Nightwork, page 20
“I’m gonna warm up the red beans and rice, and some of these taters. And you tell me what you’re doing eating in my kitchen instead of snuggled up with that girl you told me about. The redheaded girl.”
Booth just shook his head, but Sebastien didn’t need words to see.
“Ah. Sometimes love, it turns away from us.”
“I did the turning. I had to. I had to make her hate me.”
“Why?”
“LaPorte,” Booth said, and told Sebastien everything.
“Picon! Fuck him to hell and back again. I don’t take the work up north, not in many years, this is true. But he has others. For him, you’re like the statue. He wants to own you.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“We’re gonna figure this out, tu saisis? You go back to your college and your girl, you make things up with her.”
“I can’t. He’ll use her, Mags, you, anyone I care about to get to me. And next time he might not settle for busting up some furniture.”
“What do you want to do? What you want, I’m with you.”
“I picked up some prepaid phones. I’m sending one to Mags, and leaving one with you. I’ll give you the number of mine. I’ve already ditched my other phone. It’s probably overkill, but he’s got a long reach. He can’t use me if he can’t find me. There’s no point in hurting people I care about if he can’t find me.”
“Where you gonna go?”
“I’m going to drive to Atlanta, sell my car. It’s time for that anyway. Change my name, again, and use some of his goddamn money to book a private plane. They don’t x-ray your luggage and stuff. Gotta buy some good luggage. Some casual designer clothes, that sort of thing. Look the part of somebody who can fly private from Atlanta to Paris. I’ll start in Paris, then we’ll see.”
“Rich young Frenchman—rich family. You’re going to be Paris French, so put on the snob. Louis Vuitton luggage, and you buy Italian shoes, sunglasses.”
“I got it.”
“You let me know when you get there. I’m going to worry about you.”
“Don’t. I’ll be fine. Let Mags know, okay? Tell her I’ll call her on the new phone in a few days. I’ll be fine,” he said again. “I always wanted to go to Europe. It might as well be now.”
He pushed up, went to his pack for the phone. “My number’s in there, and so’s the number for the one I’ll send Mags. I’m going to get started. Thanks for the food.”
“You don’t thank me for that. We’re family.” He took Booth by the shoulders. “You come here anytime, you hear? And when you feel it’s safe for you, I’ll come to you, me. Mags and I will come to you.”
Sebastien hugged him, slapped his back. “I have three pretty girls. And I have one handsome boy. Why don’t you stay tonight, get more sleep?”
“Better to drive at night. He’d figure I’d come here, so it’s better to keep moving. Tell Dauphine … tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t go see her.”
On December 30, Henri Metarie boarded a private jet in Atlanta. He had sun-streaked, light brown hair worn in shaggy waves. He had a hip-length bronze leather jacket over a navy cashmere turtleneck, Armani sunglasses—though the sun had already started to set—and snug black jeans.
His Piaget watch—a knockoff, but it would pass—had a black leather band.
He spoke little, and then in perfect English with a clipped Parisian accent. The flight attendant assigned to tend to him told the pilot he seemed bored and snooty.
That would have pleased him.
He landed in Paris on a misty winter morning, and slid through customs as the rich and privileged do. His passport had the numerous stamps of the frequent and international traveler.
Here, it received its first legal one.
“Bienvenue, Monsieur Metarie.”
He gave the customs agent the slightest nod. “Merci.”
And with everything he cared about behind him, he walked through the airport and into the next world.
* * *
He spent most of his twenties in Europe, exploring, working, even hiking and biking. In France he focused on what Sebastien called baubles, and shifted from a flat in Paris, to a cottage in Provence, to a castle hotel in the Loire Valley.
He took cooking lessons from a student at Le Cordon Bleu, and shared her bed after learning how to prepare the perfect macaroon.
In Italy, it was art, to admire and to steal, as he basked in the glory of the light in Florence, the magic of the canals in Venice, the antiquities of Rome.
