The Charmers: A Novel(3)

Everybody in the Boss’s world had a name that was not the one they were given by their parents at birth. Those were long forgotten, buried like their enemies, or their victims, long ago. The Boss had given up carrying out any such distasteful tasks himself. Now, he employed men like the Russian to do them for him.

But the Russian was late. The Boss tapped his fingers impatiently on the table and the waiter popped up immediately next to him. He waved him off as he saw the Russian wending his way through the tables to where he was sitting.

He was a plain man, undistinguished in any way, which was crucial to his job. Nobody ever recognized him, nobody so much as remembered him. Medium height, medium hair, maybe receding a bit, glasses sometimes with wire rims, sometimes horn-rims, sometimes no rims at all. Often a Panama hat, open-neck shirt, never a tie unless it was a city job. Inexpensive jacket but not too obviously cheap, after all he made good money doing what he did. Didn’t like to flaunt it on the job, was all.

He took a seat opposite the Boss, offered his hand, which the Boss did not shake. Stung, the Russian called over the waiter, ordered a dirty martini, two olives. It was barely eleven-thirty A.M. and the Boss did not like it. A man who drank could be a dangerous man. He waved the waiter back, canceled the order, said to bring a double espresso and be sharp about it.

The Russian made no complaint, he knew better. He sat quietly, listening, as the Boss told him what he wanted done.

“There is a house in the hills nearby. In fact you can see it from here.” He pointed across the arc of the bay to the greenery beyond, and a glimpse of a pink stucco villa. “In that house is a painting. Small. The artist’s name is Turner. The woman who owned the house died recently.”

The Russian nodded. He knew about Jolly Matthews’s death.

“I immediately made an offer to buy the whole property, the hectares of land adjoining it, plus the contents, including artworks, most of which in my mind are worthless, but that the old woman enjoyed all her life. She was a social acquaintance, known to all as Aunt Jolly though her real name was Juliet Matthews. When she passed, I made contact with the legal representatives of the heir, a woman by the name of Mirabella Matthews. A writer of some kind of entertaining novels.” The Boss was a snob about both art and literature, though he scarcely read anything other than the local newspaper, the Nice-Matin, and the Wall Street Journal.

“The heir, through her representative, has refused to sell. I wish to build a fourteen-story condo on that property. I increased my offer considerably. Meanwhile, through subtle means, I found out the details of the contents, and that the one piece of real value is that painting. I want it for my collection. I cannot get it by legal means. Therefore, I am asking you to take care of this task for me.”

The Russian nodded. It was the kind of work he did. None of it was legal, none of it could be mentioned, most of it was lucrative. He had removed jewels from vaults, pearls from necks, cars from underground garages. Everything had a value and there was always somebody willing to pay.

“I’ll get you the painting,” he said.

The Boss named a price. The Russian shook his head. “It’s not the value of the painting,” he said, then added, “sir,” as compensation for what he was about to say. “It’s what it’s worth to you.”

“It is worth everything,” the Boss said. And it was. He wanted that land and the painting the bitch, Jolly Matthews, had denied him in her lifetime. He would have both now that she was dead. Of course the police were looking into her death, and rightly so, because obviously, with a knife in her back, she had been murdered.

Perhaps a robbery, the police were speculating. Maybe the house was turned over, that sort of thing. They’d never trace that knife, though. There were millions like it and the Russian knew every source. Jolly Matthews had gotten in the Boss’s way, triumphed over him in life but not in death. All he had to do now was get his hands on her property.

Architectural plans were already drawn up, documents were ready to be submitted for planning permission, already promised and paid for, of course. Millions would be made by everybody, though the green hillside would disappear under a plague of small villas, most of which would be bought by people who intended them to be rented out and everybody knew that in a couple of years rental properties often became shabby and neglected, and would downgrade the area.

The Boss did not care about the future. He would make money from each part of the deal: the sale of the land, the construction of the buildings, the sale of those properties, the infrastructure—roads, water, electricity. And to top it all would be the fourteen-story apartment building, the max allowed even to him in the restricted area, and the top three floors, which would become for a few years his new home. His would be a magnificent view down to the sea, of the yachts, the palm trees, a view better than most everyone’s. Not all though, because this was a rich man’s playground, yet certainly better than many of his soon-to-be neighbors.

And to highlight it, he wanted the Turner. Of course he could buy any painting he desired, and had. His walls were already adorned with a couple of Picassos, maybe not the best because they were, even for him, hard to come by and usually went though private, almost secretive sales. He had a few Impressionists, as well as some Italians: a Raphael, a Caravaggio, whatever his advisors recommended. None of them impressed him but they were expected of a man in his position. This Turner painting had become an obsession and he was a man who got what he wanted.