Marked Man (33 page)

I took the expressway to
I-95 and followed it south, through Chester, around Wilmington, continuing on the way to Baltimore and Washington, D.C. I kept careful watch on my rearview mirror and spotted nothing, which meant not a whole lot. It was becoming pretty damn clear that I had no idea for the life of me how to spot a tail.

I sped up, slowed down, I pulled over and stopped, started again and wove my way through traffic. They were there, I had no doubt, Fred and thick little Louie, in their Impala or boxy Buick or two-tone Chevy with whitewall tires. They were there because I had told everyone and his brother that I was bringing Charlie home. They were there, but they were hidden from my gaze. Still I kept looking. Why? Because they would expect me to keep looking.

I paid my toll into Maryland and kept on driving, south, south. Whatever I-95 is, it is not the scenic route. I jiggled around in my seat, fiddled with the radio. Sports talk, news, classic rock. What is up with classic rock? Get your own damn music, why don’t you? Oh, yeah, they did and they didn’t like it, so they come after ours. I jiggled some more in my seat, as if my bladder were bursting. Oh, good, a rest stop. I swerved right, cut off a van, and headed in.

I slammed into a parking spot, hopped out, looked behind me a couple times as I hustled into the building. It had the usual crap: a Burger King, a Mrs. Fields Cookies, Pizza Hut Express, Popeye’s Fried Chicken, and then, to salve your conscience, a TCBY. Worth a visit all on its own, wouldn’t you say? But it also had Starbucks to keep you
awake and a bathroom to pass all the coffee that was keeping you awake. I headed straight to the bathroom, to the left of the entrance. Looked around and then entered one of the stalls, second from the end. It was occupied.

“Here you go, mate,” said Skink in a whisper as he handed me a set of blue overalls and a hat. He was wearing a suit exactly like mine, same tie and shoes.

“You look good, Skink.”

“You want me to dress like you again, you gots to start dressing better. Hurry.”

“I sort of need to pee,” I said.

“No time.”

I tossed him my keys and started to climb into the overalls. “I’m parked third row back, right in front of the entrance.”

“Swell.”

“You don’t look anything like me.”

“Can’t be helped. I’ll hang here for a bit and then put a hand to my face. By the time they cotton that I’m not you, you should be long gone.”

“If my ride shows.”

“That was up to you, mate.”

“Be careful when you go out there. They won’t be so pleased to see you.”

“They’s the ones ought to be careful. Out you go.”

I tugged on the hat, shook my head a couple of times, and then settled into a bent slouch, like I’d been steering an eighteen-wheeler for twelve hours straight. I gave Skink a good-old-boy bang in the shoulder before I left the stall.

Keeping the slouch, I looked around the bathroom as I rinsed my hands. One old guy stood at a urinal, a young kid was washing up. Nothing there to worry about. I grimaced into the mirror, set the hat just so, and headed out of the bathroom.

The entrance I had come in was to the left, I darted right and ducked into a little shop selling candy and books. At the end of the shop was a door that led to the gas station. As soon as I stepped through the door, a white-and-green cab shot out of a parking spot and came right at me, swerving at the last second so that the front
passenger door stopped right at my hip. I opened the door, looked in, and hesitated a moment before jumping inside. Off we went, hitting the northbound exit of the highway.

“Why the hell is she here?” I said, thumbing toward the backseat.

“The lady insisted on coming,” said Joey Pride.

“We have to drop her somewhere.”

“Don’t think she’ll be dropped.”

“Monica,” I said angrily. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You told me to meet Joey,” she said.

“And give him the message and then let him go off without you.”

“That second part sort of slipped my mind.”

“Monica.”

“Charlie is going to tell you what he knows about my sister.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I need to be there. I told you I waited long enough for the truth.”

“You couldn’t get rid of her, Joey?”

“I had about as much success as you’re having. But it makes the view in my rearview a hell of a lot nicer, I’ll tell you that.”

“And why are we in a cab? I told my father to tell you to borrow something different.”

“I did. From my friend Hookie.”

“But it’s still a cab.”

“Not my cab. So where are we headed?”

“To a morgue, most likely. This is a foul-up. This is a complete mess. Were you followed?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I got the eyes of a falcon. We’re clean.”