He traveled to Greece, and learned the language, to England and Ireland, to Sicily and Tuscany. He learned to travel through Europe as casually as he’d once ridden his bike through his old Chicago neighborhood.
Once a year, as pinky sworn, he spent a few days with Mags.
He’d pick a spot—a villa in Tuscany, a house in Bar Harbor, whatever appealed. She often traveled with Sebastien, and he’d have those days to catch up on what her life had been.
At twenty-seven, he was wealthy, well-traveled, spoke ten languages, eight of which he considered himself fluent in. He’d seen the world, or enough of it.
And aside from those few days every year, he was alone.
He sat on the terrace of a pretty villa on the coast of Italy, and sipped wine, looked out on the Med and the boats gliding over it.
Mags sat beside him. She’d come alone, as Bluto had, the previous winter, gone to the big doghouse in the sky. Sebastien had a new puppy, just weaned, and hadn’t been willing to leave him as yet.
“He’s insane over the puppy,” Mags said. “I know having Wiley helped him through the grief.”
“Like Coyote, right? Wile E. Coyote? He would name his dogs after not only cartoon characters but the bad guy. Sort of bad guy, I guess.”
Reaching out, she took his hand, just held it as they sat.
He’d told her she looked fantastic, and he hadn’t had to exaggerate. She still wore her hair long and wild, and now flame red with generous streaks of glinting gold.
“I have some news,” she began.
“Good news or bad news?”
“I think very good, for me. I’m moving.”
“Again?”
She’d left Santa Fe when he’d left the US, and tried on Sedona.
“Again. I’m moving to New Orleans.”
That got his attention, and he shifted to her. “You’re not moving into the cottage with Sebastien. I know the two of you … I know about that, and I love the man, sincerely, but it’s the bayou, and it’s—”
“Sebastien and I both like having our own space. Between my business and the fact you keep throwing money at me—”
“You’re my family.”
“And you’re mine, pal. Anyway, I’m buying my own place. Not renting this go-around. It’s time to have my own. Dauphine and her man helped me find one. And since Luc’s handy, he’s going to help me fix it up. My way. It’s a nice little place, and I’m going to have a magical shop street level. It’s just big enough. Big enough for you to come visit, come stay. I know you haven’t been back to New Orleans in years, so maybe it’s time, or will be soon.”
“Maybe.”
“And some more news? Dauphine’s expecting.”
“Expecting what?”
Mags let out a laugh that turned into a hoot, then hiccupping gasps as she pressed a hand to her ribs.
“A baby, you dumbass.”
“A what? Really? Holy shit! Is she happy? Is it good? Is she good?”
“She’s ecstatic, and very good. So good Luc’s finally convinced her to marry him. Next month. She hopes you’ll come, understands if you can’t.”
Boats glided by on the sea, the wide, blue sea.
“I wish I could. I really do. It’s just the sort of thing he’d look for.”
“Oh, honey, that fuckhead can’t still be looking for you. I swear to God nobody’s bothered me. I’d tell you.”
“I know you would, but his type doesn’t hear no. Or when he does, he has to make you pay for it. And he got a whiff of me in Prague last fall. I got tipped off, but he’s still got feelers out.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“It was a whiff, and that’s all he got.” He kissed the hand that held his. “Tell Dauphine I wish her the best of everything. With the baby, with Luc. And I’ll come back, I will. Soon. Things are getting a little warm here anyway.”
“You don’t mean the weather.”
“They’ve given me a name. The people who look for people like me. The Chameleon. I like it,” he admitted, “but when they figure out your style enough to name you? It’s getting warm.”
“You could stop.”
He made a noncommittal sound. “I was thinking about checking out Rio, getting a look at South America, the Amazon. Maybe a year or two there, or maybe in the States. Thinking anyway. Or Australia, New Zealand. A nice vacation maybe.”
