Authors: Tim Davys
I
t was the most expensive picture he’d ever bought; he couldn’t afford it. And the seller, the walking stick, would find out. Not tomorrow, maybe, but on Monday, when the bank reported that the account the check was drawn on hadn’t been used for years, and the account was closed.
The picture was in a yellowed plastic pocket placed in a brown envelope. It was a copy; he hadn’t even been able to buy the original. A simple piece of paper, weighing an ounce or two, eight inches wide, a little more than half as high. The picture was full-bleed, a color picture that looked like it was black-and-white. No photographer had been behind the camera, no one had adjusted the focus. It was an automatically generated image in a long suite of images. The surveillance camera had no feeling for artistry, thus the many fuzzy objects.
This had nothing to do with VolgaBet or the organization behind the game. As the grandstands were being disassembled in the bottom level of the public garage, sometimes the surveillance cameras happened to get the players in focus. At a long distance from the garage a tired stuffed animal was sitting in a sterile office, staring at a dozen screens that changed images at regular intervals. The bridge abutment. Garage. Bus stops. Public environments that Mollisan Town had decided to monitor. Over the years some of these desk guards had learned the value of what these hundreds of surveillance cameras could provide in the form of extra income. So pictures that flickered past during the night’s long, lonely hours were saved systematically; files were smuggled home toward dawn, when the shift ended.
The guards themselves seldom knew whether they had taken something of value; it was like a lottery. Intermediaries—in this case a walking stick—with intimate knowledge of the city’s rich and powerful, inspected the images. Often they were duds. Sometimes there was a jackpot. And occasionally it happened like it happened yesterday: a buyer who knew what he wanted, and asked for enlargements.
He stroked the inside pocket of the jacket without thinking. The picture was there, inside the thin cloth. He was standing in an entryway across from the police station on rue de Cadix, and the weather had just changed to evening; the breeze had returned and the sun was going down.
It had been a long shot that hit the target. He’d done deals with the walking stick before, a hard-boiled fence whose business instincts were well developed. But today they had fooled each other.
He was certain that Superintendent Larry Bloodhound would soon show up in the entryway, en route to his obligatory beer at Chez Jacques after work. There was one possibility—slip into the restaurant cloakroom while the superintendent was in the bar and get at his briefcase.
Another alternative, of course, was to locate the superintendent’s private residence and put the envelope with the picture in the mail slot. But that felt uncertain. There was no time for mistakes, and what did he know about how the superintendent handled his personal mail? There were many who left envelopes lying on the hall floor for days. Others who scooped up the mail, assumed it was just advertising, and put it all straight into the recycle bin.
He decided on a third alternative.
That was why he was waiting another half an hour until Larry Bloodhound suddenly appeared on the stairs on the opposite side of the street. The worn-out, wrinkled dog looked around, spit on the stairs, and then hurried along rue de Cadix en route to Chez Jacques.
On the other side, the stuffed animal with the expensive picture in an inside pocket stepped out of the darkness of the entryway and crossed the street. He jogged up the steps to the police station and opened the front door in a way that showed he had done it many times before.
In the police station lobby there was a whirl of motion in the transition between day and night personnel. The intensity suited him perfectly, even if it was chance, not skill, that made him choose just this point in time. With calm, slow steps he went straight toward the elevators. He directed his gaze ahead of him, not looking at anything or anyone, and pressed the button. Waited. Fingered the lapel of his jacket, able to confirm with a careful pressure that the envelope had not disappeared.
When the elevator doors glided open, there stood a panther he had known a long time, an inspector at GL who was renowned for his bad breath. He put on a relaxed smile, gave the panther an easygoing nod, and stepped into the elevator. As if he had an errand he didn’t need to account for. He received a curt nod back, then he was alone. The steel doors closed on him, and he pressed the button with the numeral 3.
