(Peter Farringwell, fairly recent college graduate, is somewhat desperate to get money for airfare to Thailand. He has gone to Kristie Nichol’s credit union and tried to hit up, Phyllis, his mom for the cash. She said no. Peter decides to try another party.)

(from Storyteller – Courtney Webb)

Part II – Thailand by Courtney Webb

#

Peter Farringwell, II was pissed.

He leaned against the counter at the Zippy Mart drinking cheap, black coffee.

He went to his back pocket and pulled out the colored brochure and put it on the counter.

CHRISTIAN MISSION – SAVE THE CHILDREN IN THAILAND

Rereading the pamphlet for about the fifth time, he confirmed the flight date. Yup, one week from today. He really wanted to go on this thing. He had no interest in saving any children, of course, but he wanted to get to Thailand and this was the cheapest way to do it. He had heard endless stories about the quality of the weed you could get there and the girls, whew! He wanted to try some of that for sure.

He had tried his best to tap the old lady one more time, but she wasn’t buying it. Told him he should work on his religious life more. What a bunch of shit! He was religious. He religiously got his hands on as much weed as possible whenever possible. He had been doing so all through college and mother had no idea.

“She’s a moron,” he mumbled to himself. “Small town moron.”

The woman standing next to him buying a soda looked at him strangely. He turned his back and kept drinking his coffee. Needed to think of something else. He had tried everything to get the Mission people to let him go for free. He volunteered to work, cook, make beds, clean toilets, whatever, but they kept saying no.

“Every member of the congregation,” the Director, Ms. Chen had said, “will to have to pay his or her own plane fare. If you want to exchange labor for food and lodging once we get there, that would be great. But you have to pay your own way there.” She smiled at him.

Peter tapped the brochure on the counter top. “Shit,” he said to the air.

Getting away from those cops had been a close call. Whew! Getting out of town for awhile seemed like a good idea. Maybe he would try to old man tomorrow. His mom and dad never spoke much which was a good thing. Couldn’t compare notes. He looked up at the wall clock. He needed to get back to the Mission before they locked the doors at eight p.m.

What a bunch of weirdoes, Peter grinned inwardly. Whatever, three hots and a cot, it would do for now. He dumped the coffee cup and took off.

Next day, 9 a.m., early for him, Peter was at Farringwell Tires on Main Street. He was casually chatting up his dad, Pete, Senior. Pete was dressed in his usual white polo shirt with his name embroidered on the front and tan chinos. He wore thick soled black shoes.

Peter wore his usual sloppy, all black uniform. They were on the shop floor, both sloshing down cups of coffee in styro-foam cups. The loudspeaker in the shop kept blaring every few minutes asking for a customer to come to the front desk. Peter had worked at the shop through high-school but quit when he went to college. He needed time to ‘study’ he had told his dad.

“I need to ask you something, Dad, it will just take a minute. Can we go somewhere quieter?”

Pete, Sr. looked concerned. He adored his first-born son and was still in awe addressing the first college graduate in the family.

“Okay, Peter, no problem. Let’s go to my office and have a sit.”

Sitting in an awkward aluminum chair, Peter pulled out the brochure and pushed it across the desk to his father.

“I know I’ve had my share of problems this last two years…” Peter said in his most humble voice.

Pete, Sr., waved it away dismissively.

“But I think I have seen the light.” Peter’s hands were folded together in his lap, almost in supplication.

His father peered up at him with small, shrewd eyes.

Peter paused, he better not lay it on too thick or the old man would never buy it.

“But,” he rapidly changed his pitch, “these people at the Mission have really helped me. They have given me a job, food, a place to stay…. Now,” he eyed his dad cautiously, “I just want to help and give back to their organization. You can see what they do over there in Thailand with those kids. It’s really great.” He paused to sip on his coffee. Better stop while he was ahead.

His dad looked down at the brochure. “So, what is it you need Peter?” He appeared to be reading the pamphlet that he held with thick, muscular hands.

“Well, they pay for everything when we get there. All the food and housing are covered. It’s just that…. well, they don’t cover airfare.”

“How much?” The dad looked up slowly and tapped the brochure on his desk.

“$1,500 – economy class. No first class for this boy!” Pete smiled with enthusiasm.

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Dad, if you have any problems with the money, of course, I don’t want to bother you. Times are tough, I know that.”

“No, it’s not the money. It’s just, well….”

Peter knew exactly what his father was thinking.

“Tell you what. I’ll leave the brochure with you.” Peter turned it over to the backside and pointed to a name and number. “This is Ms. Chen and she is handling all the travel arrangements. You can call her direct and give her your info and she will take care of it. And that is good for me because it confirms I’m really going, not just blowing smoke.”

