gjprager

[gjprager]

LOSERS GALLERY

CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2

November’s not the best time of year to be hopscotching around New York. It gets colder and grayer by the day, along with my dis- position. But I was in town for a week visiting relatives, squeezing them for shelter and hot meals while I sought out an elderly gentleman who lived on the East Side of Manhattan and was purported to be an art dealer of some renown. He once sang for a big band during the Swing Era, but his career fizzled out after the War and took up accounting instead. Zeke said he held a secret that could make someone very rich.

Mr. Howard lived in one of those pre-war buildings that cost a fortune in rent. I peeked through the large glass doors into the lobby; it was laid out in marble made dull by the years, and a chandelier with missing crystals hung from the ceiling. The place had seen better days, as did Mr. Howard, I assumed.

I rang him up on the intercom a number of times before he buzzed me in. The only thing missing from this setup was a pricey doorman. I took the elevator to the twelfth floor, and after knocking a dozen or so times on his door he got wind of me. I’d read somewhere that hearing was the first thing to go in old dogs and geezers. His footsteps progressed down a long foyer; I heard a few locks turn.

“Who is it?”

“Robert Klayman. We have an appointment.”

“Who?”

“Robert Klayman! You just rang me up on the intercom.”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

He struggled to unclasp the chain and pulled the door opened, greeting me with a big smile that showed off a set of gleaming white teeth.

“Mr. Klayman, it’s nice to meet you.” His voice still held the melodic baritone that once graced the radio waves.

“Likewise, Mr. Howard. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

        His mood was light and airy, a sharp cry from the senility he projected thus far. I sensed something sinister about him. His gracious facade hinted at a dark secret or two. He might even have some skeletons in his closet — for real. Nevertheless, this wasn’t missionary work I’d signed up for.

“Come on in,” he said.

I stepped inside as he locked the door behind, and I followed him down a long and never-ending foyer, it was dark and narrow and reminded me of a crypt. I had the heebie-jeebies and we hadn’t even gotten started.

The place lit up once we got past the foyer. I sat down on a brown leather sofa that stretched across one side of a sunken living room. He sat stiffly on the edge of a matching leather chair tucked away in the corner, and looked like he was about to get back up.

     “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Bourbon?” I ventured.

“With ice?”

“Yeah.”

“Coming right up.”

He proceeded to the kitchen while I sat around, observing the surroundings. He returned and handed me my drink; he’d filled it to the top, as he did his own spirited concoction. We were headed for a long session together.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Howard.”

I had to admit that wasn’t really the case, but I did hear him sing once on an old-time radio program early on a Sunday morning when I couldn’t get back to sleep. He crooned pretty well back then.

    “Good things, I hope, Mr. Klayman.” He sat back in the corner chair.

“Oh yes, of course.” I was being tactful.

The place looked to be a small one-bedroom, the sort of place a Manhattan pensioner was apt to live. The walls were plastered with music memorabilia from a generation before rock’ n’ roll hit the charts. He was front and center in those black and white photos, with suited-up musicians holding saxophones or trumpets standing behind him. His furniture looked to be from that era too, and as with most elderly gents, his place looked like a relic from the past.

      “You must have sung with the great bandleaders of the time,” I said to him.

“I knew a few of them. Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey. They weren’t the nicest people to work for, but they were damn good at their job.”

“They don’t make music like that anymore,” I said, though I preferred rock ‘n’ roll.

“No, unfortunately not. Now, let’s discuss why you’re here.”

“Go ahead and fill me in.” I sipped my bourbon and watched him closely.

       “Zeke Stanton had directed me to an article about you online.”

       “Zeke’s a great friend. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“I read the piece a few weeks ago.” He began knocking down his drink. It looked like scotch and soda. “I believe it was first published in the Los Angeles Times back in March.”

“It was a pretty accurate description of my P.I. exploits and all the trouble it got me in.”

Mr. Howard looked at me as if he knew all my dark and dirty secrets. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Klayman.”