By riding the momentum of the moment he had made it the whole way to WE on rue de Cadix. But during the short trip up in the elevator there was time for reflection, and as he exited at Superintendent Larry Bloodhound’s department, his self-assurance deserted him for a few moments.
He got out of the elevator, looked out over a hostile office, where he felt that everyone turned to eye him suspiciously. He remained standing, uncertain of direction, facial expression, posture.
Then he pulled himself together—what alternative was there?—and stretched. Put on a gloomy face, furrowed his eyebrows, and walked straight ahead instead of choosing the less conspicuous alternative along the outside wall.
The rash courage gave him renewed energy. He kept his gaze directed straight ahead, still just as resolute, and hurried through the shadows that made the massive office area black-and-white.
He opened the door and went into Bloodhound’s office. He realized this was taking a step too far; no one could enter the superintendent’s unoccupied office without a reason.
He took the envelope out of his inside pocket, pulled the photograph out of the plastic sleeve, and set it on top of the pile of papers on the superintendent’s desk. So as not to leave any room for doubt, he had drawn a large red circle around Igor Panda’s head, where the bear was sitting on the grandstand at VolgaBet. He also circled the date, automatically generated on images of this type.
It couldn’t be more obvious.
He turned around and quickly left.
T
he Dondau flows out of the underworld along mustard yellow Krönkenhagen, in the middle of central Lanceheim. The river is the only one in Mollisan Town, and its beautifully adorned bridges and restaurants with verandas overlooking the murmuring water are the pride of the district. After less than eight miles in a northerly direction, the Dondau disappears back down into the primeval crevices that finally unite it with the sea in the west.
Right before the Dondau’s northern falls is a small industrial area, mostly warehouses. The river runs parallel to Krönkenhagen. This makes it cost-effective for producers of clothes and electronics to leave the goods in storage along the north Dondau and let the barges bring the containers along the river the last few miles, instead of driving trucks into the heart of the city. The warehouses are reminiscent of massive boathouses, in which piers run alongside each other like long tongues in a giant’s wooden maw. There is room for two barges at each pier, and there are four piers in each boathouse. It feels like having the sea in the middle of the city, especially since the restaurateurs in the area set food out for the shrieking, red-billed gulls, who come back every day and contribute to the atmosphere that entices patrons to the restaurants.
Unloading was done at dawn, most of the loading and pickup happened in the afternoon and evening, and for Jake Golden Retriever the afternoon hours in Boathouse 3 were optimal. Whether the paintings were small or large was unimportant; no one raised an eyebrow as he carried packages between the cars. And even if anyone were to get a glimpse of the paintings, the risk of being discovered was minimal; the dockworkers were not art experts.
Now the Morning Weather had just cleared after the rain and Jake had plenty of time. He sat on one of the piers between the boathouses, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the calm, cold water. Right here the river was widest. On the dock on the other side a few houseboats were moored. They had been there as long as Jake could remember. Besides the barges with their loads, only the skiffs of the sailing school used the Dondau. But they stayed a little farther south.
Jake smoked in peace and quiet, then tossed the cigarette into the water. He was too well dressed to hang around the harbor, in a gray suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. While he walked back to Boathouse 3, he thought about Igor Panda. The lying, cheating, gambling art dealer was probably the worst possible partner Jake could imagine, but at the same time he was necessary for the sale of Esperanza-Santiagos.
Jake Golden Retriever had this same thought at least once a day.
He went into the massive boathouse. It was deserted. The river lapped quietly against the wooden piers. If Jake had understood correctly, it should be a large painting today. He sat down on a folding chair that one of the skippers had left behind in the morning’s stress.
Igor Panda was standing
inside the harbor captain’s momentarily empty office, looking out through the wooden blinds. He saw Jake Golden Retriever set up a small folding chair and light a cigarette.
There was no doubt the dog was waiting for someone, waiting for the real forger.
Igor Panda had been extremely careful and not left any traces. Still the vipers had found him. And they would find him again. Time was about to run out.