“Okay…” he father responded slowly. “Let me think on it a little.”

“No problem, Dad. Whatever you decide is fine. Just call Ms. Chen if it’s a yes and she will take it from there. I better hustle off now, I handle the lunch crowd and it can be a real gang of folks. Thanks, Dad.” Peter carefully put his cup in the trash. “Talk at you later.”

With a little salute he was out the door. His dad was still staring at the brochure looking uncertain, his chubby face mouthing words to himself.

He’ll do it, Peter thought to himself. He could never say no to me. With that, he started to whistle a happy tune and look for a bus to get him back to the Mission.

Back at the Christian Mission he dropped his backpack on his cot and reached for a pack of cigarettes.

“You know you’re not supposed to be smoking,” a soft female voice sounded from his left.

Peter paused before lighting up and turned.

“Sally, Sally Jones. You old snoop. Watching me are you?”

Sally paused and looked down at the floor. Then, pointing up, “The sign clearly states no smoking in here, Peter.”

He laughed. “Ok, Sister Sal, whatever you say. I will take my smoke outside.” He made a stage bow to her and swept an arm out. “Whatever my lady says.”

Sally blushed and stammered, “Thanks, Peter, so much. Dinner set up will be in a few minutes.”

“And I will be there, trust me.” He paused to give her a little chuck under the chin and walked jauntily out the back door.

Sally turned and looked at his retreating back. She had never met anyone quite like him. So smart, so educated, so good looking! Walking back to the kitchen she sighed as she pulled on the white apron. Why couldn’t she ever get a guy like that? Seeing the time, she let out a little gasp. Better get cracking, that mob would be hungry!

Next day Peter got a message from one of the workers that Ms. Chen wished to see him in the office. He dropped what he was doing and hustled over to the next building and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Peter went in. “Have a seat, Peter.” Ms. Chen smiled at him.

“Well,” she drummed the top of her desk with fingertips. “Good news, looks like you will be going with us to Thailand after all.”

“Wow, Ms. Chen, that’s really great! Did you guys change your mind about the ticket?” Peter put on his happy face.

“Ah, no. Actually, we got a call from your father and he agreed to put the fare on his card.”

“Oh, gosh, my Old Man! Wow, he came through for me after all. He’s such a pal.”

Ms. Chen’s smile became a little frozen. “Yes, really nice of him. He even included a little for ‘expenses’.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

Peter’s brain started working furiously.

“But, as discussed before Peter, this is a charitable organization and we get a group discount rate on the fare. So, you will be expected to stay at the compound when we get there and help serve the meals and so forth. That’s agreed?”

“Sure. No problem,” Peter said automatically, his brain whirling.

“I believe you said you wanted to do some sightseeing. We will be having some group tours on the bus and you are certainly welcome to join…”

“Group tours, bus…yeah. Good. When do I get the money?”

Ms. Chen paused. “Everything has to process through the bank. I believe I can give it to you as soon as we get to the camp in Thailand.”

“Great! Thanks Ms. Chen. Got to get back to dinner!” Peter jumped up and was out the door before she could say anything else.

Tapping her fingers some more, Ms. Chen was thoughtful.

“Rich kids.” Shaking her head, she went back to work.

#

The Christian Mission Group landed at the Thailand airport and was met by their driver. Carrying a large sign, he got them after they went through customs. The group was quickly loaded into the van. Traffic was stop and go through the jammed packed streets of Bangkok. Their camp site was on the outskirts of town. It was an old run-down school the church had taken over. The volunteers, climbed off the bus and gazed around. Another worker showed them to their dorms to get unpacked.

“This place is a trip. I love it!” Peter gushed.

“Yes, it’s pretty nice,huh? But hot, wow,” Sally was not quite so effusive. Her pale skin was already pink from the heat and sweating. She kept pushing her fine blond hair, now matted, out of her face.

“The colors, the people, wow,” Peter kept saying.

“I got to go unpack. See you later,” she told him.

“Yeah,” he thought to himself. Much later.

Peter threw his big backpack on the bed and held onto his little bag.

He went in search of Ms. Chen. He was finally able to locate her in the office, chatting up the staff. He hung around the doorway appearing disinterested.

There was finally a break in the chatter; she glanced his way.

“Ah, Peter. Yes, why don’t you come with me?” She got up. Ms. Chen was shortish, in her late 30’s, slim with long black hair.

Peter often thought she didn’t look much like most social workers he was used to. In another life, he and she…his mind wandered.

He followed her out into another, miniscule office. The walls were old fake wood paneling with calendars of beautiful, young Thai women displaying painted nails. Ms. Chen sat down at a heavy metal desk and reached for her purse.

