Curse of the Jade Lily (18 page)

“You gonna be cool, now, ain’tcha, McKenzie?” Chopper said. “Not gonna do nothin’ rash?”

“Who? Me?”

“Yeah you. Fuck.”

“I’m just going to ask the man a few questions.”

“It’s like he says—you can ask. Just don’ go pushin’ no buttons is what I’m sayin’.”

“I promise.”

Herzog set his hands on the handles at the back of Chopper’s wheelchair and prepared to push Chopper across the parking lot. Chopper turned his head and gave him a look. Herzog’s hands came off the handles as if he had touched hot burners on a stove. The expression on his face said, “I can’t believe I did that.”

Chopper propelled himself to the street, off the curb, across the street, and up the opposite curb quickly, efficiently, and without assistance. Herzog followed dutifully behind. I had the impression that he really wanted to help and was disappointed that Chopper wouldn’t allow it. His mood brightened when we reached the front door of a beer joint and Chopper waited for him to open it. I assumed it was a beer joint because of the neon sign in the window flashing the name of one of those crappy pasteurized brews from St. Louis. There was no other means of identification.

I followed Chopper and Herzog inside. It was dark in the bar. The lights were kept low, and a thick curtain had been pulled across the one and only window. Tony Bennett could be heard singing softly from invisible speakers. Two older men were sitting in an old-fashioned wooden booth next to the door, the kind with high backs that you can’t see over. They looked like working men having a quick beer before their shifts began. A third man, much younger, sat at a table and read the newspaper. The table was situated so that he had an unobstructed view of both the front and back doors. His winter coat was draped over the back of the chair. His gloves and a knit cap had been set on the table near his right hand. He moved his hand toward the hat when we entered, yet did not touch it. He was not drinking.

“Got him?” I whispered.

“Pussy,” Herzog whispered back.

A fourth man was sitting in a booth parallel to the guy with the hat. There was a half-filled glass of beer in front of him, along with two cell phones and an iPad. He was talking on a third cell phone, his voice a soft murmur. I could make out only one word. “No.” There was a finality to the word that made my arm hairs stand on end—somehow I had the feeling he wasn’t saying no to a slice of French apple pie.

If there was a bartender, he was invisible.

Chopper wheeled his chair right up to the booth.

“Cid, my man,” he said.

“Chopper,” Cid said. He turned off his cell and set it on the table before slipping out of the booth. He was tall, with angular features, and was deceptively dressed in sweater, jeans, and black cowboy boots. I say deceptively because despite the casual appearance, I had the impression that his clothes cost more than the average new car payment. He bent down and gave Chopper a hug as if they were veterans of the same war.

Chopper waved me over.

“This here is McKenzie I told you ’bout.”

Cid did not say hello; he did not offer his hand. Instead, he gave me a perfunctory head nod and slid back into the booth.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I sat on the wooden bench across from him. Herzog stood by the door where he could keep a wary eye on the exits as well as the man with the knit hat. All in all, I felt as if I had walked into a Martin Scorsese movie.

“Nice place you have here,” I said.

“Did you think I would have a ritzy office with a good-looking receptionist, a mahogany desk, and Queen Anne chairs?” Cid asked

“Something like that.”

“Men in my line of work aren’t afraid of the police. We can always make deals with the police. Do you know who we’re afraid of?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Cid expected me to answer it.

“The Internal Revenue Service,” I said.

He smiled slightly and nodded his head as if he had just learned something of value.

“You’re quick,” he said. “Yes, the IRS. In my business it pays to keep your visible assets to a minimum.”

“I understand.”

Cid stuck his head out of the booth and looked behind him. As if by magic, a bartender appeared.

“What can I get you gents?” the bartender asked.

“I’m good,” Chopper said.

“Hey, Chop,” Cid said. “This isn’t a nonprofit organization.”

“Gimme a Miller Genuine Draft,” Chopper said.

When the bartender turned his gaze on me I pointed at Cid’s glass.

“I’ll have what El Cid is having,” I said.

Cid smiled as if it were the first time he had ever heard the name.

The bartender gestured with his chin toward Herzog. “What about your friend?” he asked.

