Now, I know that something is up. The Art Hedison I know loves nothing more than to put me in my place by calling me Nicky.
“I’m good,” I say without missing a beat.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Art says.
I shrug. “That’s more up to you than to me. And Owen has been rather indisposed.”
“How’s he feeling?”
“Good. They discharged him. No memory loss. I’m not sure he’s fully physically back but you know…” I say.
I’m not revealing anything he doesn’t already know.
I haven’t seen him at the hospital, of course, but I’m sure that his office has had a watchful eye over the place, if not direct contact with his doctors and nurses.
“He still hates me, in case you’re wondering,” I add. “So I haven’t found out anything more than what I told you before.”
Art takes a few satisfying gulps of his whiskey and asks the bartender for a refill.
Suddenly, it dawns on me that this meeting might not be about Owen at all.
14
Nicholas
When he tells me what he really wants…
I wait silently for Art to say something but he doesn’t. He just swishes the whiskey in his glass round and round.
I’m tempted to pester him but I decide to bide my time.
If he wants something from me and needs to build up the courage to ask, then I will just wait.
“Let’s go talk somewhere else,” he says.
He pays both of our tabs and I follow him outside.
I assume we’re going to go back to the alley where we usually do our business.
It’s long and narrow with no windows pointed at it from the nearby windows making it the perfect place to talk about private things.
But he surprises me once again.
He leads me to the brightly lit diner across the street.
It’s pretty empty and he takes a seat in a booth at the far end, as far away from prying ears as possible.
When the waitress comes with our coffees, I order the number three breakfast with scrambled eggs, sourdough toast, and an avocado on the side.
Art asks for a stack of pancakes with eggs.
While we wait, I’m again tempted to ask him what he wants but I again force myself to wait.
I don’t want to make this easy for him.
If he wants to ask me a favor, which at this point I’m pretty sure he does, he’ll have to actually ask.
“I need your help,” Art says, looking me straight in the eye.
Unlike in the bar where we were sitting shoulder to shoulder, here in this booth, directly across from each other, there is nowhere to hide so he doesn’t bother.
“What kind of help?” I ask.
Art looks around and lowers his voice. “Let me see your phone,” he finally says.
I pull it out of my pocket and lay it on the table.
“You’re not recording this, right?” he asks.
Wow, this must be serious if he’s worried that I’m recording him.
In my line of work, the last thing you want is to carry around proof that you are talking to the authorities.
“No, of course not,” I say.
He asks to see my phone again and doesn’t say another word until he searches through it to make sure there isn’t any recording going on in any hidden folders.
When he is satisfied, he hands it back to me and picks up his coffee cup.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask just as the waitress comes back with our enormous plates of food.
He waits for her to walk away before looking back at me.
“I owe somebody a debt,” Art finally says. “It’s pretty big.”
“How big?”
He doesn’t respond.
“What do you want from me?” I ask instead.
“I want you to break into a safe in someone’s house and steal a painting,” he says quietly, under his breath.
“Why?”
“As a favor.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“If you do this then you won’t have to spy on Owen anymore.”
I stare at him for a long time.
This is the only thing I want, the answer to my prayers. But I'm also skeptical.
“I find it hard to believe that your bosses would just let me go…just like that.”
He shrugs. “They wouldn’t just let you go. Your cover can be compromised, but in a good way.”
“And what about the case against me?”
“I can make that go away, too. Evidence can be lost.”
“What about Owen? Why would your boss suddenly not care about him anymore?”
Art looks around again, but in a way that would be difficult for anyone else to spot as suspicious.
“His medical file currently says that he has suffered no memory loss, but it doesn’t have to continue to say that. Medical records can be fudged. If he is mentally compromised, he is useless to us. The investigation against him will go away.”
“All for this?” I ask.
He nods. That’s not good enough. I need an explanation.
“Art, you have to tell me more. I need to know what I’m getting myself into,” I say, spreading some avocado on my toast and taking a bite.
“I did all the preliminary work. I know this guy and where he keeps the painting. I can give you everything that I have later. All the details. But only after you agree to the deal.”
I chew slowly trying to make the feeling that this is all some sort of set-up to put me away for life go away.
“How much money do you owe?”
Art pours a generous amount of maple syrup on his pancakes before answering, “Four-hundred grand.”
“Four hundred?” I whisper. He nods.
“You’ve been a very bad boy, Art.”
He shakes his head.
“It wasn’t supposed to turn out that way. I only owed one hundred when I lost last week. But then I thought I got a hot streak and I could win it all back. I bet big and then I bet bigger. By the time it was six a.m., I’d lost it all and I was in debt four big ones.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper under my breath.
“Yep, that’s what it felt like at first. And then I realized who I owed the money to.”
“Who?” I ask.
Art stares at me as if I’ve asked the most foolish question in the world.
“Who else?” He laughs.
15
Nicholas
When he tells me what he really wants…
Art doesn’t have to give me the name out loud. There’s only one person in this town to throw that kind of money on an illegal card game.
“How much time do you have to pay up?” I ask.
“A week.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re fucked.”
“Yes, I know, that’s why I’m here talking to you.”
“Let’s say, and that’s a very big hypothetical question, but let’s say I do get it. What then? What’s this painting going to get you? Another week? And then what?”