“You’ll be wanting your money no doubt.”

He nodded.

She unzipped her wallet and pulled out four – one hundred-dollar bills and handed them to him.

“You had this in your purse the whole time?” He was incredulous.

“Well, wanted to be sure you had the whole amount for your trip. Problem?”

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. He stopped counting the money and pulled out his wallet and stuck it inside.

“No, no problem. Ah, thanks for handling everything.” He turned to go.

“Certainly. The dinner staff will be needing help very soon and dinner is at six p.m. sharp.”

He nodded her way and shuffled out.

“Controlling bitch,” he mumbled to himself as he went back to his room. Each dorm room had a tiny locking safe in the closet. He programmed a password and put three of the bills inside.

Don’t want to lose anything, he thought, patting the safe. Shit, might as well at least look like I’m helping. He was itching to hit the bars in town. He had noticed driving in there appeared to be plenty of taxis around. He could take one later.

Reluctantly, he shuffled off to the kitchen.

The kitchen detail was actually a good thing for Peter. He made friends with two guys in the back and they all agreed to split the moment dinner detail was done. One guy, Danny, had been there longest. He agreed to show them the sights and get them to the best bars. They couldn’t wait.

Next morning, Peter was face down in his cot and drooling on his pillow. Sally was leaning over him shaking him.

“Peter, Peter. Get up. It’s time for breakfast and you’re late.”

“What…” He said blearily and clung to his pillow.

“Get up!” she shouted at him.

“Alright!” He lurched up and stopped himself. The room was spinning. “Be there in a minute.” He was burning with thirst.

He half fell out of the cot and staggered into the bathroom and stuck his face under the faucet. Water splashed over his face and ran into his mouth. He could drink a bathtub of orange juice.

Sally left and went back to the kitchen. He finished running water over his face and grabbed for a towel. He rubbed his face hard. Peering into the mirror, the image was still out of focus. He grabbed someone’s comb and ran it through his hair. Stumbling back to his cot, he pulled a fresh shirt out of his pack and pulled it on. Skip clean pants, who cared, he would be in an apron anyway. Wasn’t there Tylenol around here somewhere? Shit, he couldn’t find it. Better ask Sal.

In the kitchen he got his apron and whispered to Sally, “Need some Tylenol real bad.”

“God, Peter. Your breath!” she pushed him away. “I’ll get it, just don’t breathe on me, okay?” Her face wrinkled up.

“Peter, over here. We need you to serve.” The head guy was waving at him.

Peter nodded and walked gingerly over to his spot. He felt like throwing up. He went to grab a bottle of OJ out of the frig and started downing it. Sally came back and stuck a small bottle in his hand. He forced the cap open and got four pills and took them two at a time. He was serving scrambled eggs.

He was okay for about twenty minutes then he waved at the guy standing next to him and ran for the head. After chucking for several minutes, he was leaning over the sink washing his face off. Another worker came in to use the john.

“Heavy night, huh?” The guy laughed.

“F—you.” Peter thought to himself. He walked slowly back to the kitchen. In truth, he couldn’t wait to do it again.

Continued Part III

 

CHAPTER TWELVE – THAILAND

by Courtney Webb

 

Kristie Nichols sat at her desk, drinking coffee and idly perusing the morning paper. It was a morning like any other morning at the Credit Union. It was early June and the day was just starting to get warm in Tranquillity, California. Sprinklers started to hum outside.

“Sheriff’s Department Reports Success with Sting Operation. County Sheriff’s report rounding up several suspects in a drug operation which…”

She heard the front door bell tinkling. She glanced at the clock, 8:36 am.

“Gwen…?”

She could hear Gwen flitting around in the supply room.

“Oh, bother.”

She put down her cup and went out to the reception area.

A young man with a wild mop of brown hair slouched by the windows, looking out.

“Good morning, may we help…?”

He turned and looked at her.

Hair, two months past a haircut and stubble on his chin, the hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets.

“Mr…?”

Kristie held her hand out for a shake, but the young man kept his hands in his pockets.

Staring for a moment, she put her hand down.

“Peter? Peter Farringwell? How are you?”

She tried to minimize her surprise at his appearance. He had always been such a good-looking young man. Now…

“Yeah, good. Is my mom in yet?”

“Ah, Phyllis…no. No…she often works late and usually doesn’t get in until nine am. Can I help you with something, coffee?”

He stared at her a long moment, not saying anything.

Are his eyes bloodshot? She thought to herself. And he looks so skinny…

“Nine o’clock?” He seemed to jerk back to life, glancing at the wall clock.

“You could wait in the lunch room if you would like.”

“No, no. Ah, I’ll come back later.”

He was already turning toward the door.

“If you’re sure. Any message?”