“For the time being. We’re not going to be able to get rid of you, Monica?”

“No,” said Monica.

“Crap. Okay, I have to make a call. Joey, keep going north until we reach 295 East, then go over the Delaware Memorial Bridge. We’re heading into the Garden State.”

We were traveling east,
toward familiar turf. If all was going as planned, by now Skink would have led my tail through Baltimore and toward Washington, D.C. I figured two more thugs in the nation’s capital wouldn’t make much difference. Elect them to the Senate, turn them into whips, we might actually get something done.

“It would be quicker if we take the expressway,” said Joey.

“No, this road is perfect,” I said, and it was, a two-lane jobber heading through small towns and farmers’ fields, past small produce markets selling tomatoes and leeks. We went slowly, and every now and then we pulled over to the side of the road and let people pass. No one seemed to be hanging back with us.

“I ain’t seen Charlie for fifteen, twenty years,” said Joey. “He’s been more memory than real, a wisp of smoke. Don’t know if I should hug him or slug him in the face.”

“A little of both, I expect,” I said. “I talked to the prosecutors about you, Joey.”

“And what did them little darlings say?”

“They agreed to a deal. They’ll give you immunity if you tell them everything you know about the robbery.”

“Just the robbery?”

“And the girl.”

“Yeah, I figured she would be involved. What does immunity mean?”

“They can’t do anything to you.”

“Then maybe, after all is said and done, I don’t deserve no immunity.”

“There’s a lot of ways you can make amends for whatever happened, other than going to jail.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me how, Reverend.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Thirty years ago you tried to save your life through a crime. That didn’t work out so well. Maybe this time you can save it by looking clear-eyed at what you are and what you did. Maybe you can make amends by becoming something better based on the truth.”

“I’d rather do the time.”

“You know what it’s like inside better than I do.”

“You made that deal for me?”

“Yes.”

“What do I owe you?”

“You’re paying it off as we drive. Pull in over there.”

“It’s empty.”

“Perfect,” I said.

We were at an abandoned farmer’s stand on the left side of the road. Schmidty’s Farmer’s Market was long deserted, the stand falling in on itself, the signs advertising summer corn and vine-ripened tomatoes weathered and worn. I got out of the taxi and did a quick inspection. The weeds and trees on either side of the lot had encroached upon the center, leaving it like an oasis within the middle of an overgrown woods. Between the collapsing structure and the road was a gravel lot, and behind the stand was another parking area, this second lot overgrown with high grasses and stalky weeds. To the side of the stand was a picnic table that was still in decent shape. Apparently the place was now used as a rest stop for travelers caught in Sunday-evening traffic driving home from the shore.

“About how far are we from the ocean?” I asked Joey.

“Maybe twenty,” said Joey.

“Okay, I have to make a call.”

“Does he know I’m with you?” said Joey.

“He will,” I said.

I went off to the side of the stand, looked around again and flipped open my phone.

“Let’s go,” I said when I had climbed back into the cab. “Keep heading east and follow the signs to Ocean City.”

C
HARLIE WAS
sitting on a bench on the boardwalk. He was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses and his usual socks in sandals. His idea of a disguise. After what happened last time, this would not have been my first pick for a meeting place, or my second or my third, but Mrs. Kalakos told me to find Charlie at the same location and hadn’t given me much choice about it, so here I was.

“Nice costume,” I said as I sat beside him and handed over a vanilla custard I had bought him.

“I look like I drive NASCAR. Do I look like I drive NASCAR?”

“The sandals cinch it. Couldn’t you have picked someplace different?”

“Who would think we’d be dumb enough to meet at the same corner of the boardwalk?”

“Not I,” I said.

“Everything arranged?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What’s the deal?”

“You answer all their questions, don’t hold anything back, tell them everything you know about the Warrick gang and the robbery, especially about your old friend Teddy Pravitz, and you’ll be given protective custody with no more than a couple of years. After that, if you want witness protection, you can get it.”

“Can they back out once I show up?”

“Not really. I have the offer in writing, and I’m going to take a precaution to make sure they keep their word.”

“I have to tell them everything?”

“Yes.”

“Even about the girl?”

