FIFTY-NINE
Randall Zimmer, Esq. taps his pencil on a new pad of lined yellow legal paper. His hawk-like eyes are the same color as his walnut desk. “From what I know of A.A.S.D. regulations, Austin, it could be a while before you sell stocks and bonds again.”
“I figured.”
“We’ll see. There are livelihood issues. The children. At least you’re not the one who forged Gerry Burns’ signature on that transfer document. Right?”
“No, sir. It must have been Kelly.”
I nod knowing no one will ever find an original. He nods as if he believes me. Or least Mr. Z wants to believe me. He’s a referral from my friend and co-worker Walter Osgood. “I think that’s most of what we need to discuss today,” he says. “I’ll need to contact the various government and law-enforcement agencies involved, the insurance company and set up interviews. We will have to wait and see what kind of response we receive.”
“You really think I might get a reward for the return of the Renoir?”
“I’m fairly certain. The company that insured the painting is very small. A reward has been offered. They were expecting to take quite a financial hit.” He smiles, maybe a half-boat Zimmer grin. “And frankly, Austin, it would be difficult for me to take you on as a client if I thought otherwise. As you stated earlier, your current financial situation is somewhat desperate.”
“Right.”
Zimmer taps the pencil again on his legal pad. A small wrinkle forms over his eyebrows. “You’ve told me everything?”
“Yes, sir. The whole truth and nothing but.”
“And all the bonds and all the money are in this green suitcase? Two-point-two million in tax-frees, ninety thousand in cash?”
I shrug, give myself a few moments to consider my answer. You have to be careful with lawyers, even your own. They’re all officers of the court and you don’t want to admit stuff that could be construed as a crime. See, they can’t present false evidence, even a client’s testimony if they know it’s a lie.
“That’s everything Luis and I found on the boat. I guess I might have borrowed a hundred or two, maybe three, since Luis docked in Cape May. You know. I needed food. Cab fare. That kind of thing.”
He nods, reaches for his back pocket, and pulls a small wad of bills from his black leather wallet. A Gucci, I think. The bills ar
e all hundreds. I just love those new portraits of Ben Franklin.
“I
’d suggest you leave the Burns’ cash and bonds with me,” he says. “Use this money to live on until I can talk to the company insuring the Renoir. It won’t take too long, I trust.”
I accept his cash, fold the money and slip it into my blue jeans.
“The painting is safe?” he says.
“Definitely. I could leave that camper on the worst block i
n Newark and no one would steal it.”
My lawyer leans forward. “But the Renoir is in the
camper.”
“Trust me, Mr. Zimmer. No one would touch that heap. Besides, I don’t plan on leaving your parking lot until we work this out.”
His eyebrows rise. “Well then, I suppose that’s all right. I’ll have my secretary inform and warn the guards.”
I stand. “Anything else?”
He rises from his chair. “I think that’s about it. Oh. I checked the records on that restaurant-bar. It is in fact registered to Luis Guerrero and Gerald Burns. Ownership changed more than a year ago so I think your friend is correct in assuming the IRS cannot put a lien on his half-share.”
We shake.
“One more thing,” Zimmer says. “Does Mr. Guerrero know he will be asked to give a deposition?”
“Yes, sir. He’s going to call you, in fact, maybe hire you for more than the deposition.”
“He wants our help in securing his interest in the bar?”
“Exactly.”
“Tell Mr. Guerrero to call as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
“So.” Zimmer taps his pencil again. He’s like a ticking clock. “When Mr. Guerrero gives his deposition, his account will back up your story?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One hundred percent?”
“Yes, sir.”
It had better. Luis and I practiced telling the details of our story half a dozen times.
“I’ll call you when I have news,” Zimmer says.
I dust a couple of crumbs off my shirt. Zimmer’s secretary brought me an onion bagel with my coffee. “As I said earlier, I don’t plan on going anywhere. Just send someone out to the parking lot, knock on my window.”
He smiles, maybe a full-boater this time.
“It’s the yellow Chevy camper,” I say. “With rust spots.”