Igor Panda had been following Jake Golden Retriever since the big loss last Thursday night. Getting hold of the source—the forger—through the retriever was the panda’s only chance to acquire quick money. Besides, the pretentious dog was superfluous. He was a simple go-between who could be tolerated only if he added value and kept a reasonable margin. Golden Retriever fulfilled neither of those requirements. Panda put his paw in his jacket pocket. The box cutter was the only weapon he had found in the office.
Igor Panda peeked out through the blinds and saw Jake Golden Retriever toss his cigarette butt in the water and get up. The dog’s body language said that someone was entering the boathouse. Through the thin window glass he could hear a conversation but could not make out any words.
Igor sneaked up to the door and opened it without a sound. Not because he could see better from there, on the contrary, but through the crack in the door he at least heard what they said.
“I only intend to give him until the Evening Weather,” said Jake Golden Retriever.
“Can he manage it?”
“If it’s a bluff it’s best to find that out as soon as possible.”
Jake lit another cigarette. He had a large, square lighter that looked like steel but was silver. It was the only luxury item Golden Retriever used. The dog’s clothes, nice-looking but discreet, were from discount outlets.
“I have a large painting with me today,” she said. “Four by six. It’s out in the car. I don’t even know if it will fit in your little sedan.”
“I’ll put down the backseat,” said Golden Retriever. “It’s worked before.”
“This is an elaborate painting. Oil and acrylic. Maybe not the best I’ve given you, but significantly better than the last one.”
“That makes me happy,” Jake replied. “Around two million?”
“Maybe more,” she said. “Let Panda judge that.”
“Okay. We’ll meet here tomorrow. Same time. Either I have the money with me, or you get the painting back. It’s a matter of discipline.”
Igor Panda felt the fury surging through his body. He had heard every word, and understood exactly what it was about. Jake Golden Retriever intended to give him a single day to sell the new painting, and if he failed he would not get another chance. Not for a while, in any event. Regardless of the circumstances, it irritated him to be at the mercy of the retriever’s arbitrary ways.
He heard Golden Retriever and the forger walk away from the boathouse.
What should he do?
The harbor captain’s office was almost all the way out on the northernmost pier. Igor stepped out and saw at a distance how the door slammed shut behind the dog. There was an odor of cold sea from the water lapping below, mixed with the smoke from the cigarettes. A gull sleeping on a post flapped in fear over to the next pier as the panda started walking quickly. He had to follow Jake Golden Retriever and the great forger.
He saw it after five seconds. It glistened in the rays of the sun that reached all the way to the pier.
Jake’s lighter.
It was on the folding chair where the retriever had just been sitting. Igor Panda continued walking, but the anxiety retreated through his body and was replaced by certainty.
Jake Golden Retriever would return.
It took five minutes.
Then Jake Golden Retriever came back into the boathouse. He was stressed, and immediately found the lighter on the chair.
Igor Panda was standing behind the door. In his left paw he held the box cutter. He walked soundlessly up to Jake from behind. With his right arm he locked the retriever’s upper arms from behind, and with his left paw he cut along the dog’s neck with the box cutter.
From one side to the other.
Jake did not have time to react. When he did, it was too late. He twirled around, but his head was already hanging to one side. Before he realized what had happened he was on his knees in front of the panda, gasping for air.
Panda screamed. Panic welled up out of his throat. He regretted what he had done even as he was doing it. And with a howl of desperation he severed what remained of the dog’s neck.
With Jake Golden Retriever’s head under his arm, Panda left the boathouse. Outside was Jake’s car. The painting was already loaded, the car keys in the ignition.
Panda saw no trace of the forger.
He threw the head down on the passenger seat in Jake’s car and turned the key.
Tomorrow at the same time Panda would return to Boathouse 3 and settle accounts with the forger, without Golden Retriever. And hopefully by then he would have already paid his debt to the vipers.