Lucas checked his laptop. Still no response from Grant Summers.
He ate some pasta and a salad and decided to watch a DVD. Lucas had intense interests in music, books, and film, and often homed in on a movie director and his work to the point of obsession. He had once watched a different film from the Robert Aldrich library every night for two straight weeks, and had done similar home film festivals for John Sturges, Peckinpah, and Don Siegel. Lately he had been checking out the work of John Flynn, an underrated director who had a spotty filmography that also included a couple of stone classics: Rolling Thunder and The Outfit. After many years out of circulation, The Outfit, based on a Parker novel by Donald Westlake writing as Richard Stark, had been rereleased. Lucas smoked down half a joint, got a Stella out of the refrigerator, and slid the disc into his player.
The movie had a plot that was familiar, but the execution was flawless and true to the no-nonsense spirit of the book. Robert Duvall was Macklin, a stand-in name for Parker, teamed up with Joe Don Baker as Cody and Karen Black as Bett, Macklin’s squeeze. In the penultimate scene, Macklin robs a mobbed-up card game in a hotel room, where at the table sits a vulgarian named Menner, played by the infamous character actor Timothy Carey. Menner explains the premise of the film to Macklin as he is being taken off: “You hit a bank. You and your brother and a guy called Cody before your stretch. Midwest National in Wichita. The Outfit owns it. So you know how it is: You hit us, we hit you.” Menner previously used a cigarette to burn a hole in Bett’s skin, in an attempt to get her to talk. Before he leaves, Macklin says to Menner, “You shouldn’t use a girl’s arm for an ashtray,” and puts a close-range round through Menner’s hand.
Lucas, high and transfixed, stared at the screen. You hit us, we hit you. He and his platoon had executed the same creed in the streets and houses of Fallujah.
The film ended. Lucas went to his laptop and checked his Hotmail account for messages, and found a response from Grant Summers:
Rick:
The car is still available. You want to make generous offer? How generous?
Grant Summers
4th Combat Engineer Battalion
United States Marine Corps
One Team, One Fight
The Marine Corps insignia appeared below the text.
Lucas responded with an offer of five thousand dollars. He also wrote, My father was a marine. I respect you guys and hope we can do business. He waited, got nothing, and took a shower to pass some time. When he returned, Summers had sent him another message: Ten thousand is the price. Lucas immediately countered with an offer of eight thousand dollars. Summers sent another message that simply said, Ten. Lucas replied, I will pay you ten thousand after I inspect the Mini. If I find it to be in top shape, I will give you the full payment. I do want the car. Summers’s response was, Deal. I will contact you tomorrow with payment instructions.
“Deal,” said Lucas, and smiled grimly.
Thirteen
A message from Grant Summers appeared on Lucas’s laptop the next morning. In it were steps for setting up an escrow account and instructions for wiring the money. It was the identical system Summers had proposed for Grace Kinkaid, along with the identical guarantees, stating the money would be held in escrow for five days while Lucas drove the car, inspected it, and was fully satisfied with the vehicle.
Lucas replied: As I told you, I need to inspect the Mini myself before I give you the money. I am not a tire kicker. I want this car. I am only protecting myself. I think you would do the same if you were in my position. Sincerely, Rick Bell.
He got no response. Lucas changed into his bike shoes, lifted his LeMond onto his shoulder, and walked it downstairs. Out in the front yard, he used Miss Lee’s garden hose to fill his water bottle, and saw his young neighbor Nick Simmons out in the street, detailing his beloved baby blue El-D with the gold spoke Vogue wheels, which he co-owned with his dad. Nick, his hair in full Rasta, his beard untrimmed per the Old Testament he studied assiduously, deuced Lucas up with a two-finger salute.
Lucas swung onto his saddle and rode his bike north over the Maryland line, pedaling along the shoulder of the flat Sligo Creek Parkway, and into the hilly woods of Wheaton Regional Park. There he turned around and retraced his path. It was a solid twenty-mile ride.
When he got into his apartment, pleasantly sweaty and loose, he checked his laptop. Grant Summers had replied: I cannot come to you with the car. I am about to deploy to Afghanistan. They do not allow us to leave base.
Still deploying, thought Lucas, after all these months. Lucas hit him back with a phone number for one of several disposable cells he owned and said, Call me so we can discuss.
Immediately Summers replied, I cannot use phone, it is against regulations for deploying soldiers.
You mean, you cannot use the phone, thought Lucas. And you’ve forgotten, you’re not in the army. Marines don’t call themselves soldiers. They’re marines.
Lucas wrote back: I am willing to pay you seven thousand dollars over your original asking price, cash. If you want to make this deal, I need to see the car first. Respectfully, Rick Bell.
Lucas waited and got no reply. He did some research on regional American painters on the Internet and found an artist who was neither nationally famous nor unknown, which made her suitable for his purposes. This took about an hour, and in that time he still had not received a response from Summers. It didn’t seem fruitful to wait around the apartment any longer. He wondered if he had been too aggressive. Perhaps he had pushed too hard and scared Summers off. Anyway, he had sent the e-mails. He couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle now.
Lucas had a shower, dressed in nice clothing, and drove over to the Fort Totten Metro Station, where he took the Red Line around to the Dupont Circle stop. He was hoping to talk to an art appraiser. Specifically, he was looking for Charles Lumley.
He found Lumley’s small, unmarked storefront on the ground floor of a stone town house on 22nd, west of Connecticut Avenue, between R and S. The neighborhood north of the Circle was clean, pricey, with primarily white residents. In style and layout its streetscape was reminiscent of northern or northwestern Europe.
Lucas looked through curved plate glass. A man, turning the corner on forty, was inside the shop, seated behind a desk, working or trolling on an open Mac laptop. A couple of paintings, landscapes and portraits, were set up on easels, and a few were mounted on the white walls, but otherwise the store appeared to be low on saleable merchandise. Lucas tried the door and found it locked. He tapped on the window and got the man’s attention. The man inspected Lucas, then put up one finger and buzzed him in. Lucas entered as the man stood.
“How can I help you?” said the man, now walking around the desk. He was trim and wore a nice chalk-stripe suit with flat-front pants, a jacket of narrow lapels, and a powder-blue shirt open at the neck. His eyeglasses had black frames and light-blue stems. The glasses barely clung to his small, pinched nose. His hair was thinning, cut short, and what there was of it was combed forward.