“That’s the most important part.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ve been holding it in for a long time now, haven’t you, Charlie?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You once told me your life had turned to crap. I think it’s because
of what happened to the girl and the way it’s twisted you around, the way it twisted all of you. You wanted to do that robbery to start a new life, but look at the life you ended up with, more crime, more filth. And then flight, turning yourself into a vagabond. It’s all because of the girl. You can’t start anew without coming to grips with the crimes of your past.”

“What does my mom say?”

“She just wants you home. To say good-bye.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She looks pretty chipper, actually. She wanted to show me her knife.”

“I told you from the start she’d outlive us both. What about that guy you set me up with? What was his name? Lilac?”

“Lavender.”

“Right.”

“Here’s the story. I set it up so that your agreement with the government does not require that you give them the painting. The only thing that can screw up your deal with the government is if you don’t tell them the entire truth. Selling the painting to Lavender Hill could constitute a crime not covered by the agreement. Lying about selling the painting could screw up your plea deal. But the amount of money realized could be enormous. I can’t make the decision for you, but I can relay any message you want to send to Mr. Hill. Put it in an envelope without showing it to me, and I’ll get it to him. What’s in the message and how it works out after that is up to you.”

“So you’re saying I could tell him where the painting is and not tell you and then lie to the cops.”

“That would put your plea agreement at risk, but it could be done.”

“How many years could I get for selling the painting?”

“A few more.”

“It might be worth it.”

“That’s your decision.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“It’s a lot of money, Charlie. There’s a lot you could do with that money.”

“Let me think on it.”

“Okay. We have to make one stop, and then we’ll see your mother.”

“I’m shaking.”

“Happiness or fear?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you didn’t eat your ice cream cone.”

He looked down at the vanilla cone in his fist, with its dripping frozen custard and its smear of sprinkles. He stood and tossed it into the trash can by the bench.

“You ready?” I said.

“No.”

“Good, then let’s go and start your life all over again.”

It was a strange reunion,
two old friends with a long-buried secret who hadn’t seen each other in decades. Joey Pride and Charlie Kalakos.

The cab was parked on a side street just off the boardwalk, and when we reached it, Joey was outside, leaning on the fender, giving Charlie a hard look. There was a shake and then an awkward reticence, with shoes kicking at the asphalt. I introduced Charlie to Monica. Charlie’s head cocked when he heard her last name.

“That’s the same as the girl,” he said.

“Yes it is.”

“You related?”

“I’m her sister,” said Monica.

The two looked at each other and kept their distance. And then, cutting through the tension, Joey loosed a shot of anger.

“You were trying to dick us out of our share, you little Greek snake,” said Joey. “You were leaving your oldest friends out on the side of your highway to happiness.”

“I wouldn’t have done that, Joey. I wouldn’t have done that.”

“We all deserved a taste.”

“I know that, Joey. I do.”

“You heard about Ralphie?”

“Yeah.”

“It was your old running buddies who did it to him. They was looking for you.”

“They aren’t my friends no more, not for a long time.”

“If you just kept your mouth shut and stayed away, none of this would have happened.”

“It was my mother.”

“What you say?”

“It was just that my mother—”

“Still the same, ain’t you, Charlie? When you going to break away?”

“I thought I had.”

“Fool. She’ll be dead and buried, and you’ll still be tugging at her apron. ‘Mama, Mama, what am I going to do?’ What are we going to do, Charlie?”

“I guess we’re going to tell them what happened.”

“I guess we are. What about the painting?”

“I don’t know?”

“You still got it?”

“I know where I put it.”

“You going to sell it?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, let me tell you this, you Greek snake.” He stepped forward, stuck a finger in Charlie’s chest. “I don’t want nothing from it no more.”

“What?”

“Don’t include me.”

“You sure?”

“It still haunts me.”

“Yeah, I think I understand.”

“What do you understand?”

“I think about her, too. A lot more lately, after Victor showed me the picture.”

“Well, then, maybe you do.”

“Guys,” I said, breaking in. “This is sweet and all, quite the tender moment, but can we get moving? We still have a lot to do, and there are people trying to kill us.”

“Kill him,” said Joey, jerking his thumb at Charlie.

“I don’t think they care about the body count, do you? Let’s go.”