“I think you got those itchy feet from me.”
He looked at her, his crazy aunt Mags, his family, his constant. No one knew him the way she did. No one else remembered the boy he’d been, his mother, their life.
“Let’s take our itchy feet and walk down to the village. You haven’t had a chance to do any shopping yet.”
“You know me.” But she gave the hand she still held another squeeze. “Who’d have thought we’d ever sit here like this, in a villa in Sorrento, with the Med spread all out just for us.”
“The world’s an oyster, Mags. You just have to pry it open and take the pearl.”
* * *
A few weeks in Rio netted rubies before he headed to Peru for emeralds and a cruise on the Amazon.
He settled a score in Peru and found a way to see one of LaPorte’s less refined, and more brutal, tools ended up in a cage.
It felt good. It felt … just.
And it sent him away from South America to the South Pacific.
Three months in Australia brought him opals and an interesting little Seurat monochrome. He dove the Great Barrier Reef.
New Zealand was for kayaking and hiking, and the always reliable stamps.
He had a week with Mags and Sebastien on Fiji.
Nine years after he’d landed in Paris for the first time, he returned. Willem Dauphine, an art broker, currently based in London. This time he stayed in the art nouveau splendor of the Peninsula in the heart of the city.
A conservative man, Willem wore perfectly tailored suits, usually with an Hermès tie and pocket square. He kept his dark blond hair short and brushed back, favored tortoiseshell glasses, and clean, close shaves.
He had a small scar along his right jawline, and a pronounced overbite.
He also had a small, furnished flat in another part of the city that served as his work space. He visited museums and galleries, but his target was the Musée National d’Art Moderne, and an exquisite Matisse still life.
There he made an appointment with the assistant director, a fashionable middle-aged woman in a severe black suit who offered him coffee.
Though he found it strong enough to melt the enamel on his teeth, he took it black.
They held their conversation in fluid and formal French.
“Thank you, Madame Drussalt, for meeting with me. I know your time is valuable.”
“As all time is.”
“Of course. I represent a client who has inherited a collection of art, a private collection, you understand. I have persuaded—or begun to persuade—this client to share this collection with the world.”
“And who is this client?”
“I am not yet at liberty to say, but only to divulge that the collection, while small, contains what I consider important pieces of Fauvism. Six pieces in total, which have been in this private collection for two generations.”
“I am unaware of such a collection.”
“As you would be, madame. It is kept in a private room in a private home. And this, I believe, is not the purpose of art, and so I urge my client to bring out what has been closed away. I am assigned, so to speak, to have a conversation here, as in London, in Rome, in New York, and to take back to my client more details, which might persuade a permanent loan of the collection.”
“You wish for us to display this collection, but can tell me nothing of it or your client.”
“I wish to persuade my client. This is the first obstacle. I will be frank.”
She waved a hand. “Please.”
“My client has no true interest in art. I wish to pull her away from selling the paintings, going to auction, where they may, again, be held privately. My client has no need to profit from them, you see. I don’t speak to my client of the purpose of art, but of the prestige of a plaque in a great museum, a plaque bearing her name as donor. The publicity generated from such a gift and so on. And with this, my client is persuaded enough to allow me to … test the waters.”
“I see.”
“I live and work in London, madame, but I am a Frenchman. If I could choose, the collection would come here. Still, my priority is to see these works are given to the world. There are others whose priority is the selling of them, or the keeping of them as they are now. I want to take her some assurances on the benefits, to her, of this donation.”
“You wish to put conditions on a gift.”
“I’m aware of policy, but seek some assurance that if this collection is found worthy, it will be displayed with a plaque.” He closed his eyes briefly. “There must be a plaque, and some pomp surrounding the gift.”
As if struggling with stress, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I am not at liberty to divulge, but I am sure, madame, you’re aware of the exhibition in the Salon d’Automne, in 1905, its controversies. Van Dongen participated, did he not?”
