Full Circle (18 page)

“How long’ll we be gone?”

“A few days, I’m not sure. Not beyond Wednesday, probably.”

“Jesus, that’s five days.”

“It could be a lot quicker. It just depends. Tell Mrs. Bonfigli I insist on paying her. A hundred dollars a day.”

“She’ll never accept it.”

“Then I’ll buy her a microwave.”

“She doesn’t
want
a microwave, Alan.”

“If she had a microwave, she’d love it. Guaranteed. Listen, I’m going to call C.B., then I’ll get back to you. Did you contact John Graham at the Fairmont?”

“He’s checked out.”

“
What?
”

“But he left a message on our machine. It’s a phone number.” There was a pause, then she read off the number.

“That’s a Los Angeles number.”

“I know.”

“Just the number? No message?”

“No message.”

“Okay, I’ll call C.B. and Graham, then call you back.”

“Right. Love you—in spite of everything.” The line clicked dead.

Warmed by her last words, smiling, Bernhardt put his electronic memo on the bed, punched in C. B. Tate, then touch-toned the number.

“Hey, Alan,” came the deep, rich Afro voice. “Hey, what’s happening? You hooked a big one down there, sounds like.”

At the sound of Tate’s voice, reassured, Bernhardt kept smiling. C. B. Tate was a big, black, bullet-headed bounty hunter, a modern-day samurai who drove a black Corvette and lived on a houseboat in the Sausalito Yacht Harbor. Born in the ghetto, Tate had run wild for his first eighteen years and then served hard time until he was thirty. He’d done some acting in San Quentin, and his parole officer had sent him to Bernhardt, anything to keep a parolee off the streets. By pure chance, Bernhardt had been about to cast
The Emperor Jones.
In the lead part, Tate had given a performance that at least one local critic had compared to Paul Robeson’s performance in the same role.

“I’ve hooked a big one,” Bernhardt said, “and I don’t want to get pulled out of the boat. Which could happen.”

“Ah.” It was a melodic monosyllable. “Ah, he’s quick with a quip, as ever. It’s always a pleasure, Alan. Especially when I seem to catch a fragrance of money.”

“If it works out, your end is twenty-five thousand, by Wednesday. If it doesn’t work out, you get five thousand.”

“By Wednesday?”

“By Wednesday.”

“You’ve got the money in hand, sounds like.”

“I’ve got two large checks. Very large checks.”

“Checks…” It was a doubtful rejoinder.

“They’re good, C.B. Believe it.”

“So what’re we talking about? What kind of job?”

“There’s going to be a swap—a van full of artwork in exchange for a hell of a lot of money. In cash. The transaction’ll take place in a safe house, then the cash has to be carried from the safe house to a millionaire’s mansion. It’ll happen in Los Angeles, in the next few days. Once the money’s delivered, that’s the end. After we take our slice, that is.”

“So we’re talking about muscle.”

“Right.”

“And guns?”

“Right again.”

“What about expenses?”

“Covered.”

“Sounds like we got a deal.”

“It’s five-fifteen now. Any chance you can get your stuff together and pick up Paula in the city and catch the ten o’clock shuttle down here? I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Jesus, Alan. It’s Saturday night. An old friend is coming over. We’re going to have steaks on the barbie. And scrambled eggs and lox with champagne for breakfast tomorrow.”

“C.B.—I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need help.”

“Hmmm…”

“Call her up.”

There was silence. Then: “I’ll call her. If I get her—if she hasn’t left already—I’ll see what she says. That’s the best I can do. We’re talking about my sex life, here.”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Right.” Tate copied the number, repeated it, and broke the connection. Immediately, Bernhardt touch-toned the number for John Graham in Los Angeles. It was a switchboard number for a hotel, and moments later John Graham’s smooth, reassuring voice came on the line.

“It’s Alan Bernhardt, Mr. Graham.”

“
Bernhardt!
” The single word resonated with pleasure. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Los Angeles.”

“Are you here in connection with the matter we discussed in San Francisco?”

“That’s right. And I’d like to talk with you. As soon as possible. I’m at the Prado, on Wilshire.”

“It sounds like you’re on an expense account.”

“That’s right.”

“Can I guess whose expense account?”

“Not on the phone.”

“I can be there in a half hour. Which room?”

“It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. A half hour.” The line went dead.

