The Take(118)

“Not bad?” Lucy put down her heat gun and scraper. “It’s immaculate.”

“That’s one of my words.”

“Well, is it?”

Simon nodded grudgingly. “Getting there.”

Lucy beamed with pride, a victory won. She took off her cap and shook loose her hair, then touched his cast gingerly. “Hurt much?”

“No.”

She ran a hand up his arm toward his shoulder. “And this?”

“Careful,” he said, wincing.

She ran her fingers over his bruised cheek. “Bring me back a present?”

“I might have a snow globe for you.”

“You were in Paris. That’s where all the designers are.”

“Do you think I brought Harry Mason a present?”

“He wouldn’t look as nice in a silk camisole as I would.”

Simon considered this. “You have me there.”

“Besides, I could be more.”

“More than what?”

Lucy smiled, her head tilted toward him. “More than just your favorite mechanic.”

Simon took her hand and guided it to her side. “Who says you’re my favorite?” he said firmly. “Now, give me the heat gun. You missed a spot.”

Lucy crossed her arms furiously. “I did not!”

A commotion in the main shop interrupted them. He heard raised voices. Harry Mason shouted. A toolbox overturned, scattering its contents.

“Riske,” a man called. “Simon Riske!”

The voice was too loud, the words too clearly enunciated, to mistake the accent. Not again, thought Simon.

“Don’t!” said Lucy, grabbing his arm.

“Stay here.” Simon hurried back to the shop floor. There were five large men he didn’t know and one fat man he did.

“You asked me to look you up,” said Boris Blatt. “Here I am.”

One of Blatt’s men held Harry Mason in a headlock with a gun stuck into his side.

“And here I am,” said Simon. “Let Mr. Mason go.”

Blatt barked an order in Russian and the man released Mason.

“Everyone keep calm,” said Simon. “I know why Mr. Blatt is here. You guys can go back to work.”

Blatt carved a path through the sports cars, appraising each in turn. “Nice, but nothing special.”

“No 275s,” said Simon, referring to the automobile Blatt had purchased the Sunday before. “I told you not a dollar over twenty million.”

“What’s five million here or there?” Blatt shrugged, but his sour expression said he wasn’t happy to be reminded of his rash expenditure.

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to see about some work it might need?”

“I suppose not.” Blatt made a show of extending his left arm. He was wearing a Casio G-Shock. “Feel free to take this one.”

Simon spoke earnestly. “I was simply repossessing stolen property.”

“You are saying I stole the watch?” Blatt’s pale face had gone a vivid shade of crimson at the drop of a hat.

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake,” said Simon. “Watches aren’t like cars. Much harder to keep track of past owners.”

“This is true,” said Blatt, mollified. “One never knows where a watch has been. A person buys it. Perhaps he gives it to a friend. Someone else loses it. Over the years, anything can happen.”

“Anything.” Simon nodded obediently. Blatt’s men had formed a circle around him, and he could feel their enmity radiating like heat off a blacktop.

“However,” Blatt continued, rubbing his little gray head, “that does not change the reason for my visit. It seems you owe me five million dollars.”

“I do?”

“We already agree that you took my watch. Its value is given as three million and change. You do the math.”

Simon already had and he didn’t like the result. “And the additional sum?”

“For my time, my efforts to find you, and my forbearance.”

“Quite an hourly rate. I didn’t know you were an attorney.”

“Five million dollars, Mr. Riske.”

One of Blatt’s thugs emerged from the paint studio, manhandling Lucy.

“Ah,” said Blatt, eyes undressing her. “Your lovely assistant.” He nodded at her. “I believe we met the other night.”

To her credit, Lucy held her tongue.

Simon assessed the situation. He was not in what one might call a good bargaining position. He guessed that Lucy was to be their hostage until he ponied up the money or they came to some other agreement. He did not want to imagine what might happen to her once Blatt turned his back. “What do you suggest, Mr. Blatt?”

“Boris, please. We are all friends here.” He smiled theatrically, then approached Simon, one man speaking to another. “I would like you to come work for me.”

“Really?”

“I could use a man with your skills.”

Simon smiled faintly, as if not entirely averse to the proposition. “In what capacity?”

“In whatever capacity I say.”

The smile faded. “And my work here?”

“Oh, the shop will be mine, too,” Blatt went on, speaking the words softly, inches from his face, enjoying himself far too much for Simon’s taste. “Did I forget to mention that?”