He shook his head. Looking down, he left. The door bell tinkled once more.

Kristie stared after him. She was trying to remember the last time she had seen him.

Back at her desk, she grabbed her coffee cup and wandered back to the employee lounge for a refill, still thinking.

“Gathering wool there, sweetie?”

She stopped stirring her coffee and looked over at her co-worker/friend.

“Pam…” her voice trailed off.

“Yup, that’s what my husband calls me. And?”

Kristie focused on her friend. “Do, you remember Phyllis’s son, Peter Farringwell?”

“Yeah, good looking kid, smart, lots of hair. Why?”

“When was the last time we saw him? Was it his college graduation?”

Pam was sitting at one of the white plastic employee tables also reading a copy of the news. She leaned forward and pressed her fist to her chin. “I think that was it, he graduated from State. We all trekked over there, in the heat, I remember that part. And then went out to dinner. Yeah, some fancy place downtown, served steaks. Smiths, Schmitt’s…”

“How long ago was that? Two years?”

“Ah, hum. I think maybe…two years in June. Right.”

“Have you seen him since then?”

“Well,” Pam was thinking hard. “He stopped coming around here. Didn’t Phyllis say he was off somewhere doing something? Can’t remember.”

Kristie sipped her fresh coffee.

“Anyway, why?”

“Ah, he was in here this morning looking for Phyllis and he looked…well, different somehow. Can’t exactly say…”

“Huh. Well Phyllis is running late as usual. Maybe she can fill us in.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Cups in hand, they drifted back to their desks.

The phones started to ring and Kristie’s thoughts about Peter Farringwell were pushed out of her mind. It nearly noon when her head jerked around as she heard a “No!” coming from Phyllis’s office. Forever the nosey one, she got up on tiptoe and peeked over the module wall.

Through the glass wall of Phyllis’s office, Kristie could see her boss. Her face looked flushed, even from this distance. Kristie recognized the moppy haired son, his back to her, sitting in front of Phyllis’s desk. Hands out of his jacket now, they were balled into fists resting on the desk. Kristie couldn’t hear what he was saying, too low, but she could see Phyllis shaking her head slowly back and forth.

Kristie turned back to her own desk and casually straightened up some papers. She pulled her purse out of a drawer. The front door bell tinkled again but with more of a clang this time. Pulling the strap over her shoulder, she walked slowly to her boss’s office.

She poked her head through the door. Phyllis was turned away, bent over.

“Phyllis? You okay?” Kristie ventured further into the office.

Phyllis spun the chair around. Kristie could see her eyes were red and she had Kleenex in her hand.

“You want to go to lunch?”

Phyllis just nodded. She reached over, got her purse and stood up. “You drive.” She dabbed at her eyes again.

The two women got into Kristie’s gold Sebring. Once in the car, the air conditioning running. Phyllis started to sob, both hands covering her face. Kristie reached for the box of Kleenex and handed it over.

“Don’t want them… Didn’t want them…” the older woman gestured back at the office.

“Don’t worry about it, Phyllis. We’ll go somewhere quiet for lunch.”

Kristie picked The Tartan Club because it was dark and none of the staff went there for lunch.

“You want something to drink?”

Phyllis waved a Kleenexed hand at the waiter who hustled over.

“Scotch, straight.”

“Yes, Mrs. Farringwell.” He walked away briskly and returned in a minute with a short whiskey glass with amber liquid.

“Phyllis…do you think…?”

Phyllis waved her hand at Kristie and downed about half the drink in one gulp. She let out a sigh, pushing some hair out of her face.

Kristie was silent not knowing what to say.

“It’s Peter,” Phyllis started.

Obviously, Kristie thought wryly.

“This has been coming on for months. Where do I start? He was fine until he graduated from college and now…” Phyllis waved her hands through the air. Grabbing a paper napkin, the tears started again.

Mystified, Kristie patted her back.

“First he wanted to go to South America and work on some volunteer project and needed money for plane fare. It seemed like a good deal, he was young, so I gave it to him.”

Kristie nodded and sipped her ice tea. She vaguely remembered something about that.

“That lasted exactly three months and then he was back with some story about how ‘it just didn’t work out, not his thing stuff.’ I thought, well, age and experience. Just a learning lesson.” Phyllis sipped her scotch.

“Then it was a trip to Mexico to help children learn to read. I thought, okay, he’s trying to help children. Again, he needed airfare. Reluctantly,” she glanced at Kristie, “I gave it to him.” Another sip.

“And…?”

“He was home in less than six months. Same story, not his thing, not his kind of people, they didn’t do things right, very unorganized. Blah, blah. Since then he has drifted in and out of one thing after another.” Phyllis stole a remorseful glance sideways at her employee.