SIXTY
I step back to admire a masterpiece, the essence of light on a summer day,
Pont Neuf
, painted with oil on canvas in the year 1872 by Pierre August Renoir. The reproduction arrived yesterday, and now hangs over the working brick fireplace in my new, two-bedroom apartment.
Look at all those rich happy people, strolling in the sunshine.
“Ready to go?” Ryan says.
I ruffle my son’s scruffy blonde hair. “I’m ready. Where’s
Beth?”
“In the bathroom.” He sidle
s closer, leans his head against my ribs. “I’m glad you paid Mommy the money you owed her, Pop. I missed seeing you.”
I wrap my arm around
Ryan’s shoulders. I blink away moisture from my eyes. “Me, too, Big Guy. Me, too. I’ve been lonely.”
Ryan breaks off our mini-embrace to
touch the new, sixty-four-inch plasma television we picked up earlier today. “This TV is so cool. Your whole apartment is. Those people must have paid you a really big reward for catching those bad guys.”
Beth
joins us in the living room. “Daddy got the reward for returning the stolen painting, not catching bad guys. Mom showed us the story in the newspaper, remember?”
“The paper didn’t mention Pop,” he says.
“Yes. Why was that, Daddy?” Beth says.
“I’ll explain on the way to the beach. We better get started if we want to eat Mexican food tonight. It’s already dark and I have to stop for something on the way.”
“Are we really going to build a bonfire before dinner?” Ryan says.
“We sure are,” I say. “A big one.”
I explain all kinds of stuff on the way down to the now deserted Navasquan Municipal Beach Club: Impressionist art. The crimes of Gerry Burns. My friend Luis who didn’t before, but now owns Luis’s Mexican Grill. Why Mr. Randall Zimmer, Esq. kept my name out of the Renoir story. Giant bluefin.
Besides the violence, the only thing I refuse to discuss about my adventure is the score I made on that “little” insurance company Zimmer mentioned the other day in his office. I just couldn’t help loading up on the stock before the company announced publi
cly that they’d recovered
Pont Neuf
.
And I bought options, actually, not the common stock. The Nasdaq-listed common only went up three points, from fourteen to seventeen. What I bought
—out-of-the-money call options—jumped in value from fifty cents to three bucks.
Austin Carr, market timer.
“All right, kids. You two get out, wait for me here while I drive down a little closer to the waves.”
“But we want to see the bonfire,” Ryan says.
“Oh, you’ll see it,” I say. “
Everybody’s
going to see it.”
Our bonfire sparks, crackles, and hisses above the surf and the stars. Hot orange light
, fifteen-foot flames dance with our shadows on the cool beach sand.
Voices filter down through the sound of softly crashing waves, people talking on a balcony. I
turn to find a middle-aged couple leaning against a railing outside their bedroom, both sipping drinks, the wife pointing at our fire.
“Remember to tell people we came for a walk on the beach, not to build a bonfire,” I say. “Even later when we get to Luis’s.”
“That means we can’t tell anybody about stopping for gasoline, right?” Ryan says.
“Definitely.”
The kids understand why we watched the fire from so far back when my old Chevy camper’s gas tank finally explodes. A license plate and my NY Giant football helmet both land ten yards short of our feet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all ancient rim-rats and rewrites, particularly Carl Cannon, Charlie Wood, Glen Binford, John Upton, and my father George, for their everlasting inspiration and encouragement. Special and secret thanks to the late Tommy L., the very much alive “Baha Jeff,” and the semi-immortal Captain John B for their friendship, financial expertise, and best big-fish stories.
BIO
Former Los Angeles Times reporter Jack Getze is Fiction Editor for Anthony nominated Spinetingler Magazine. Through the Los Angeles Times/Washington Post News Syndicate, his news and feature stories have been published in over five-hundred newspapers and periodicals worldwide. His screwball mysteries, BIG NUMBERS and BIG MONEY, were first published by Hilliard Harris in 2007 and 2008. His short stories have appeared in
A Twist of Noir
and
Beat to a Pulp
. He is an Active Member of Mystery Writers of America’s New York Chapter.
http://austincarrscrimediary.blogspot.com/
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