Deacon King Kong(60)

“I laughed at him. I said, ‘You’re a stock.’”

“A stock?” Elefante repeated.

“A fool.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘I didn’t want to sell them. I just liked looking at them.’

“I said, ‘Macy, it’s not good. These are things from the church.’

“‘The church doesn’t care for people like me,’ he said.

“Oh, it broke my heart when he said that. I said, ‘Macy, my boy. Our dear mother in heaven would fall to fever at God’s throne knowing you sit here with stolen things from her Lord and Savior. It would break her heart.’

“That brought a tear to his eye. He said, ‘I have to live. Maybe I’ll find a way to return a few things.’”

The Governor looked at Elefante. “And return them he did. Oh, he sold one or two more things in droves to keep his lifestyle before he died. But most of the things he returned. He got them back to Vienna the same way he got them here. He mailed them back little by little. He returned them in a way so he could never get caught. But there was one item he didn’t return.

“And what was that?”

“Well, it was something I wanted. A little statue.”

“Statue of what?”

“A fat girl. The Venus of Willendorf.”

Elefante wondered if he was dreaming. A statue of a fat girl? The Governor’s daughter was like that. A beautiful one. Could this be a trick? A coincidence?

“Is that the name of a soap?” he asked.

The Governor smirked at him, irritated.

“I’m just asking,” Elefante said.

“Macy said it was the most valuable piece in his collection.”

“Why was that?”

“I can’t say. Macy knew why but I don’t know those things. It’s reddish gold. It’s very small. Made of stone. No bigger than a bar of soap.”

“If it’s not gold, why is it worth so much?”

The Governor sighed. “I’m thicker than a bag of spuds when it comes to art, son. I don’t know. Like I said, I had to look up the word ‘reliquary’ five times before I understood it. This statue was in one of those reliquary things. A tiny container, like a coffin, the size of a bar of soap. It’s from thousands of years ago. Macy said the box alone was worth a fortune. He said the little fat girl, the Venus of Willendorf, was worth more than anything he had.”

“Then it likely lives in one of those big castles in Europe where the welcome mat’s printed in old English, and he was holding a fake. Or the real one’s living in a museum. How come it’s not in a museum? A museum would know if it’s a fake, by the way.”

“So what. Son, your pop and I were in prison with several sweet-tongued buncos who could sell ice to an Eskimo. These blokes could even out your bank account to a flat zero faster than a fly can mount shit. They knew more insurance swindles, bank diddles, and hand tricks than a Philadelphia bartender. Smooth as taffy, these fellas. And each one will tell you that most times the trout who gets hooked or bamboozled hushes up tight about it. They want that kind of news kept quiet. The fancy hoofers running your museums are no different. If they’re holding a fake, why would they blast it to the world? So long as a cad is paying a shilling to eyeball it, who’s to know the difference?”

Elefante was silent, taking this in.

“You think I’m having you on?” the Governor asked.

“Maybe. Did you ever ask your brother why it was worth so much?”

“No, I didn’t ask him. I took it before he changed his mind. Then he died.”

“The Venus of Willendorf. That sounds like the name of a soup.”

“It’s not a soup. It’s a fat girl,” the Governor insisted.

“I knew a fat girl in high school who was a real treasure. But nobody made a statue of her.”

“Well this one will fit in the palm of your hand. I stashed it before I went to prison. Your father got out two years before me. I was afraid someone would find it, so I told him to fetch it and hold it for me. He told me he did. So you have it someplace.”

Elefante held his hands out. “I swear on the Blessed Virgin, my poppa didn’t tell me where he put it.”

“Nothing?”

“He just told me about that stupid song you sing, about the palm of God’s hand.”

The Governor nodded in satisfaction. “Well, that’s something.”

“That’s nothing. How can I look for a thing if I don’t know where it is or what it looks like?”

“She’s a fat girl.”

“There must be a million statues of fat girls. Does she have a bump on her nose, or is she fat like a blob? Does she look like a horse if you turn her sideways? Are the head and stomach the only parts you want to go pokey at? Or is it like one of those crappy things where a guy throws paint on a canvas and art slobs cream all over it? Does she have one eye? What?”

“I don’t know what. It’s a fat girl. From thousands of years ago. And there’s a guy in Europe who will pay three million dollars cash for it.”

“You said that before. How do I know he’s the real deal?”

“He’s real, all right. Macy sold him one or two pieces before he died. He told me how to reach the guy, but Macy died while I was in prison. I couldn’t call nobody from Sing Sing. So I left it alone. You can end up in an urn in somebody’s cemetery playing tricks with a fella you never seen before and done no business with. I never called him before I went to prison. After I got out, my wife got sick, I had to take care of her, and I didn’t want to go back to the joint. Then a couple months ago, when the doctor told me I had this . . . sickness, you see, I called the guy in Europe and he was still alive. I told him I was Macy’s brother and told him what I have. He didn’t believe me, so I sent him the one picture I had. I’m an old crook. I’m too stupid to keep copies. Saints be praised, he got the picture and got serious. He calls me almost every week now. He says he can move it. At first he offered four million dollars, and I said, ‘How can you get that much money?’ He said, ‘That’s my business. I’ll give you four, because I can sell it for twelve million. Or even fifteen. But you need to get it here.’ He said he’s in Vienna.