Kristie nodded.

“With…” there was a pause, “with less and less time visiting and fewer phone calls.” Phyllis dabbed her eyes. “Basically, he stopped answering his telephone or calling. I haven’t seen him in months. Then two days ago he called and wanted to see me, wouldn’t say what it was about.”

“So, today…?”

“Today was another trip, another mission, this time to Thailand.” Phyllis paused and took a deep breath. “So, I told him no, he would have to pay for the trip himself or find someone else to give him the money. I can’t do anymore.” Small tears trickled into her napkin.

Kristie patted Pyllis’s hand. She was getting the picture.

“He told me he would get it from his dad and then stormed out.”

“Ah.”

“Kristie, I am so worried. You saw him, you saw what he looks like. He’s, he’s changed. He’s not the same. I don’t know what to do.” Tears started again.

“It’s okay, Phyllis,” Kristie stated in a matter of fact voice, “we’ll get this figured out. Let’s get a little lunch. Maybe some soup?”

Phyllis nodded, and Kristie opened the menu. Calling the waiter over, she ordered for both of them.

 

Continued in Part II

(from Storyteller – Courtney Webb)

by Courtney Webb

(Discovering Art – Part V – Back in the States)

****

“So, how did you do it? In fact, how did the whole thing go down?” Ellen Jones stared with big eyes at Sam.

“Well, from the beginning?” Sam shifted around in his chair.

“Well, yes.” Ms. Jones glanced at Mr. Smithers, her boss. He was sitting in a chair close by looking vastly uncomfortable, like he couldn’t figure out what to say to this cowboy.

“Okay,” Sam took a breath, “from the beginning. The woman’s restroom and the old man.”

“Old man?” Smithers seemed to not follow. Ms. Jones waved a hand at him.

“The old man twho supposedly pinched the young girl’s bottom.” Smithers rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Man, this guy is totally out of the loop, Sam thought.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ms. Jones hissed at Smithers.

“Okay, the old man told me he never pinched the girl and I believed him. Didn’t look like the type. In fact, I thought he was going to have a heart attack on us before they could get him out of there. What that was, was a classic diversion.”

“Diversion?” Smithers blurted out.

“Yes, Sir. A diversion, the girl screamed, the man almost fainted, the women were yelling and the guards (the important point,) got distracted by the whole thing and came running to help.”

“Ah,” replied Ellen, nodding.

“Then, we no more get the girl pinching affair settled, when the flash, bang, the Ninja shows up strapped with dynamite and waving a sword.”

“Sword?” Smithers gasped. Ms. Jones placed a hand on his arm.

“Right, swinging a sword and strapped tight with several sticks of dynamite and a flashing red sign that indicated the time counting down.”

“The point?” Ms. Jones asked.

“The point, my dear Ellen,” she dimpled, “was exactly the same the second time as the first time, a diversion, a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Smithers was at it again.

“The distraction was to get the guards on the second floor to look away from the display long enough for the transfer of the pictures to be made. Perhaps one minute or two at the most.”

“Transfer?” Now, Bill was butting in asking questions. He was along for the debriefing too.

“Right, transfer. One person in the woman’s restroom to do the pinching, another person acting as Ninja and a third person with the fake picture just the right size to fit in a back pack.”

“Back pack.” Smithers was looking redder in the face by the minute.

“Right, back pack. The entire theft was carefully planned, all the way to the size of the picture to be taken. The swap was made with a picture easy in size to bring in and then take out.”

Smithers was looking a little faint.

“So, the Ninja?” asked Bill.

“The Ninja was a complete ruse, 100%.” Sam answered. He looked at Ms. Jones.
“Do you remember how I said there was something about that guy that was familiar, but I couldn’t place it?”

“I thought you said he was like guys in the Army, going up the ropes hand over hand.”

“Yes and no. Seeing him climb that rope reminded me of something, but because it was out of context, I couldn’t place it. Then, later, I remembered.”

“Yes?”

“The circus.”

She stared at him blankly as did the others.

“The circus.”

“Yes, Ellen. When was the last time you went to the circus?”

Ellen Jones stole a look sideways at her boss and smoothed her skirt down.

“Maybe when I was nine or ten.” She had on her proper face now.

“Ah, don’t know what you’re missing. I’ve been to the circus several times as well as Cirque de Soleil.”

“And…”

“And, the circus employs a ton of these young guys, maybe 22, 23 years old, very fit, very buff, athletic. Many former gymnasts.”

“The point, Mr. Reynolds?” Smithers was trying hard to look severe.

