Caramarin fetched a kitchen knife from out of its drawer, shrugged on his green jacket, wrapped his keffiyeh around his neck against the rain still falling from the leaden sky then let himself out.
The bus was slow, stopping at every single stop. A nice scenic tour. If there was anything worth looking at through the steamed up windows. At one stop, the driver jumped off, popped into a mini-mart and bought himself a newspaper and pack of smokes. At the next, he lit up and enjoyed his read and a smoke like a man without a care in the world.
Unlike Caramarin who was sitting at the back smelling the ganja fumes from the previous passengers.
Later than he expected, he jumped off, checked his street atlas and found Bronstein's office. The street looked no better by day light. It still looked like a post apocalyptic film set, only a bit more run down, gloomy and dilapidated than anything that had ever come out of a Hollywood set director's imagination. Give him beautiful Odessa any day. A few cars and vans were parked along the kerb side, the only sign of anything happening.
Looking up, Caramarin saw a light from Bronstein's office window. Good. That meant the man was probably in. Making his dodgy deals. No point ringing the door bell as he doubted if the man would answer and it would only warn him.
Only problem was, there was no-one about so he couldn't lose himself in a crowd here. However, there was a deeply recessed brick doorway just over the road from Bronstein's office. A boarded up iron door behind him must lead into the abandoned warehouse.
Caramarin shrugged into the doorway, out of the still falling rain. He could just see Bronstein's window but it would be hard for anyone looking out to spot him in the semi darkness. He tuned his little radio into a chart hits station, stuffed his cold hands into his pockets and prepared to wait. Hopefully, Bronstein would come out for lunch.
Bronstein didn't come out for lunch; Caramarin went from peckish to slightly hungry to famished to starving. His stomach an empty black hole. Caramarin couldn't take the risk of nipping off to grab sandwiches or a burger. Knowing his luck, that would be the time Bronstein left his office. Had no choice but to tough it out, like in sniper training all those years ago. Not like it was the first time but the waiting never got any easier.
One good thing about this road being so quiet though. He glanced out along the street. Both ways. No sign of anyone. Great. He turned to face the back of the doorway, unzipped his fly and pissed against the rusting, gang tagged door. His steaming flow trickled past his boots and lost itself into the still falling rain. Blessed relief.
He had just time to zip up before his cell rang, the only sound in this dead street.
"Hello, Narcisa. Thanks for calling," he chatted to her for a few minutes. Sometimes it's hard to tell over a cell connection but the woman sounded like she was trying to put a brave face over her concern. Reassuring her, he told her he wasn't sure when he would be back at the house.
Thought through his options for a moment, silence over the airwaves. "Listen, I know you're not happy. If you want me to go; want me out of your life then I understand. I won't blame you. You don't need to worry about me..."
"No," Narcisa's voice firmer. "Take care, Nicu. I... I... care about you a lot, you know. If I can help you in any way, please let me know."
He thanked her. Narcisa was a good woman. One of the very best and she deserved better than this.
The day darkened. Lead sky turning to graphite, the heavier clouds darker edged, finally becoming a bruised orange-black. Still the rain fell, lighter at times but never entirely stopping. He watched the water flowing along the gutters, breaking around the cars' tires, carrying on pouring down the over used drains.
Caramarin shivered. It was colder, too. His breath condensing. He wrapped his keffiyeh around his lower face to prevent the vapour clouds giving away his position. Another basic tip from sniper training.
It was late when Bronstein left his office. Sometime after eight. No prizes for guessing which the fence’s vehicle was. Only one car, a white Volvo V70 estate with one hub-cap missing, remained in the street. It stood out in the dark. The man turned up his collar then ran across the street, his keys already in his hand.
Caramarin stepped out of his doorway hide out and ran up to the Volvo. Bronstein looked round a moment too late as Caramarin shoulder charged him. Bronstein lost his balance on the wet road and fell. The keys clattered into the gutter. The man looked up, saw Caramarin's bulk above him and tried a smile.
Now Caramarin's problems started. Wishing he had Narcisa standing next to him to translate but no way could he involve her in what he wanted to do. One word only, one word needed to explain what he wanted. "Picasso," said Caramarin.
Bronstein struggled up to his feet, clutching his keys, his beige jacket muddied and soaked from the gutter. His curly hair still springy, upright, surprisingly jaunty. Caramarin grabbed the fence's jacket then hauled him upright. He shoved Bronstein back over to his office block. The man nearly fell again, his loafers not designed for the wet road.