Interest flickered into her eyes. “He did.”
“With Matisse, Marquet, and others. It is then, yes, these artists with their bold use of colors were termed Fauves. The wild beasts of art. Van Dongen, we know, moved to Montmartre, was friendly with Picasso. And became a favorite of French society with his portraits.
“You might find it interesting that the grandmother of my client also lived in Montmartre. A strikingly beautiful woman in her day.” He paused dramatically. “I have seen her portrait.”
“Ah.”
“If I can assure you this collection contains works of this importance, I wonder if you can assure my client in turn how they would be received? All, for now, hypothetical.”
It earned him a VIP tour, and because of the major art theft in May of 2010, “assurances” regarding security.
He went straight to the flat to work. After checking out of the hotel the next day, he flew to Rome, where he repeated the scenario at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna e Contemporanea. There he let it be known he’d been called back to London by the client.
He flew to London, then erased Dauphine, became Jacques Picot, and drove in his newly purchased Mini back to the flat in Paris.
There, with a scruffy beard, long dark hair, John Lennon glasses, a silver stud in his left ear, and a prominent nose, he worked two full weeks on plans for the heist.
And there, he learned LaPorte had gotten more than a whiff.
Later, he’d imagined what might have happened if he hadn’t decided to take a walk on a pretty autumn afternoon in Paris, hadn’t decided to indulge in a pastry, and wandered by the George V with it.
If he hadn’t seen LaPorte sliding out of the limo and, flanked by his bodyguard, greeted by the hotel manager, walking into the grand old hotel.
The hotel within walking distance of the museum. Within walking distance of his flat. To check in only days before he’d planned to steal the Matisse.
The world could be a small place, but not that small.
He didn’t run, but kept right on strolling, and cursed himself for returning to Paris, to Europe. He should have crossed it off the list—and now he would.
In the flat, he broke down his equipment, packed, and wiped down every surface. To tie off loose ends, he contacted the landlord and tearfully told him his grandmother in Nice had died, suddenly and unexpectedly.
As he drove out of Paris, he thought of the weeks of work, the planning, the travel, the damn Matisse, all gone for nothing because one man had decided to own him.
He’d dropped some crumbs somewhere, he thought. Just enough, somewhere, for whoever LaPorte had on his ass to follow.
And but for a pain au chocolat, he’d very likely have been cornered, again. He didn’t go back to London, or drive to Nice, but made his way to Calais, where he sold the Mini for peanuts, boarded a train—another look, another name—to Belgium.
He traveled from Belgium into Germany, shedding personas like skin until he was certain he didn’t feel any breath on the back of his neck.
He arrived in New York a few days before Christmas and lost himself in the city for most of a cold, lonely winter.
* * *
On Fat Tuesday, Mags danced in the street with Sebastien. Traditions deserved respect, after all. The evening was young, but Dauphine and Luc had a toddler to get home to, and Mardi Gras ran all day. They could have danced on the balcony of her pretty house and seen most of the action, thrown their beads to those reveling below.
But not on Fat Tuesday.
She and Dauphine had pulled in constant business that week in the Crystal Ball, the gift shop and physic reading room they ran in the rooms below that balcony.
Life, Mags thought as the music blared and the beads flew, was almost perfect. It would have rung the bell on perfect if she heard from Harry—Booth—Silas—whatever name he carried now.
But he’d warned her communication would have to be spotty for a while longer.
She always carried the phone, just in case, but it hadn’t rung or vibrated in more than six weeks. So she carried the nagging worry along with it.
Then it did. It vibrated in her pocket as trumpets blared.
She yanked it out, had to remind herself not to use names yet—in case. She just said, “Hello.”
“Hi, Mags. Happy Mardi Gras.”
“Oh, pal, it’s so good to hear your voice.” She gripped Sebastien’s hand as she spoke, and the look she sent Dauphine, just a little teary, said it all.