“I received a lot of sympathetic mail from readers, but no job offers.” I tried making light of it, but failure has no friends.

“Yes, well...once you’ve been scorched by the powers that be there’s no way back.”

I noticed a pair of flesh-colored hearing aids tucked inside his ears. They did a good job these days camouflaging those gadgets.

“I broke the law, carrying a gun without a permit.” I raised my voice a bit. “I had no business getting involved in a murder case without a P.I. license, or shooting that bum for a couple of dollars he stole from me.”

       “You’re underestimating yourself, Mr. Klayman. In my opinion you showed initiative and resolve, and you defended yourself with courage.”

“The penalty didn’t fit the crime. I was railroaded.”

“It was an injustice, plain and simple. But I was impressed with

your tenacity. You’re going to need it for this job.”

I was getting to like the guy. “Let’s talk about it. All I know is that it involves a work of art.”

“Not just any work of art, Mr. Klayman.” He paused with dramatic flair. “You’re familiar with Rembrandt?”

“Most definitely. The famous Dutch painter of the eighteenth century.”

“Close enough. Do you know how much a Rembrandt is currently worth on the market?”

“A hell of a lot.”

“Exactly.”

“Where do I fit in?

“Patience, Mr. Klayman. Let me digress.”

He began to relate a tale that was mysterious, intriguing, and hardly believable. I sat back and listened like a wide-eyed kid.

It began with an affair he’d had with a well-placed society lady during World War II who left him to marry a bigwig in the State Department. This lady was also a relative of a former President of the United States, which put her in very high company.

Having said all that, he began to relate a story about Hermann Goering, the former head of Nazi Germany’s Luftwaffe and the second most powerful man in Germany at the time. Among other things, Goering fancied himself an art lover but didn’t believe in paying for it. After the Nazis conquered most of Europe, he had assembled quite an art collection.

“I’d read about that,” I said.

Mr. Howard sipped his drink, then continued. “The society lady’s father was a politician and ardent Bundist back in the thirties, and was in contact with high-ranking Nazi officials in the German government. He’d traveled to Germany a few times before the war and befriended Goering who’d offered to sell him a famous Rembrandt at an appreciable discount. The deal didn’t go through as war broke out soon after. But Goering had been given an advance on his asking price, and for the record wrote out a bill of sale. Goering kept the contract in a Swiss bank planning to complete the transaction after the war. He was looking ahead, since he couldn’t be sure he’d end up on the winning side. He didn’t use his own name, and instead used the name of a former Jewish art dealer in Berlin, a Henry Kissleman.

“Very interesting. But where do I come in?”

“Patience, Mr. Klayman.”

He went on to say that after Pearl Harbor, the society lady’s dad had a patriotic epiphany and quickly put his aircraft company to work making instruments that would help tear the Fatherland to pieces a few years later.

“He more than made up for his apostasy,” Mr. Howard said, leaning back in his chair. “His contribution to the war effort was immense.”

“Where is the Rembrandt now?”

“There’s more to the story.”

“Go on,” I said.

What choice did I have? He liked drawing out a good yarn. I kept looking in my drink, treating it like an hourglass, counting down to the finale. Not that I wasn’t interested. I’d always been hungry for postscripts to the machinations of the Third Reich, but all that stuff about Goering was for starters. Much more befell the Rembrandt as the war came to an end.

“In 1945,” he began, “as the Russians swarmed over the Reich from the east, a Red Army grunt found the Rembrandt in a ware- house along with a booty of masterpieces and turned them in to his superior officer. This officer, bravely decorated, rose in rank over the years and gained quite a standing in the Communist party.” He paused to knock off the rest of his drink, then continued. “A few years ago, a Viennese Jew who survived a concentration camp claimed to have owned the Rembrandt but could not prove it. As the painting was thought to have perished in the war, no inquiries were made into the matter. After the man died, he left no family to do his bidding if the Rembrandt should ever reappear–”

Mr. Howard stopped abruptly, realizing he’d tried my patience. “I’m sorry for the length and complexity of the information, but I feel it necessary to relate it all to you.”