“The point is these guys have a special rope climbing technique that they use all the time.” Sam gestured with his hands. “They pull the rope tight, from the source, wrap it around their legs. Once it’s tight, they then pull themselves up with both arms and keep feeding the ropes through their legs as they move up. I’ve seen them do this trick tons of times. That is what the Ninja was doing; he was climbing the rope just that same way.”

“You think …”

“I think he is or was a circus performer. Yes. Think about it. The costume, the flash and bangs, the scimitar, waving it at people, not saying anything. Very theatrical, the whole bit. Then, rushing upstairs, escaping by helicopter and the dramatic rescue by his crew. What was everyone looking at?”

Bill looked at Sam. “They were looking at him.”

“Exactly, they were looking at him. Just long enough for the real thief to swap the pictures. Put the fake on the wall, the real one in his backpack, and casually stroll out of the building.”

Breathless at this point, Ms. Jones asked “Well, who do you think the real thief was?”

“Probably just some very average looking, nerdy, San Francisco type who absolutely would not stand out in a crowd.”

“But sensors, the gates have sensors.”

“The backpack was specially prepared to foil any sensors once the picture was inside. The thief might have gone out some service entrance or just slowly strolled out the front door with all the other customers. Like I said, the entire operation was very carefully planned.”

Sam sat back and folded his arms.

Ms. Jones and Mr. Smithers both looked at each other with an air of disbelief.

“New security ….” They were both spoke at the same time.

Finally, Ms. Jones turned back to Sam. “What about LaSalle. What happens to him?”

“Well, probably not much. Remember, won’t you, Mr. LaSalle is first and foremost a big deal business guy. He is worth a lot of tax money to the French government. This was just one little painting. And, what the heck, by a French painter anyway. Maybe their sympathies are with him that the French should have French paintings and let the Americans have American paintings. C’est la vie, I think they say.”

“Oh,” Ms. Jones looked deflated.

“However; if I were you, I’d take him off your special VIP invite list.”
She looked up, smiled and winked at him again.

“You know, Sam Reynolds, I just might do that.”

******

Back at home in Tranquility, California, Sam and Kristie were each enjoying a small glass of wine before going to bed. Kristie’s daughters had both gone back to their homes so, the couple had the place to themselves.

“So, you got the dumb thing back.” She rested her long legs in Sam’s lap.
“I did. Rather, we did. I did have a little help.”

“All this over one little picture so small it fit into a guy’s backpack.”

“Yup.” He patted her thigh.

“Well, I guess that’s Art for you,” she sipped her wine.

“Yup.”

“I have a little art in mind, myself.” Kristie smiled.

He raised his eyebrows.

“My garage is sorely in need of some paint.”

Sam grabbed at Kristie and gave her a little kiss.

“I’ll think on it Darlin, I think on it.”

The End.

By Courtney Webb

(Discovering Art – Part III – Sam and Bill visit the Lloyds Insurance office to work out plans.)

The next morning, bright and early, the two men were back in the lobby of Lloyds. The same pert little receptionist was there again. This time she gave them both a warm smile as she asked again about coffee. This time they declined and as expected, it took a lot less time for Blintner to come downstairs than before.

“Ah, we’ll be going to a different office today.” He led them to the elevator. “Top brass,” as he struck the button. Blimey was wearing a soft pink shirt today, with the same suspenders and Pokka-dot red bow tie.

They went up to a higher floor this time and were ushered into a large office. A number of gray suited men were already seated around a big wood table, hands folded, waiting.

They rose when the group came in and introductions were made all around.
“Mr. Honeywell, Senior VP,” Blimey introduced. They shook hands and sat.

“Alright, Mr. Reynolds, you are now going to tell us how you plan to save us several million dollars,” Mr. Honeywell intoned in a deep, gravelly voice.

Sam proceeded to go through the plan. He asked questions to Blimey now and then about the availability of men and materials.

“Yes, yes. That can all be arranged.” Mr. Honeywell, waved a dismissive hand. “We have connections with the military. Don’t worry about that. Just give us the outline. What will you be doing?”

Sam pulled his briefcase up and opened it and pulled out plans for the villa belonging to Rene La Salle.

“How did you get…”

Sam waved a dismissive hand in turn. “We have our sources,” he glanced at Bill who gave a small nod.

“The villa faces a small cove which then opens up on the Mediterranean Sea. Our plan is to create a diversion from the cove side and while that is occupying La Salle’s security guards, to then approach the house from this angle,” he pointed to the side of the villa. “Gain access to the second floor where the office is located and seek to get photos of the inside of the office.”

“Wild,” commented one of the older gentlemen.

“Sir,” Sam turned to the man, “what we seek to do is exactly what he did to our client when the picture was originally taken. He created some very large diversions to keep the guards distracted and occupied while the switch was made.”

