Hatcher took another sip of wine, staring over the rim of the glass at Sloan.
‘You’ve really stirred them up,’ Sloan chattered on. ‘Know what Interpol calls you? The Bird. Shit, the best flier in the business, I always knew that. Of course, I never said anything to anybody. None of my business. Anyway, I gotta hand it to you, you’re a real trend setter.’
Hatcher didn’t bite. He kept staring at Sloan. Sloan put his briefcase in his lap, unlocked it and flipped it open. From where Hatcher was sitting lie could not see inside the case, but he knew exactly how it was laid out. File folders, all neatly labeled and stacked. A comprehensive airline schedule. Sloan’s little black book, the bible that kept him in business. And in the top of the case in special pockets, two handguns, a .357 Python and a 9 mm. H&K.
Speed loaders and magazines in pockets between the two pieces.
Sloan would never change. If it worked for him, it stayed in. Sloan took out a newspaper clipping.
‘Listen to this, this was in The Times last Sunday. “The international art theft market is second only to narcotics in the world market.” According to this piece, Hatch, art thefts have doubled since 1981. There were four hundred ninety-three cases last year alone. Four thousand one hundred fifty pieces of art got lifted.’
Still no comment.
‘The Paris job was what put me on to you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening as though he was proud of it. ‘Then when you hit that gallery in Chicago and Stenhauser was the fixer in that one, too, I put it together. The New York trick put the icing on the cake.’
Still no response. Hatcher took another sip of wine and continued to stare. He was remembering what 126 had said once about vengeance. It’s depressing, is what he said, and a waste of time. One thing Hatcher had learned to respect in Los Boxes was time.
‘That Paris job was inspired, better than the thing we did in London that time,’ Sloan went on.
He paused for a moment. Hatcher said nothing.
‘Some haul, man. That one Monet was worth over three mill. Five pieces, twelve million. I didn’t know you knew that much about rare paintings, old pal.’
No answer.
‘I guess Stenhauser tipped you on what to grab, right?’
No answer.
‘Anyway, you were right up front with that Paris job, kind of set the pace for what’s been going on. I’ll give you a hand for your style, too. I figure you’ve only done the three jobs.’
He paused and shrugged. ‘And who got hurt? The insurance companies, right?’ Sloan chuckled. He held out his hands, palms up, like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. ‘Who gives a big damn, they probably screwed a lot of little people out of twenty times what you took ‘em for.’
Still no comment. Sloan sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He was getting annoyed. ‘You’ve changed, Hatcher. You were always good for an argument — about anything. You used to be quite the talker.’
Hatcher stood up suddenly, took three long steps across the room and hit Sloan with a fast, hard jab straight to the corner of the jaw. The big man flew backward out of his chair, landed on his neck and rolled over against the bulkhead.
‘God damn,’ he snapped. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and looked up sharply as Hatcher leaned over him.
‘I have this thing about wasting words,’ Hatcher whispered.
‘Jesus,’ Sloan cracked, ‘what happened to your voice?’
Hatcher didn’t answer. He rinsed out his wineglass, slid it into an overhead wine rack and locked it down. Then he went topside. Sloan got up slowly, massaging his jaw. He went to the refrigerator, opened it and took out a light beer. He popped the top off, took a deep drink and then held the cold can against his jaw. Then the four big engines coughed to life and the boat began to move. Sloan rushed to the top. Hatcher was backing the 48-footer away from the dock.
‘What the hell’re you doing?’ he demanded, but Hatcher didn’t answer. He swung the boat around in a tight arc and headed back out to sea, cruising slowly through the sound, and then as the boat broke out into the open sea he eased the throttles forward and the engines changed their voices, their basso tones keeping rhythm to the slap of the ocean as the small yacht picked up speed and began bounding from whitecap to whitecap.
Sloan caressed his jaw with the cold beer can. ‘You didn’t forget how to hit,’ he said. His smile slowly returned. ‘What the hell, I guess I had it coming.’
Hatcher turned around and stood nose to nose with Sloan.
‘Is this a shakedown, Harry?’ his harsh voice asked. Sloan looked shocked. ‘C’mon!’
‘Then what’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you came to apologize, I’ll deck you again.’
‘You know me, Hatch. I, uh, tuck info away for a rainy day. I always figure sooner or later . . .‘ He let the sentence dangle.
‘Yeah?’
‘So now is later.’
‘You set me up, you son of a bitch.’
Sloan shrugged. ‘You do what you have to do.’
‘To protect a drunken bum.’
‘Shit, it was all politics there. We were just trying to save the country is all.’
‘From what — rats and cockroaches?’ Hatcher rasped.
Sloan shrugged with a grin. ‘From the Commies, who else?’
‘And I happened to be expendable.’
‘The whole thing went sour,’ Sloan went on in his sincere voice. ‘You were supposed to be in the prison in Madrango. Then the country blew up before I could get back to get you. Next thing I know, they moved you to Los Boxes. So it was a bad call, I’ll give you that,’ Sloan said.
‘A bad call!’ the ruined voice whispered.
‘I brought you in when I could, laddie,’ Sloan said.
Hatcher moved the throttles forward a little more. The engines got throatier, the bow lifted a little more.
‘What happened to the little fat guy?’ Hatcher said finally.
‘Pratt? Ah, the rebels held him for a couple of months. He lost forty pounds and quit the State Department.’
‘I wonder who’s better off.’
‘He got you out, didn’t he?’
Hatcher growled between clenched teeth: ‘Our beloved ambassador, Craig, murders a woman and child with his Mercedes, I take the fall, go to Los Boxes, and two months later the government goes down the toilet and Craig is out on his ass anyway. Beautiful.’
‘Hatch, you’ve been in the business long enough to know how fast things change. What the hell, I didn’t forget you. Did I forget you?’
‘Three years?’
‘The timing wasn’t right.’
Hatcher shook his head. ‘When they passed out heart, Harry, you were in the asshole line. What the hell do you want?’ Hatcher’s voice rasped.
‘I’ve got a job to do. A job nobody can hack like you can.’
Hatcher looked astounded. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.
‘Listen to me —‘
‘Our slate’s clean.’
‘I don’t quite see it that way.’
‘I don’t give a damn how you see it.’
‘I got your pal, Stenhauser, by the gonies,’ Sloan said softly but with menace. ‘I squeeze him, you’re looking to do about twenty years’ hard time.’
‘You always did dream big.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
‘I don’t dream,’ Hatcher snapped, ‘I do it.’
Smiling, Sloan leaned over and said softly, ‘Chicago, Paris, New York. . . I’m not dreaming, pal. Let me play it out for you. They’ll hit you one, two, three, back to back, nothing concurrent. Three major felonies, three different cities, three different courts, and France is real touchy about its art works. I figure you’ll do at least fifteen years. And they’ll take everything you’ve got. So they won’t find the kiwash you got stashed in Panama or Grand Cayman or Switzerland’ — he smiled his most insincere smile — ‘but they’ll get your boat and everything that shows.’ He winked.
Hatcher stared at him for a moment.