“You and I were never supposed to meet.”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it? You wired the money, I delivered the goods, then I disappeared again. Now I’m back.”
Oscar cracked his knuckles and tried to stay calm. “And Ribikoff? Where is he now?”
“He’s gone. He died a horrible death, Oscar, it was awful. But before he died he gave me what I wanted. You.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Fine. So what did you do with them?”
“Sold them. I flipped them as fast as possible.”
“Where are they, Oscar? I’m going to find them, and the trail is already bloody.”
“I don’t know where they are. I swear.”
“Then who has them?”
“Look, I need some time to think. You said you’re patient, so just give me some time.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be back in twenty-four hours. And don’t do anything stupid like try to run. There’s no place to hide and you’ll get hurt if you try. We’re pros, Oscar, and you don’t have a clue.”
“I’m not running.”
“Twenty-four hours, and I’ll be back for the guy’s name. Give me his name and you get to keep your money and go on with your life. I’ll never tell. You have my word.”
Denny jumped to his feet and left the office. Oscar stared at the door and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs. He heard the door open, heard its little bell ring, then it closed quietly.
Oscar put his face in his hands and tried not to cry.
4.
Two blocks away, Denny was in a hotel bar eating pizza when his cell phone rattled. It was almost 9:00 p.m. and the call was late. “Talk to me,” he said as he glanced around. The place was almost empty.
Rooker said, “Mission accomplished. I caught Jazik in an elevator and had to slap him around. Quite fun, really. Delivered the message and all went well. Petrocelli was more of a problem because he worked late. About an hour ago I caught him in the parking lot outside his office. Scared the shit out of him. A little wimp. At first he denied representing Mark Driscoll but he backed down quickly. Didn’t have to hit him but came close.”
“No witnesses?”
“None. Clean getaway with both.”
“Nice work. Where are you now?”
“Driving. I’ll be there in five hours.”
“Hurry up. Tomorrow should be fun.”
5.
Rooker entered the bookshop at five minutes before six and pretended to browse. There were no other customers. Oscar busied himself nervously behind the front counter but kept his eyes on the man. At six he said, “Sorry, sir, but we’re closing.” At that moment Denny entered, closed the door behind him, and flipped the “Open/Closed” sign. He looked at Oscar, pointed at Rooker, and said, “He’s with me.”
“Is anyone here?” Denny asked.
“No. Everyone’s gone.”
“Good. We’ll just stay right here,” Denny said as he stepped toward Oscar. Rooker joined him, both within striking distance. They stared at him and no one moved. Denny said, “Okay, Oscar, you’ve had some time to think. What’s it gonna be?”
“You have to promise me you’ll protect my identity.”
“I don’t have to promise anything,” Denny snarled. “But I’ve already said no one will ever know. And what would I gain by revealing your involvement? I want the manuscripts, Oscar, nothing else. Tell me who you sold them to and you’ll never see me again. Lie to me, though, and you know I’ll be back.”
Oscar knew. Oscar believed. At that awful moment the only thing he wanted was to safely get rid of this guy. He closed his eyes and said, “I sold them to a dealer named Bruce Cable, owns a nice bookstore on Camino Island, Florida.”
Denny smiled and asked, “How much did he pay?”
“A million.”
“Nice job, Oscar. Not a bad flip.”
“Would you please leave now?”
Denny and Rooker glared at him without moving a muscle. For ten long seconds Oscar thought he was dead. His heart pounded as he tried to breathe.
Then they left without another word.
CHAPTER SIX
THE FICTION
1.
Entering Noelle’s Provence was like walking into the middle of one of her handsome coffee-table books. The front room was filled with rustic country furniture, armoires and dressers and sideboards and armchairs arranged comfortably on ancient stone tile flooring. The side tables were loaded with old jugs and pots and baskets. The plaster walls were peach colored and adorned with sconces and smoky mirrors and dingy framed portraits of long-forgotten barons and their families. Scented candles emitted the thick aroma of vanilla. Chandeliers hung in clusters from the wood-and-plaster ceiling. An opera played softly in the background on hidden speakers. In a side room, Mercer admired a long, narrow wine-tasting table set for dinner with plates and bowls of sun yellow and olive green, the basic colors of rustic Proven?al tableware. Against the wall near the front window sat the writer’s table, a beautiful hand-painted piece that she was supposed to covet. According to Elaine, it was being offered for three thousand dollars and perfect for their needs.
Mercer had studied all four of Noelle’s books and easily identified the furniture and furnishings. She was admiring the writer’s table when Noelle entered the room and said, “Well, hello, Mercer. What a nice surprise.” She greeted her with the casual French salute of obligatory pecks on both cheeks.
“This place is gorgeous,” Mercer said, almost in awe.
“Welcome to Provence. What brings you here?”
“Oh, nothing. Just browsing. I love this table,” she said, touching the writer’s table. There were at least three featured in her books.
“I found it in a market in the village of Bonnieux, near Avignon. You should have it. It’s perfect for what you do.”
“I need to sell some books first.”
“Come on. I’ll show you around.” She took Mercer’s hand and led her from one room to the next, all filled with furnishings straight from her books. They climbed an elegant staircase of white stone steps and wrought-iron handrails to the second floor, where Noelle modestly showed off her inventory—more armoires and beds and dressers and tables, each with a story. She spoke so affectionately of her collection that she seemed reluctant to part with any of it. Mercer noted that not a single piece on the second floor had a price tag.
Noelle had a small office downstairs in the rear of the store, and beside its door was a small flip-top wine-tasting table. As she described it, Mercer wondered if all French tables were used for wine tasting. “Let’s have some tea,” Noelle said and pointed to a chair at the table. Mercer took a seat and they chatted as Noelle boiled water on a small stove next to a marble sink.
“I adore that writer’s table,” Mercer said. “But I’m afraid to ask its price.”
Noelle smiled and said, “For you, dear, it has a special price. For anyone else it’s three thousand, but you can have it for half of that.”
“That’s still a stretch. Let me think about it.”