed for the Hollywood Hills.
There was just enough room to park the Volkswagen on Jonas and Megan’s street, so Jonas had to double-park the van beside the car of a tenant who seldom went anywhere at night. They were excited when they got the bundles inside and removed the tape and the mover’s blankets.
Jonas picked up the largest canvas and placed it on the back of the sofa, leaning it against the wall, and then he stepped back to appraise it.
“It’s what you call an Expressionist picture,” he finally said to Megan.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, it’s a picture where the expression on the person’s face tells you what the artist had in mind.”
Megan said, “You can hardly see the woman’s expression if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“That’s the way Expressionists paint,” Jonas said. “You have to look through the fuzzy brushwork and guess what she’s thinking.”
“Do you think it’s really worth five thousand?” she asked doubtfully.
“Just look where it came from. The crib up there in the Hollywood Hills is worth gazillions.”
“Where will we sell it?”
“I don’t know. Not at a swap meet, that’s for sure. We gotta do some research.”
“How about the other one?”
“Not as much,” Jonas said. “It’s smaller, and flowers are overdone these days. All the swap meets have lotsa framed pictures of flowers. But we might get a few Franklins for it.”
“Do you think you’d better get rid of the van? The cops probably have a report on it by now.”
“Yeah,” Jonas said. “I’m gonna dump it over on Normandie after I wipe off all my fingerprints. Gimme a dish towel, will ya?”
When they got out to the street, Jonas was barely seated in the van when 6-X-32 pulled up behind him with red and blue lights on and gave a short toot on the horn. Megan, who was about to get into the VW bug, saw them and headed back to the apartment, having to force herself to walk slowly.
Hollywood Nate approached on the driver’s side of the van and Flotsam on the passenger side, shining his streamlight in on Jonas’s hands. Nate said, “License and registration, please.”
“Sure, Officer,” Jonas said, his chin quivering. “What did I do wrong?”
“Do I have to tell you it’s illegal to double-park like this?” Nate said.
Jonas was so relieved, he felt like crying, and said, “I’m sorry, Officer. I had to make a delivery for my boss. I been working all day and this is the last stop. I’m sorry. Please don’t write me a ticket.”
Jonas tried hard to keep his hand from trembling when he offered the driver’s license to Hollywood Nate, hoping that the registration was in the glove box. Nate didn’t even bother to take the license from him. He looked at the side of the van and said, “Wickland Gallery. This doesn’t look like a gallery neighborhood.”
“We sell good art and crappy art, Officer,” Jonas said. “Real affordable stuff. You and the missus should stop by sometime if you’re thinking about-”
“Crappy art,” Nate said. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have another missus and need anything crappier than I’ve got now.”
With that, Nate turned and walked back to the radio car. When they were cruising again, Flotsam said, “Why didn’t you write that one? Double-parker, dude. One for the recap.”
Nate said, “This recession’s been tough on working stiffs like that kid. Besides, all my bones hurt. I just wanna sit in our shop tonight and think of ways I can burn the fucking Goth House to the ground.”
“That reminds me,” Flotsam said, taking out his cell phone to check on Jetsam for the second time.
When the black-and-white pulled away, Megan ran to the Volkswagen and headed toward Normandie Avenue. She drove south for a few blocks until she saw the Wickland Gallery van just past Melrose in front of a liquor store. Jonas was already out and walking northbound when she picked him up.
“I was so scared, Jonas!” she said. “I thought they had a report on the van and you were busted.”
“I’m starting to think I can talk my way outta anything,” he said. “He didn’t even look at my license, so I can’t be connected to the van even if they pick it up. Two cops in one day have tried to hack me and I’m still here. This might be, like, kiss-met.”
“What?”
“It means that destiny is calling. Something big is in my future. You’re lucky you hooked your wagon to a star!”
“I only hope I didn’t hook my wagon to a wagon,” Megan said. “A beat-up old Volkswagen that might end up driving us both straight to jail.”