Not giving the man any chance to recover his balance, Caramarin jostled Bronstein back inside. The rain quietened as they stepped inside. Caramarin showed Bronstein the kitchen knife blade. Just so the man got the idea. He forced the fence up the narrow stairs, keeping the knife only a few centimetres away from the man's neck.
Caramarin had to give the man credit. Bronstein didn't mess about. He understood what was needed, kept a steady pace and held his hands in sight as the two men climbed the narrow concrete stairs. Slowly, with his left hand, Bronstein fumbled in his jacket pocket, fumbled for his office keys then let them in.
The office was still warm from all the heaters. The same posters of Tel Aviv's beaches covered the walls. But Caramarin and Narcisa must have come on a good day before. A day after the cleaners had been in. Now the place was a tip with clutter and cardboard boxes everywhere. Bronstein seemed to have acquired a load of antique silverware since he and Narcisa had been.
Candlesticks, salvers, knives and forks, even a huge tarnished picture frame propped against one wall. An Art Deco trophy with a golfer swinging a club. A plaque dated 1941 on the trophy dedicated to a long dead club captain. And more paperwork. And old, leather bound books, one stamped 1898. And even more paperwork. How did the fence ever remember what he had bought and sold?
Caramarin threw Bronstein against the wall. "Picasso," he said a second time. He held the knife millimetres from Bronstein's throat now, just so the message came across loud and clear. Didn't want any possible misunderstandings. Although he didn't think an intelligent man like Bronstein would get the wrong impression anyway.
Bronstein shrugged and started talking English. He stopped after a sentence, remembering that Caramarin hadn't a clue what he was saying. Bronstein pointed to his computer screen. New paperwork teetered on top of the ancient beige monitor.
Caramarin nodded, figuring the man needed to show him something. He didn't think the man would be interested in watching a porn film at a time like this. Caramarin stepped back, away from the wall, allowing Bronstein to boot up his computer.
The ancient computer was slow. The two men kept an eye on each other as they watched the little hourglass symbol turn around and around. Caramarin made sure Bronstein was very aware of his blade. Eventually the program loaded up. Bronstein stooped over his desk while tapping away on the keyboard. He stood up.
"Look," he said. On the screen, side by side with the English, in fairly accurate Romanian was a message:
I have not got your Picasso. You can search my office and store rooms but I do not have it. I have not seen your Picasso since you came here.
Caramarin looked around the office. His heart sank. He could search this junk pile from now until Doomsday and still not stumble across the painting. And the man had store rooms, too. And that's if it was still here. A cent to a five hundred euro note it had already been moved on.
But he still felt sure Bronstein was lying. After all, apart from, Engin Hasanov and his friend Pojer, who else knew that Caramarin had the Picasso? No-one. Caramarin brushed Bronstein to one side. With one finger, he typed his message out onto the screen:
Give me my Picasso or I will cut you up.
He let Bronstein himself sort out the translation program. Bronstein paled. The man typed again:
Do what you must. I have not seen your Picasso.
Bronstein squared his shoulders and stood tall. He looked direct into Caramarin's eyes. So there it was. Showdown time. Cards on the table and Bronstein wanted to see his hand. What he was capable of. And what Caramarin was about to turn over.
Caramarin thought quickly. Yeah, he'd done plenty of violence, lived with it for too many years to worry about it now. He'd dished out several worlds of hurt in his time. And he usually slept easy after. But that had mostly been fighting. Fair fights and unfair fights, it didn't matter. Battling other bad men – and not all of them criminals.
Yet in all his time in the underworld life, he'd never tortured anyone. Never deliberately inflicted extreme pain. That was not his line at all, never had been, even when he was working with some of the worst crooks and hard men in Europe. Sure, he'd had to stand on the sidelines of an 'active interrogation' sometimes but actually torturing someone would be several kilometres beyond his personal line.
Sure, so he'd stood by at times but, to his credit; he'd always tried to stop any torture going down. Not always successfully, but sometimes you have to roll with what goes down.
Bronstein had called his bluff. And won. He still felt Bronstein was lying but there was little he could do about it. Caramarin felt like punching him out, but that would achieve nothing either. Wisely, Bronstein kept his face neutral, not wanting to antagonise an angry, dangerous man like Caramarin. A big man with a knife in the same room, only a metre away from him.
Caramarin swept a mountain of books and silverware from the desk to the floor. Anything to relieve some of his anger. They crashed down; one of the ledgers fell open. He kicked it away from him across the room. He slammed the door behind him then ran back down the stairs. Fuck-shit.
The rain outside matched his mood.