We piled into the cab, Joey and I in the front seat, Charlie sitting in the back next to Monica, and headed out of Ocean City. We drove
around the traffic circle at Somers Point, with its bars and liquor stores. Signs pointed toward the Garden State Parkway, which led to the Atlantic City Expressway and straight to the heart of Philadelphia.

“Let’s go back the way we came,” I said.

“That’s way the hell out of the way,” said Joey.

“So it is, but we have another stop to make.”

“Where?”

“To buy some tomatoes. Nothing better than a Jersey tomato fresh off the vine.”

“We’re not hungry,” said Joey.

Charlie said, “I could use a little—”

“Let’s just get on with this,” said Joey. “We’re not hungry.”

“That’s good,” I said, “because they might be a little out of stock.”

We headed back, through traffic and past strip malls, toward the long two-lane road on which we’d come east. I had Joey keep careful check on his rearview mirror to see if he caught anything in the least suspicious, but he said it looked clean. About ten miles along, there it was on our side of the road. The broken-down shed of Schmidty’s Farmer’s Market.

Parked in front was a generic silver midsize rental. On the table to the side was a large picnic basket, red-checked tablecloth festively sticking out one of its sides. And sitting on the bench in front of the basket, her pretty legs crossed, her eyes crinkled in welcome and her hand waving hello, was Rhonda Harris.

I told Joey to park the cab in the weed-strewn lot behind the shed. A cab might attract some unwanted attention, while a single car and a few picnickers would look totally in place. Rhonda had taken verisimilitude to a new level. After a few moments of setup, we were all seated at the table with the tablecloth spread, our paper plates loaded with fried chicken and potato salad, our paper cups topped up with soda or wine. A few citronella candles burned in their clear plastic shades.

Rhonda started to ask Charlie a question, but I cut her right off. “Before you do anything, you have to promise to hold the story until I give the okay,” I said.

“I promise,” said Rhonda Harris.

“I don’t want the bastard behind it all to lam out before the cops can nab him. But I also want to give Charlie a chance to get his story on the record before the feds get hold of him.”

“To keep the prosecutors honest or your client honest?”

“Both,” I said. “And to make sure our friend in L.A. pays the full price for what he did.” I looked at Charlie. “Are we ready?”

Charlie nodded.

“Okay, Rhonda,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“Hello, Charlie,” she said with a bright smile. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

“Ain’t you the lucky one, then?” said Charlie.

And right there, as cars whizzed by on their way to or from the shore, she conducted her interview, with both Charlie Kalakos and Joey Pride pitching in to tell the whole sad and fabulous story of the greatest art heist in the history of a city known for its robberies and rip-offs.

“What about your life on the run, Charlie?” said Rhonda once the old men had finished telling her the details of the robbery. “Tell me what you’ve been up to after skipping bail fifteen years ago.”

“What’s there to tell?” said Charlie. “It was a whole lotta crap.” And then he proceeded to give us a sad recitation about the long period of his exile: the mean apartments he was able to rent without identification, the menial jobs that kept him afloat, his inability, without his mother’s influence, to create any kind of meaningful life for himself. As he spoke, I kept changing my mind about Mrs. Kalakos. Was she a monster, an eater of dreams, or the rock of reality that kept those around her from floating into the ether and expanding into nothingness?

“Okay,” said Rhonda after Charlie arrived at the part about his first meeting with me and his decision to come home, “I think that’s everything except for the Rembrandt. What happened to the Rembrandt?”

“That’s involved with the girl,” said Charlie.

“Girl?”

“The girl’s the point of this whole thing,” I said. “It’s why you’re here. To write about the girl.”

Rhonda looked at me a little startled. In the darkening evening, with the red of the sky behind her and the yellow of the candles on her face, she had a weird, demonic glow. “No one told me about a girl,” she said. “What girl?”

“Her name was Chantal Adair,” said Monica. “She was my sister, and that’s why I’m here, too. To hear Charlie tell me about Chantal.”

“Joey knows what happened to her, same as me,” said Charlie. “We all did. We were all a part.”

“But you the one that was there,” said Joey. “You the one that was handed the painting. It’s your story, Charlie boy. You tell it.”

Charlie sat quietly for a long while.

“Go ahead, Charlie, and tell us about the girl,” said Rhonda Harris as she fiddled with her tape player. And after another long moment, as we slipped into the gloaming, Charlie did.