There was a sort of collective “Hum…” from the group.

“Once the photographic evidence is secured, we will send that to you,” he added with a wink at Bill, “posthaste. You review it and if you feel that it is good enough to convey to the French police, you send it to them. They use it to get a warrant and they go in and confiscate the painting.”

“But he will expect people to come after him. He will know something is up. The painting must be carefully hidden. How are you going to find it?”

“Mr. La Salle will show us.” Sam replied with confidence.

****

A week later, Sam and Bill were on their way to France via train with large bags of equipment stored in the train cubbies. It was agreed this was best, as International Flight security was so much on the increase it would delay them having to answer endless questions about their ‘gear’.

Sam kept the night goggles and special night camera with him. Without the pictures, the trip would be useless. He kept pulling it out and playing with it.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Bill asked. “Afraid you won’t be able to press the right button?” He laughed.

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Sam countered a little defensively. “I know how to use one of these, it’s just, well, I’m pretty good. But, a lot rides on this and we’ll only have one chance.”

Bill nodded. “Well, no pressure, boss. Better you than me.” He turned to stare out the train window at the beautiful passing landscape.

The unmarked British Coast Guard cutter was slowly making its way to a certain cove on the coast of France. Sam had spoken briefly to Captain McGowan.

“Some deep charges to make a show, some fireworks up top with flare guns,” McGowan said. “ A little rat-tat-tat into the water. Nothing that would hurt anyone. Just a lot of show. It that what yea be wanting?” The Scottish brogue slipped out along with a slight chuckle. “Americans!”

Sam confirmed that that was exactly and precisely what he did want. They confirmed date and time.

Bill was manned with the satellite phone that would be used to signal the captain of their in-place position time. Everything had to be timed just right.

“I just hope you know what yer doing,” the Captain added. Sam hoped so too.
Sam and Bill got a room at a local tavern that was found for them by Blimey.

“It’s run by an English couple. They know us, won’t ask any questions.”

“What …” Sam started.

“And you don’t ask a lot of question, eh, mate?”

Sam shut up.

An old, serviceable jeep was at their service when they got to the pub. The publican handed Sam the keys with a nod.

“Map is in the front seat, gassed up for you.” A dour man, he turned and went back to the pub with no further comments.

Sam and Bill spend the next few days touring the countryside and snapping pictures. Just two Americans on holiday.

In the evening, they got out the night scopes and got close to the villa. Sam got pictures from several different angles to see if they could see into the second floor. The second night they found a slightly raised hillock that had a pretty good view of the villa and allowed them to see over the six foot piked iron fencing.

Dogs and guards patrolled the area at night and they found a copse of trees that they could climb and get yet a better view.

“I think I got it boss.” Bill said proudly and pointed through the trees and handed Sam the camera. Sam looked.

“Yep, good. I can see right into the second-floor office. Good, good. I can see all his very expensive paintings, right there where I can see them. Let’s take some practice shots and see if they’ll be clear enough for Blimey.

Bill did that and uploaded the pictures online to the London office.

An email came back later. “God, this guy must work all night,” Bill said to him.
“Sam, I can see the pictures alright but they are a little small and a blurry. You might have to find some way to get a little closer. B”.

“Shit,” was all Sam could say. “We may have to have a plan B,” he looked at Bill who looked back and shrugged.

“And why are you so sure the picture will be in that room? The office?” Bill asked.

“Something tells me La Salle is going to want to keep it very close. So he can look at it often. Assure himself that it’s still there.”

“Ah,” said Bill. “Another feeling.”

The next night they were back with a stop watch this time and a notebook. Sam timed the guards and Bill wrote notes in his notebook.

“It is every fifteen minutes pretty much by the clock,” Sam was a little aggravated. “And they have those damned Dobermans. God, I hate those dogs.”
Bill was thoughtful.

“Boss, didn’t you say, that in the museum heist that the distractions worked just long enough to pull the guards away from the display so the switch could be made?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Right, so we have the Coast Guard going in from the coast, so let’s say we create another diversion, closer, up front. Long enough to pull the guards away, we get over the fence. Climb those trees close to the second-floor window and get our pictures.”

“It’s cutting it close Bill. And, knowing this guy, if we get caught, those guards probably have orders to shoot to kill.”

Bill grinned. “Ah, where’s the challenge of there’s no danger?”
Sam shook his head. “So, who’s going to be our upfront diversion? You and I are too busy with the night googles and cameras.”

Bill pointed his finger down. “Limey, downstairs. Don’t tell me that guy’s not ex-British military. Did you see him walking with a limp?”

Sam had to admit, that was probably true.

“Method?” he asked.

“Tear gas and grenades. Limey will love it!”