“M
Y GOD,” GRAHAM SAID
, “for a mild-mannered actor, you keep busy.” His eyes were speculative, cautiously intrigued.

“This whole thing came looking for me,” Bernhardt answered. “I’m running to keep up.”

“Yeah…” Graham spoke absently, plainly preoccupied with his private calculations. Then, refocusing, he leaned toward Bernhardt and began talking rapidly, intently: “I’ll give you my random thoughts, in no particular order. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“First, I’m thinking that it’s going to be very, very difficult to raise that much money between now and Wednesday. And then, God, that much money in currency—” He shook his head. “What’ll it weigh?”

“I don’t think DuBois’ll accept anything but cash. He doesn’t want a paper trail, obviously.”

“Does he know where to find a Brinks truck?” It was an ironic question. Then, more seriously: “What’s the name of his front organization?”

“Powers Associates.”

“Yeah. Well, during business hours, there wouldn’t be any problem wiring a few million to Powers Associates, ostensibly for a concealed stock transaction. That happens routinely, sometimes unkindly called money laundering. But—”

“I’m sure DuBois knows all about—”

“But before I could begin to get authorization for that much money I’d have to see the merchandise. Plus, I’d want to have an expert look at it, too.”

Bernhardt shook his head. “That’ll never happen. Not until the actual moment when the deal comes down. Which will not—repeat,
not
—happen on DuBois’s premises.”

“Have you actually seen these paintings?”

“Yes,” Bernhardt said. “I have. Today, in fact.”

“How many are there?”

“Fourteen paintings and three ceramics.”

“Do they look authentic to you?”

“Yes. But I’m no expert.”

For a long, silent moment, once again lost in thought, Graham stared down at the carpet. Finally he said, “Rock bottom minimum, I’ve got to have a description of the pieces—artist, title, approximate size, date, if any. I also need pictures. Polaroids.”

“No problem. At least, not getting the descriptions.”

“Really?” Graham’s expression was speculative, shrewd. “Can you make that decision without clearing it with DuBois?”

“No, I can’t. Not really. But if he doesn’t go along, then I’ll probably bow out.”

“And lose a lot of money.”

“In my opinion, he needs me more than I need him.”

“That’s your opinion.”

Bernhardt shrugged.

“I still think,” Graham insisted, “that the money should go through Powers Associates, by wire.”

“And I keep telling you, John, that it simply won’t happen. The reason being that DuBois doesn’t trust Justin Powers. Unless I’m badly mistaken, he’s going to dissolve their relationship.”

“Why?”

“It’s got a lot to do with the paintings—Betty Giles. That’s all I’ll tell you.”

Dressed Los Angeles casual in white canvas trousers, a striped boating shirt, and white designer sneakers, Graham sat slumped in an armchair, legs straight out, staring at his shoes. The shirt was short-sleeved, revealing heavily muscled forearms. At the neck, thick ginger-colored hair curled at the open collar. Watching Graham, remembering his Ivy League persona when they’d first met in front of the Federal Building in San Francisco, Bernhardt decided that Graham had acquired the gift of protective coloration, dressing and acting to blend into the background. His moods, too, were variable. In San Francisco he’d had been affable and open, quick and easy with a quip, charming and disarming. Here—now—Graham’s demeanor was moody, plainly projecting a caution edged with distrust.

Finally, frowning, Graham said, “There’s something wrong with all this.”

Bernhardt decided to make no response.

“Here’s one of the world’s richest, most powerful men,” Graham complained, “and he’s handing over a fortune in art to a virtual stranger. Then, after the deal comes down, he trusts that same stranger to trot dutifully back to home base carrying millions of dollars.”

Letting his impatience show, Bernhardt sighed, shifted irritably in his own chair. “I’ve already tried to explain that. He’s about to be indicted by a grand jury for receiving stolen goods—among other things. He’s got to move those paintings, or he’s screwed. And he can’t get out of his goddam wheelchair. He’s got to have help.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that he might be using you, Alan? Have you ever thought that—”

Bernhardt’s phone warbled. Without excusing himself he went to a small desk, picked up the phone on the second ring.

“It’s all set,” C. B. Tate said. “I promised to buy the lady a new jogging outfit if she’ll skip tonight. She’s into physical fitness. Her flesh is very firm, great muscle tone.”

