“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.”
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.