“My friend doesn’t drink,” Chopper answered.

When the bartender scurried away, I said, “How does one get the nickname of an eleventh-century Spanish lord?”

“I don’t know,” Cid said. “People just started calling me that. Perhaps they were impressed by my regal bearing.”

I liked the answer, yet I knew it was a lie. To survive, much less flourish, in his line of work, a fence must be able to negotiate with the most dangerous thieves as well as the least scrupulous customers. The fear of betrayal, of being ripped off, of being arrested, was always present, so it was important to demonstrate a certain amount of fearlessness. “El Cid” was an affectation, just like his barroom “office,” just like the barely concealed muscle pretending to read his newspaper while carefully watching us. It was designed to make associates believe that Cid was someone not to be trifled with. From what I’d seen, it certainly got Chopper thinking. Just the same, I said, “I believe it.”

Cid must have liked my response, too, because he suddenly extended his hand. “My real name is Dave Wicker,” he said.

I shook his hand and said, “Mr. Wicker.”

“Cid.”

“Cid,” I repeated.

The bartender returned with our drinks. “Twenty-two fifty,” he said.

Chopper was shocked. “Wha?” he said.

“I got it,” I said and handed the bartender the fifty that I had offered Heavenly Petryk earlier. “Keep the change.”

Chopper looked at me as if I were insane. Cid smiled some more.

“McKenzie,” he said, “you didn’t come here to throw around your money. What can I do for you?”

“I have it on excellent authority that if anyone between Chicago and the West Coast knows what happened to the Jade Lily, it would be you.”

“I appreciate the flattery, but why bring Chicago into it?”

I spread my arms wide, the palms of my hands facing upward, as if I couldn’t think of a single reason.

“I know that the assistant director of security walked it out of the art museum Sunday night and handed it off to his associates,” Cid said. “I know that the next day he turned up dead, call it an occupational hazard. I know the artnappers contacted the museum Monday morning and offered to sell the item back for one-point-three million. I know that you were enlisted to act as go-between. Beyond that…”

This time he spread his arms and hands apart.

“Have you ever met the assistant director of security?”

“We don’t exactly travel in the same circles.”

“Do you have any idea who his associates might be?”

“Why would I?”

“I think it’s obvious that they stole the Lily with the intention of selling it back to the museum. However, with two shootings and the heat on, they might now be interested in a fence. Who else would they go to?”

Cid did indeed appreciate the flattery. He smiled and leaned against the wooden wall of the booth.

“There is no one else,” he said, “and I prefer the term facilitator. Unfortunately no, McKenzie. I haven’t heard anything.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“Yes, I think I would. I don’t appreciate it when out-of-towners piss in my soup without asking permission first. It’s a sign of disrespect.”

“You’re sure they’re from out of town?”

“I inquired among the usual suspects when I first learned of the heist—like I said, I was upset that the job was initiated without my consent.”

Good Lord, this guy is full of himself,
my inner voice said.
Who does he think he is, Kid Cann?

“I am now convinced that no local talent was involved,” Cid added. “It’s an out-of-town crew, all right. Maybe they recruited Tarpley, maybe he hired them, that I can’t say.”

“It does raise a question—why ask for me?”

“To act as go-between? I don’t know. After I spoke to Chopper, I had you checked out as well. You seem capable, but you’re inexperienced. You don’t have a history of this type of work.”

You’re telling me,
my inner voice said.

“Based on your expertise, what do you think of this crew?” I asked aloud.

“It’s hard to say after the fiasco in Loring Park last night.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. Now understand, the park was a good move. It demonstrated care and forethought. It was a test run, you see. That’s why they chose such a public place. They wanted to know if you could be trusted to come alone. Probably they hunkered down hours before, watched the exits and watched the traffic, saw how you handled the money, if you were nervous, if you were stand-up. When Noehring appeared, they should have just walked away. I don’t know why they didn’t. Shooting him was careless. In matters such as this, you invite as little police intervention as possible. Now—a cop killing? Everybody with a badge is looking for these guys. It’s bad for them. Bad for me. Bad for business. Bad all around. The police are leaning on anyone they can find.”