Bernhardt glanced at his watch: seven-thirty. “Good. Have you talked to Paula?”

“Yeah. I’m picking her up in a half hour, give or take. She says not to worry about Crusher. Everything’s cool.”

“Great.” Bernhardt turned his back on Graham, lowered his voice. “Listen, bring some, ah, muscle.”

“Like guns, you mean.”

“Right.”

“What d’you want? My two nine-millimeter Brownings, like that?”

“Perfect. And mine. And Paula’s, too.”

“You got someone there with you, sounds like.”

“Correct.”

“So you want your three-fifty-seven and her thirty-eight. Right?”

“Right.”

“Nothing else? Your sawed-off?”

“We’ll get one of those here.”

“This is sounding more serious all the time,” Tate said.

“I know.”

“I’ll call you from the airport in San Francisco when I know the flight.”

“Fine. Thanks. I’ll pick you up in the drive-through.” Bernhardt cradled the phone and turned back to face Graham.

“You were, I gather, talking about guns.”

“No comment.”

“Do you mind if I make a personal observation, Alan?”

“Please.” Bernhardt gestured broadly.

“I think you’re getting in over your head here.”

“Oh?” It was a chilly monosyllable.

“Let’s assume that DuBois is right about the grand jury, about getting indicted on Thursday. What’s the first thing he’s got to do in the next few days?”

“He’s got to get the paintings out of the house before a judge issues a search warrant. He’s also got to find a buyer. You, for instance. You and Consolidated.”

Graham nodded judiciously. “It could happen. However, there’s nothing I can do until Monday. Absolutely nothing. That’s the first point.” He raised one finger. “Point number two”—the second finger came up—“I can tell you right now that no matter what’s in that secret gallery, no matter whether you have pictures, descriptions, everything, there’s no way I can get the company to go for twenty-five million, not without a duly certified appraisal.”

“That’s bullshit. The Renoir alone—
The Three Sisters
—is worth twenty-five million. You said so yourself.”

“If it’s genuine, yes. But if it’s a copy, it’s maybe worth a thousand.”

“But you know
The Three Sisters
is out there somewhere, in a secret collection. You told me that it—”

“Alan.” It was a condescending rejoinder, tainted with smugness. “You’re new at this game. Allow me to enlighten you.” For the first time in the last hour, Graham’s frown eased. Clearly he savored the pundit’s role.

“When a major painting is stolen, and disappears for a year or two,” Graham said, “as we’ve already discussed, the first thing an unscrupulous art fence would do would be to have it copied. That’s especially true of the French Impressionists that’re easily copied. Then, when the time comes, he’d—”

“I thought you said Ned Frazer was honest.”

“He
was
honest. But I’m talking about—”

“He’s the one who sold
The Three Sisters
to DuBois. I know that for a fact.”

“Alan.” Now the condescension had turned long-suffering. “I’m sure you’re right. All I’m telling you is that, if DuBois won’t allow an expert to look at the goods, there’s no way—none—that I can go more than ten million for the whole collection.” Graham shrugged, spread his hands, smiled slightly, wearily. “If the stuff is genuine, then I’m a hero. If not, I could’ve spent ten million of the company’s money for stuff worth maybe twenty-five thousand.”

“So what’re you saying?” Bernhardt asked irritably. “What’s the bottom line?”

“I’m saying that first thing Monday, I’ll call my people in New York. I’ll describe the situation to them. I’ve been in Los Angeles for a couple of days, and I’ve opened a bank account here. I’ll recommend that my people wire ten million dollars into that account. If they agree, then we might have a deal.”

“DuBois’ll never take the ten million.”

“Alan.” Graham projected a world-weary sigh. “People like DuBois never say never. Never.”

“He told me specifically that—”

“You talk to DuBois, and I’ll talk to my people. Then, probably Monday afternoon, let’s you and I talk.”

“You came down here two days ago. Why?”

“I figured center stage had shifted from San Francisco to L. A. You realize, I assume, that until now you were a minor character in all this. The feds want Betty Giles, and they figured they could get to her through you. Maybe they still figure that way. But me, I decided this was where it would all come down, with or without Betty Giles.”

Bernhardt made no response. When Graham left, he would phone Grace Campbell, ask her to put him in touch with Albert Robbins, DuBois’s lawyer.