      “Don’t worry,” I said. “I find the subject fascinating.”

      He peered into his glass. “It seems I need some replenishing.”        

Mr. Howard took my empty glass along with his to the kitchen. He returned with another bourbon for me and another round of whatever he was drinking. He sat down on the matching leather chair and sipped quietly, lost in thought.

I sensed he was reeling me in to some sort of caper, but a thief would have been shrewder and more calculating in his presentation. This was a Rembrandt, after all, with lots of greenbacks at stake. Mr. Howard stayed cool and detached throughout his improbable tale. I’d never have guessed at his buttoned-up formalities from the way he crooned back in his day.

“Now, getting back to where we were,” he said. “I find the subject fascinating, too.”

“Not for the same reasons I do, Mr. Howard.” He looked back suspiciously. “What I mean is...I have a more visceral attitude about the Nazis than you do.”

“I fought those bastards, Mr. Klayman. I didn’t sit out the war in a sound studio cutting records like Sinatra or Crosby.”

          “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

          “No offense taken.”

       I was relieved to see him show some passion. “I’m thankful for your service. It was the one war we fought whose purpose was clear.”

“Yes, of course. Now, are you still following the story?”

      “I’m trying my best,” I confessed.

      “This is where you come in. I received a call from an art dealer acquaintance who had visited Odessa, in Ukraine, about three months ago. Word had surfaced in the art market that the Rembrandt was being held by a criminal element who were looking to sell. The dealer was sent at the behest of the family I spoke to you about, although the society lady I mentioned earlier died years ago.”

      “Did they agree to the sale?”

“The dealer told me they offered to sell at a very high price, as one would expect. He related all this to the family and they agreed to buy the painting. However, they are not interested in paying a ransom for it, which is how they see the seller’s over-the-top asking price.”

“This is where I come in?”

“Our mutual friend, Zeke Stanton, had introduced me to Bo- ris Abramovich, the man you will be working for. I spoke to Mr. Abramovich on the phone, and he agreed to facilitate the sale and get the asking price down to what the family is willing to pay. He has numerous contacts with the underworld in Odessa. You will travel to Ukraine and complete the transaction.”

“You’re suggesting a strong criminal element is involved?”

“Would you like me to refill your glass?” he said.

I looked down at the empty glass. “Yeah, sure... more ice, too.” It dawned on me I was getting sloshed.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

I had a creeping feeling he was sending me straight to the wolves, but like a barroom drunk I was ready for whatever pipe dreams he put in my head. I looked around the place for a clue to his integrity – the sparse décor and a retiree’s austere lifestyle gave me confidence. He needed the money as much as I did.

Mr. Howard returned with both glasses full and a big smile. “Here you are. Kentucky bourbon for your pleasure.”

“Yes, it’s good, very good.” I took a slow, smooth sip. “Now, this family you spoke of. They don’t seem very interested in the Rembrandt, if you ask me.”

“I can assure you they want that painting back. In any event, your job is to travel to Odessa and transport it out of the Ukraine.”

“How would I know a Rembrandt from a Rubens?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a first-rate private detective.”

“I appreciate that.” He knew how to brown nose, but I wasn’t buying in yet. “Why don’t they plum the art world for guys who specialize in this sort of thing? An art major at UCLA could do the job better than I can.

“You’re missing the point, Mr. Klayman.”

  “Which is?”

     “The family only wants it as part of their private collection. They cherish their privacy and want to stay out of the limelight. Someone without an art background and with a low profile like yours can keep this out of the public sphere. They want complete privacy in this matter. They’re not proud of their grandfather’s role in it. Do you understand?”

       I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not. “What if they handed me a fake?” 

       “You’re not following what I said. We’ve worked that part out already.” He took a long sip on his drink. “There’s money in it for you, and as long as you follow instructions, we will pay you for your services. Do I make myself clear?”