Cid looked at Chopper. “Have they rousted you yet?”

“No.”

“I’m sure they’ll get around to it. They’ve already chewed on my ass a number of times. And, gentlemen, the pressure isn’t going to let up until someone takes the fall. It doesn’t matter that Noehring was as dirty as they come. You knew that, didn’t you, McKenzie, that Noehring was dirty?”

I winced at the question. “What makes you say that?” I asked.

“Me and Noehring, we’ve had dealings, and they were always to his benefit.”

“Why do you think the artnappers killed him?”

“The only way it makes sense to me is if they thought Noehring was there to fuck them over—steal the money, steal the Lily. It puts them in a bad spot, though. Now the Lily is too hot to fence. Before the killing, they had the option of taking the Lily underground, wait a few years, and then find a private buyer. I know a dozen men in the Twin Cities alone who would have paid top dollar for the Jade Lily and then stash it in a vault until the statute of limitations ran out and they were able to establish a phony sales pedigree. Not now, not with a cop killing attached to it. There’s no time limit on that. The only thing the thieves can do now is either toss the Lily in a Dumpster or”—Cid wagged his index finger at me—“make the deal as previously agreed upon.”

“Then you think they’ll try again.”

“I know they will. Only next time, McKenzie, they’ll put you in a position where they can see trouble coming from a mile away. You’ll be isolated. You’ll be alone. An empty holster”—he pointed at the spot just behind my right hip where I carried the Beretta before Chopper made me give it up—“won’t help you.”

“You see a lot,” I said.

“It’s my business. Now let me ask you a question, McKenzie. Why did you smoke Heavenly’s boy?”

God, he’s well informed.

“How did you know about that?”

“Like I said, it’s my business. Besides, it isn’t the deepest, darkest secret in the world.”

“He went for the money,” I said.

“Odd.”

“In what way?”

“Heavenly doesn’t want the ransom. She wants the Lily. She wants to return it to its rightful owner, for which she expects to be handsomely rewarded. Personally, I don’t see the difference.”

“How do you know Heavenly Petryk?”

“Oh, I don’t know her,” Cid said. “Never met her. But I keep track of talent. They tell me she’s a stone babe. Almost as pretty as Tarpley’s wife—I’d have to see her myself to believe it, though.”

“Believe it.”

“I don’t get it, a woman like that. Why knock yourself out chasing a buck when you can marry for it and then divorce if it doesn’t work out?”

“Something to do with scruples, I guess.”

“In this line of work scruples can be a major hindrance.”

“I’m learning that.”

“You know, McKenzie, if you do get the Jade Lily back, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

“You, too?”

“Just putting it out there.”

“I thought you said it was too hot to fence.”

“In the United States. Europe, the Pacific Rim—who knows?”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

I thanked El Cid for his time. I slid out of the booth, and Cid did the same.

“Chopper, good to see you, man,” he said.

He and Chopper clasped hands, and then Cid bent down to give him a hug, the hands between them to prove that, despite the show of affection, they were both manly men. At the same time, Herzog stepped forward, his impassive face giving away nothing. At first, I thought he might grab the handles of Chopper’s wheelchair again and roll him away. Instead, he stepped to the table where the muscle was pretending to read his newspaper. He yanked the knit hat off the table. Beneath it was a small-caliber semiautomatic handgun—a Ruger, I think. He tossed the hat into the young man’s lap and smirked.

“Pussy,” he said.

Herzog spun around and headed for the door. Chopper and I followed him out. Neither one of us said a word to him.

*   *   *

It had started to snow while we were cloistered inside the unnamed bar, and the wind was whipping it around. It didn’t seem to bother Chopper, though. He tightened his gloves like a race car driver waiting for the starting flag and wheeled his chair forward; his tires seemed to give him plenty of traction. After Chopper cleared the far curb, Herzog aimed his remote control at the van. There was a clicking sound; the door to the van unlocked and slowly rolled open. As he approached the van, Chopper said, “Cid likes t’ think he a fuckin’ gangster. Likes t’ think he’s Don Corleone.”