"I thought this would be an appropriate setting," Peter Martindale said. He indicated a steel bunk hanging from the wall. "Take a pew."
Sandy sat down, and Martindale sat on the opposite bunk.
"Well, here we are," Martindale said. "I suggested we meet here, because I wanted you to see the inside of a prison; find out what sort of place you'll end up if you fail to hold up your end of the bargain."
"There was no bargain," Sandy said heatedly.
Martindale held up a hand. "Please, Sandy, please; we're way past that, now; there is a bargain, because I say there is a bargain. Face up to it; you have no choice."
Sandy sat silently, staring at the gallery owner; he could not think what to do next; the man would not be dealt with.
"I see I'm going to have to convince you," Martindale said. He reached into a pocket of his raincoat, took out a plastic bag, and tossed it across the cell to Sandy.
Sandy caught the small bag, and it was surprisingly heavy. He held it up to a ray of sunlight streaming through the barred window; his Cartier watch was in the bag. He looked up at Martindale.
Martindale smiled. "This little exercise is to help you understand that you are vulnerable."
"How did you-"
"Really, Sandy, you're an intelligent man, but not a very clever one. Five hundred dollars in the palm of the nearest hoodlum took care of that bit of business. I watched the whole thing from across the street, you know."
"But I called you in San Francisco."
"Of course you did; call forwarding took care of the rest." He removed a small cellular telephone from his pocket and held it up to the light. "A service of your friendly telephone company. Put the watch on."
Sandy slipped the watch, still in its plastic bag, into his pocket. "If you're so good at hiring hoodlums, why don't you just hire one to solve your problem?"
"Because hired hoodlums will turn on one in the blink of an eye; they make some stupid mistake, and when they're arrested they're reeling off one's name, address, and social security number before the cell door is locked, trying to do a deal. I want someone who can't do a deal, Sandy, and that's you, old fellow."
Sandy shook his head.
"Think of what you have now, Sandy-the business is yours; a rather large chunk of cash is yours; you're in a new world- accounts at Mayfair Trust, and all that."
Sandy looked up at him.
"Of course, I followed you. Now, let's get down to business."
"I won't do it," Sandy said quietly.
Martindale sighed. "All right, I'd hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but there it is. Sandy, you've seen how easily I got to you? It would be just as easy for me to get to your son."
"Now, wait a minute-"
"Works all those nights at the hospital," Martindale said.
"Walks home to his flat a few blocks away. Dangerous place, the streets of Manhattan-even the Upper East Side."
Sandy's shoulders sagged.
"Ah, I think I've finally gotten through to you," Martindale said.
"What do you want me to do?" Sandy asked, defeated.
"How long will you be in San Francisco?"
"Two more nights. I'll be up in the wine country all day tomorrow, and I'll leave the day after on a morning flight."
"You'll be back in the city tomorrow night?"
"I can be."
"Good; make your way to my gallery a little after nine in the evening. It's at-"
"I know where it is."
Martindale smiled. "Good man. I'll tell Helena that a client is coming in from New York to see the Constable, the big one on the east wall; late plane and all that. She'd do anything to sell the Constable. Big bucks, as you Yanks say. Now, let me describe her to you."
"I saw her there last night."
Martindale looked surprised for the first time. "Sandy, I've underestimated you; you were getting ready all along, weren't you?"
"She was sitting at the desk in the rear of the gallery about ten-thirty, going through a large ledger."
"That's my girl," Martindale said. "Attention to detail, always. What she was doing, of course, was looking for just the right moment-financially-to let the ax fall."
"She's still working in the gallery? In spite of your… situation?" Sandy asked.
"Oh, we're nothing if not civil," Martindale said, chuckling. "You see, I'm not meant to know about her… relationship. It's meant to be a surprise. Sort of makes me bulletproof with the police afterwards, you see. I didn't know, so it couldn't be a motive."
"She's very attractive."
"Of course. Did you think I'd marry some scrubber? She's the perfect picture of the well-born California girl." Martindale leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Down to business, now: The street is deserted after ten, as I'm sure you noticed last evening. Greet Helena, chat with her; look at the Constable. Then, wander over to the little Turner on the back wall. That will put you within a couple of feet of the desk; there's a loaded pistol in the top right-hand drawer. Have a look out the front windows to make sure the coast is clear, then take the pistol and use it." He pointed at his heart. "One here." He pointed at his forehead. "Then, one here, just to be thorough. I hope I don't have to remind you to wear gloves? We don't want any residue on your hands, do we?"
"I suppose not."
"Then, before you go, mess her up a bit-rip her knickers off, that sort of thing; stick the pistol up her cunt, if you're really into it. The money box is in the top left-hand drawer; leave the checks, but take the cash-have dinner on me! Leave the gun there-it's registered to me-and go out the back door. It opens onto an alley that runs into the street around the corner. Walk slowly, do some window shopping, don't get rid of the gloves until you're well away from the premises." He reached out and put a hand on Sandy's knee. "And then, old cock, you're a free man-very free and very rich. Go back to New York, live your life, enjoy! You and I won't see each other again."
Sandy reached out and put his hand on top of Martindale's. "Make very sure of that, Peter, because once she's dead, if I ever hear from you again I'll make it my business to kill you. Do you understand me?"
"Of course, dear chap," Martindale said, getting to his feet. "I'm surprised you hadn't thought of that before now; I certainly was ready for you to try. But you see, I knew you'd realize that you might as well kill Helena as me. Much safer, and you'd have my help."
"Let's get out of here," Sandy said.
"One more thing: In the event that you're still thinking about trying to kill me, you should know that I've handwritten an account of our little arrangement, complete with gory details, and had my signature notarized. That document, along with the keys to your basement and storeroom, are in an envelope in my lawyer's safe, and written upon the envelope is an instruction to open it in the event of my death. Once Helena is out of the picture, I'll retrieve the envelope and give it to you for disposal."
"Let's get out of here," Sandy repeated.
"You've got it all, then?"
"All of it."
"Good. You go back the way you came." He glanced at his watch. "The group should be back where they started in a couple of minutes; I'll catch them up from behind. You first."
Sandy left the cell and walked back toward the tour's starting point. He gazed up at the tiers of cells around him; his steps echoed around the abandoned prison. Truly, he thought, this would be hell on earth. He resolved not to end up in a place like this. Shortly, the group appeared from around a corner, and he joined the rear of the crowd and worked his way up to the middle. As he boarded the boat for the trip back he saw Martindale get on.
On the trip back, the sun came out.
CHAPTER 14
Sandy stood in the dusty soil of a Napa Valley vineyard and listened to Mario Scotti, its owner, extoll the virtues of his latest vintage.