Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(82)

“Exporting rare works of art to the Middle East,” Snow said, “anyone’d think you were trying to sell arms to Saddam in the middle of the Gulf f*cking War.”

Grabianski drew on the straw of his banana milkshake; it was a great shake, creamy and thick, but required considerable suction to get it up the straw. “There’s some kind of trouble, Eddie, that’s what you’re saying?”

“This kind of line, there’s always trouble. Otherwise, you think everyone else wouldn’t be doing it?”

Grabianski nodded. “I suppose so.”

“It’s like having sex with the same woman after too many years: no matter how keen you might be, how much you want her, a little more difficult every time.”

Grabianski pushed the milkshake aside. “Bottom line,” he said.

“Bottom line? Applications for transit of goods, pro forma invoices, import-export licenses, cargo shipment, customs and excise. Four more weeks. Possibly six.”

“Six?”

“Outside, eight.”

Grabianski shook his head and stared at his abandoned hot dog.

“What?” Snow said. “You’ve got a problem with storage? I thought you’d solved all that?”

“I have, I have, it’s just …”

“A long time since the original job was done.”

“That’s right.”

“A long time before you see any cash recompense for your labor.”

“Precisely.”

Snow put down an uneaten section of bun, leaned forward toward the white-uniformed server standing the other side of the counter and ordered a Diet Coke.

“Jerry?”

“No, thanks. No, I’m fine.”

“Good, good.” And when the Coke arrived and he’d swallowed enough to make him belch, he said, “That very problem, cash flow, yours, it’s been exercising my mind.”

Grabianski waited. The box was playing Ricky Nelson. “Poor Little Fool.” Who’s to say, Grabianski thought, him or me?

Snow lowered his voice but only a little. “This talent you’ve got for getting in and out of places unannounced. There’s a few things I could do with being deposited, safe and secure, where nobody would ever think of looking for them until they were told.”

“What kind of things?” asked Grabianski.

“Bona fides. Documents. Nothing difficult.”

“And these places you’d be wanting me to gain access to …”

“Museum offices, archives. For the most part, low security.”

Grabianski slid the menu out from between the ketchup and the mustard.

“What d’you say?” Eddie Snow asked.

“You mean aside from how much?” Grabianski thought he might order the pie after all. Why not à la mode?

Resnick found Helen Siddons in the first-floor bar of the Forte Crest, sitting in a gray lounge chair across a low table from Jack Skelton, who was looking chastened even before Resnick appeared, and when he did, assumed the aspect of someone who’s been caught pissing down his own leg.

Resnick raised a hand in greeting and moved on toward the long bar, shifting a stool down to the far end and, when the barman noticed him, ordering a large vodka with lots of ice. He thought he might be in for quite a fight.

Siddons was leaning toward Skelton now, voice low, before suddenly throwing herself backward in the chair and pointing at him with the red-tipped cigarette in her right hand. “Fuck d’you think you are, Jack?” Resnick heard, and “miserable bitch of a wife.” Not so long after, and without a wave or a word in Resnick’s direction, Skelton got up and left.

Resnick wondered whether he should go over to where Helen Siddons was sitting, or if she would come to him; he was still considering when she stubbed out her cigarette and, grim-faced, headed his way.

She lit up again as soon as she sat down. “Scotch,” she said, not bothering to look at the barman. “Large. No water, no ice.”

“So, Charlie,” she said, “how’s it all going?” And before he could answer, “What is it, Charlie? What is it with just about every man in the f*cking world? The minute you lose interest is the minute they become convinced you’ve got a cunt of gold.”

She drank the first half of the scotch fast, the rest at even speed, and called for another. Resnick wondered how long she had been there, whether this particular session had started at lunchtime and simply flowed.

“This woman of yours, Charlie, what’s she called?”

“Hannah.”

“Hmm, well, promise me this; promise me this about you and darling Hannah …”

Resnick waited while she dragged deep on her cigarette.

“Promise me if ever she wants to leave, if ever the day comes when she wants to walk away and call it quits, promise you’ll let her go. God’s blessings, Charlie. Godspeed and goodbye. None of this sniveling and whining, you’re-the-most-important-thing-in-my-life crap. Right?”

“Right.”

“I’m serious, Charlie.”

“I know.”

Her hand was on his knee. “You and me, Charlie, you never fancied that?”

“No.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Christ, Charlie! The last honest man.”