I suddenly had company at my table. It was Gilbert Schoen, Abramovich’s pal and point man for the Odessa job. He was right on time for our meeting.
He sat his large frame down holding a container of coffee in one hand and a day-old apple muffin he never paid for in the other – courtesy of the Coffee Grind. A large piece of it was stuck in the Fu Manchu style mustache that draped over his lip like a push broom. A long swig of coffee managed to wash away most of the hanging scraps from his mouth. He lit up a cigarette and went into a tirade.
“You won’t believe what happened here last night.”
“What happened?” I asked deliciously. My mood was picking up.
“That fuck-face, Barry Goldshit. He showed up last night serving up crap again about the young ladies in South America he says he’s been screwing. What a delusional prick. I’m gonna pop him in the face next time he starts in on that baloney.”
It was well known among the local crowd that Schoen held a grudge toward everyone who showed up at the Coffee Grind. But none incited his wrath more than Barry Goldfarb, arguably a more irritating presence than Schoen himself.
“Which young ladies was he going on about this time?” I charged. “The ones in Medellin or in Bogota?”
“All of them, like he’s some young stud, a freaking Casanova. Can you believe it? How can anybody stand to listen to his crap?”
“He’s in his own world. Aren’t we all?”
“Not like him,” Schoen fired back.
Barry Goldfarb was a fantasist to be sure. He planned on moving to Latin America on a small pension and convinced himself he could lure the young ladies pretending to be a rich old gringo. He’d been down there often enough, and each time he returned he told of romantic encounters with adoring twenty-year-olds. We assumed he meant the prostitutes who serviced him on his meager savings, which went a lot further down there.
“You gotta feel sorry for a guy like that,” I proposed. “He’s got nothing else to live for.”
“Who cares about his goddamn problems.” Schoen was furious. “That loser butted into a conversation I was having with an attractive lady here last night.”
“He does that a lot.”
“I couldn’t get a goddamn word in. No broad gives a rat’s ass about him, but he kept babbling on till she got fed up and left.”
You could almost see the smoke rising off the top of his head. Schoen was an overweight curmudgeon, to be sure, but a smile slowly took shape as he took another drag on his cigarette.
“I told him what a fucking asshole he was, and that he ought to stop using shoe polish to color his hair,” he chortled, cigarette smoke pouring out of his mouth. “He threatened me, said he was gonna break my mother fucking legs. I swear to God, I don’t care how sick I am, if he starts up I’ll take him down. He thinks he can talk to me like some badass nigger...I’ll take him down, I swear.”
Listening to him rant had put me in a better mood for some reason. I sat there smiling, knowing full well he did the same to me behind my back.
Schoen was a defining sight on Main Street. His shoulder-length, orange-tinted locks were hard to miss. It must have taken several bottles of over-the-counter dye to cover all that gray. His extended waistline kept growing even with a serious but undefined illness, and his mustache was so retro he must have looked like an exotic animal to the young bar crowd down the street.
“I wouldn’t bother about Goldfarb,” I argued. “Let him fantasize. It’s all he’s got in the world.” I seemed to be making a case for myself as well.
Schoen looked away. He was stubborn and vindictive, and rumored to have killed a business rival years before. He had run a heroin syndicate in Nepal back in the seventies before getting arrested, then spent years in foreign prisons and claimed to have been tortured by sadistic guards. When he returned to the States he was a broken and bitter man, and never rebounded from his misfortunes. A serious infirmity had put him on government assistance a few months back. It seemed his sordid, drug-filled past had caught up with him and was clearly living on borrowed time. His liver looked to be the culprit, though no one was really sure. The doctors had performed experimental treatments on him to the tune of about three quarters of a million dollars of the taxpayers’ money. But it was only giving him a short respite. He wasn’t long for the world unless a medical miracle came through.
“Yeah, he’s all talk.” Schoen finally settled back into more polite conversation. “He’s not worth my time.” He lit up another cigarette. “How was New York?”
“It went well.”
“Did you take the job?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see the paper today?”
“No…why?”
He leaned over in my direction, glaring at me for all he was worth. “Have you spoken to Mr. Howard lately?”
“I tried contacting him in New York after our first meeting, but I never got through to...” I stopped, sensing bad news.
“Look at this.” He picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the next table, turned to the obituary page, and handed it to me.
“Former Big Band Singer Dead in Suicide,” it began. “Avery Howard, a 1940’s-era crooner who sang with the leading big bands of the day, fell to his death from his apartment in Manhattan on Tuesday...”
“They got to him, too,” I muttered frightfully.
“Just like the guy who used to live next door to you,” he laid in. “He was on page one the other day.”
I looked Schoen in the eyes. “What do you know about this?”
“As much as you, I suppose.”
“I don’t have a clue. But I’m smack in the middle of it.”
“You better find a way out.”
“Can you help me?”
“I don’t know any more about it, Bob. I swear.”
“I’m heading to Ukraine tomorrow. It’s a delivery job, moving a piece of art for some rich family.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Listen to me. Some murdering bastards want the painting, too. They probably know just where I’m heading.”
“They think you’re the one that can lead them to it. That’s why your mug wasn’t on the front page.”
“Someone sent word to them about the Rembrandt. Probably one of Abramovich’s goons who wants to double-cross him. But why did they kill Eric and Mr. Howard?”