        “What exactly do you want me to do?”

        “Meet this Russian gentleman and pick up the Rembrandt. The money will be transferred through Mr. Abramovich. After you re- trieve the painting, you will board a train and travel to Prague.”

        “Is that all I have to do?”

        “That would be all.”

        “Does this entail a hit? A contract killing?”

        “I didn’t hear that.”

        “There’s a reason you sought me out, Mr. Howard. You’ve read about a two-bit, wannabe private detective released from prison with no prospects. Maybe you just don’t want to pay a professional, so you hire me on the cheap. Or you might need a patsy, someone disposable after the transaction is completed.”

        “Make up your mind, Mr. Klayman. Do you want the job or not?”

        “I’ll do anything to pull myself out of the gutter.  I only ask  that you be square with me.”

“I am being square with you. Do you want the job or not?”

I hesitated, knowing there was more to it than he let on. I looked in my glass and it was empty again. It reminded me of my bank account.

“How much money are you offering?”

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars now. Your flight has already been paid for.”

“How much more do I get paid once the job is done?”

“That’s between you and Mr. Abramovich. He will be your contact from now on. We will sever our relationship after you walk out the door.”

I couldn’t help wondering why he spoke like a butler on an English estate. I planned on googling his bio later. I needed money now to pay my rent and a pile of bills.

“When do I start?”

Mr. Howard was up at the breakfast counter pouring another drink. He looked to be having a bit of a problem with it, too.

“A week from today.” He steadied his gaze.

“Jeez,” I said. “I have to fly back to L.A. and take care of a few things –”

“Do you want the damn job or not?” He yelled, forgetting his resolve. I blamed the liquor on that.

I had to think fast. Lots of guys would jump on an opportunity like this. The Ukraine, however, swarmed with ruthless criminals who’d lop off my head for a liter of vodka. But the job promised a better return than playing a P.I. for jealous husbands with thin wallets.

A heist or a hit, I wasn’t yet sure, but either one would be lucrative on the international stage. What did I have to lose? At some point we all end up dead. Why not call it quits with some real money in my pocket?

    “Well, Mr. Klayman. What the hell is it going to be?”

“It’s a deal,” I said.

    He came out from around the counter holding a leather port-folio and laid it down on the table.

“Here’s your first installment. We expect you in Odessa on the twenty-fifth of the month. The plane ticket has already been modified to accommodate your point of departure, which I assumed would be LAX.” He sounded like a textbook. “Read the instructions carefully.”

“I’ll get started right away.”

I opened the flap and peered inside the folder. Two packets of hundred-dollar bills were neatly stacked, along with a computer printout of a plane ticket, and some instructions written out on a plain sheet of paper. I counted out ten-grand, like he said.

I looked back at the computer printout. “Hey, there’s no–”

“We’ll deal with that as we go along.”

      Mr. Howard read my mind. He’d handed me a one-way ticket — in more ways than one, I fretted. These people were all business, one mistake and it was the boneyard for me. This family, or conglomerate, or whoever they were, was certainly not the innocents he described.

“I’ll be in Odessa on the twenty-fifth.” I took the portfolio and stood. “I’ll still need that return ticket.”

“Please read the instructions, Mr. Klayman. That should clarify the situation for you.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. I’ll see you out.”

He followed me to the door through the foyer. I turned to say goodbye. An arched expression fell over his face.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Klayman.”

“Likewise,” I said.

I shook his hand before taking off and landing back on the street. A cold, raw wind blew off the river, settling on my face like an ice pack. New York was getting awfully chilly in November. I had a sinking feeling this gig was leading me straight to another kind of freeze box.

[gjprager]

LOSERS GALLERY

LOSERS GALLERY - a novel by G.J.Prager Audiobook version

fascinating look into power, corruption, and victimization in post-Soviet Ukraine, where gangsters and oligarchs run the town -

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