“To send a message,” he replied, leaning back in the chair. “Was this Eric a friend of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why.” He looked at me, then took a long drag on his cigarette. “A Rembrandt?” he blurted out. “Jeez...I didn’t know that. That’s a lot of green.”
“No kidding.”
“Just follow it through. Abramovich will protect you.”
“I couldn’t say no if I wanted to. I’m up to my eyeballs in it.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Are you?”
“I don’t want to die. At least you got a choice in the matter. You don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to Abramovich and see if...”
“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t want to go on living like this. The job pays well. Abramovich said he’ll try to get me work as a P.I. when I return. I’m taking a big chance, I know. It could buy me the farm before you. But I’m firm on this. It’s my only way out of the gutter.”
“It seems you didn’t need any coaxing.”
I wondered what he meant by that. “I can make up my own mind.”
“Try and get back in one piece.”
“I had the same thought.”
“Why the fuck does Abramovich deal with those Russians? He’d stay out of there if he knew what was good for him.”
“They’re art connoisseurs,” I quipped. “What do you think the painting’s worth?”
“I’m guessing a couple million.”
“He’s a very smart cookie, Abramovich,” he said enviously. “It sure seems that way.”
It looked to me like Schoen wasn’t well-briefed on the caper, and wasn’t much of a point man, either.
“I’ll ask Abramovich what it’s worth when I see him again.”
“With Howard out of the picture he’ll keep the commission all to himself,” I noted dryly.
“He’s a businessman,” Schoen laid in. “He only thinks of himself.”
“I don’t care what he thinks as long as I get paid for my services.” He finished off the cigarette and lit another one as we watched an exhibition of young females pass by. I started thinking about Homer again.
“They killed Homer, too,” I said bitterly. “Why the hell would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of message, I guess. A real sick one.”
“Did you bury him?”
“I had him cremated.” I weighed the finality of those words before going on. “That poor, innocent dog is dead because of me.”
“It’s a damn shame. I’m real sorry about Homer. He was a great dog.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He’d been staring out in the street when I brought up Homer. He had a strange way of expressing condolences, I thought.
“They’re vicious people,” I fumed. “But they’re keeping me alive for now.”
“Be careful. It’s only worth the pot of gold you can live to enjoy. There’s nothing in it for a stiff.”
“I appreciate that.”
“The doctors don’t give me more than a month or two.”
I felt bad hearing that. As if on cue he started a coughing fit. His skin turned as gray as the morning fog around here. Death sure had a style of its own.
He stopped hacking for a moment to throw in his two cents again. “You might be dead before I kick off…like you said.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“By the way, you’re forgetting something.”
I pulled out my wallet. “Here’s some dough to hold you down for a while.” I handed him five one hundred dollar bills.
“My car’s in the shop,” he grumbled, coughing up gobs of phlegm.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“Eddie can drive me home when he gets here.”
I sensed his angle, so I stalled for time. “How can you drive around in your condition?”
“I’m not having epileptic fits, for crissake. I can drive to the hospital. It’s only a few blocks away.”
“How do you die from what you have?” I was being blunt, but he wasn’t making me feel any better, either.
“I’ll let you know in a month or two.” I handed him another hundred.
“Thanks.” He slipped it into his pocket. “It’s my liver. Didn’t I mention that?”
“I know that. That’s not what I’m asking. I mean...how do you die from it?”
“Just watch me.”
“Is it painful?”
“I don’t feel a thing with my prescriptions.” He suddenly got furious with me. “You forgot about our deal, Klayman. I’m supposed to get fifteen percent.”
“Ten percent – of Mr. Howard’s down payment. You just got it, and then some.”
“We made a deal…”
“What deal?”
“I got you the job, Klayman.”
“You’re not in the picture anymore, Schoen. I’m not cutting you in on my arrangement with Abramovich.”
He looked away resentfully. “Forget it.”
“Don’t mention it.” I got up to leave. “Hope to see you soon.”
“Hope’s all we got,” he muttered.
I walked away and went right back to my car. There was a flight in the morning I had to catch and it was getting late. Spending time around Schoen had me contemplating dark and depressing thoughts. I needed to get into a brighter mood if I was to get through this mess.
When I got home I felt sure I’d been followed. I chalked it up to a pair of overworked dicks, but it could have been the murderer for all I knew. I got out of the car and hurried up the stairs, keeping the doc’s .45 in my grip. I looked around before opening the door and stepping inside. I picked up the phone and dialed Abramovich’s number. He didn’t sound happy.
“Why are you calling at this hour?” he bellowed.
“Why was Howard killed?” I demanded. He was silent. “Tell me, damn it.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Are you going to get rid of me too when I’m done with my end of the job?”
“No one has it in for you.”
“Howard was killed the day after I spoke with him. Do I know something I shouldn’t know?”
“It has nothing to do with you. It was suicide, don’t you read the papers?”
“That’s a lot of crap.”
“It could have been a burglar, or his fag lover. He was queer, did you know that?”
“That explains him getting thrown off the twelfth floor of his building?”
“It might. Look…I’m in the dark about it, too.”
“Who murdered my dog?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“How the hell should I know who killed your dog? Call me when you get to Odessa. I’ll ask around about it in the meantime.”
“Yeah, sure...you do that.” I hung up.
It looked like he still needed my services. I could sleep easier now. But just to be sure I laid the doc’s gun neatly alongside my pillow. We were going to be close friends for the night.