Limey did and brought out an old motorcycle, that despite its years, looked fast.

“Mother won’t let me ride it anymore a cause of me leg.”

Sam and Bill nodded solemnly.

“Just throw in a couple of whizzes, get the Frogs dancing around?” The old man let go of a rare smile. “Would be me pleasure. Me pleasure.” The old guy grinned widely.

They were about to leave the garage area where he stowed the bike.

“But, sirs. You don’t be telling Mother, yes? She worries something awful.”

They both promised.

The big night came. Blimey confirmed and Sam confirmed via satellite phone the cutter was coming into port and would be there at 22:00 hours. Limey was in the garage tuning and polishing the bike.

Sam and Bill checked and double checked that their gear was properly stored in their bags. It included mini-motorized haul lines in case they need help over the fence in either direction or the trees close to the house.

The countdown began and Bill and Sam were in place at the fence, glancing at their watches. The guards were on patrol around the perimeter fence.

Night goggles on, Sam whispered into the phone. “Go!”

Suddenly, the sky lit up from the cove and the sounds of whizzing and fizzing began followed by the popping of gunfire. The guard on patrol stopped, turned but stayed in place.

“Come on, come on,” Sam whispered.

Almost on cue, a huge bang! was heard on the front lawn followed by another and another; tear gas could be seen floated upwards. The guard who had paused, at this point began to run toward the front. Almost immediately, Sam and Bill scampered forward, threw the pull lines over the fence, clambered up and ran as fast as they could to the side of the villa where they knew La Salle’s office to be.

They climbed up the trees to the side of the building and both yanked cameras out. Sam decided to err on the side of caution and that they should both take shots just in case.

There was a bunch of shouting inside the villa and banging doors. Sam could hear running. The office door burst open and there was Rene La Salle. He was recognizable from his many celebrity photos.

With little pause, he went to his desk, stubbed out a cigarette. He looked behind him then strode over to the wall where an unimpressive painting was hung on the wall. Looking around again, he returned to the door, made sure it was closed, came back and then lovingly taking the picture in both hands turned it around. Sam’s heart stopped a moment. There was the Renoir in a frame behind the frame.

“That’s it,” he cried softly and he and Sam began frantically clicking as fast as they could. La Salle gazed at the painting and even stroked it once before turning it around back to the wall. In a moment, he strode back to the office door and went out.

“Go, go!” Sam hissed at Bill and they both clambered out of the tree and ran for the fence. In the background, they could hear the savage barking of dogs. They both grabbed the pull lines and practically vaulted over the spikes. As they were running to the jeep, they could hear the dogs flinging themselves at the metal fence. They men didn’t look back, they just kept running.

Breathless, and in the jeep, Bill gunned it and took off down the road. He had the lights off and hit 60 mph in about 10 seconds. They could hear the sounds of motors gunning on the property and knew La Salle’s men were in pursuit. Bill was already on the back road to the pub.

They came screeching up to the garage. Old Limey was there waiting with the garage door open. They pulled the jeep in and Limey closed the roll gate behind them. They were breathless but noticed the motorcycle leaned up against the wall, the motor still ticking quietly.

The got back into the pub and raced upstairs and locked the door. Fingers fumbling, they yanked out the cameras and started to download images to the Lloyd’s email.

There was a soft rap on the door. Bill went to the door, a Glock stuck in his back-waist band.

“Thought yea might be wanted a little grub,” the elated visage of the publican greeted them.

“That might be a good idea,” replied Bill. “Roast beef, beer?”

“The same,” the old man replied. “With you in a jiff.”

Bill closed the door. “I think we just made his night.”

“Probably his night, year, and decade,” was Sam’s reply. He chuckled. These Brits.

The pictures downloaded one after another to Blimey in London. They waited a few minutes for a reply. They knew he was still up.

“It’s the goods,” came a very short reply.

“Will have to confirm tomorrow with the experts. Hate to say it, but good job, Yanks! B.”
****

The next day, Sam and Bill were notified that the experts confirmed the painting was the real thing. French police were contacted they had probably cause; got a specific search warrant and went to the villa.

A very smooth and unruffled Rene La Salle greeted the police chief himself as though nothing at all had happened the previous night to disturb his evening.

“I really hope, Monsieur, that you have very valid cause for disturbing me this way.”

The police chief apologized all over the place but insisted they did and needed to inspect the La Salle’s office, ‘S’il vous plait, Monsieur.’

La Salle still did not seem disturbed, according to the constable who told the tale later. It was only when the police chief entered the room, went directly over to the still life of fruit, and gently turned the picture around, did La Salle evidence the slightist emotion.

“You can’t take it!” he cried trying to almost clutch at the painting.
The chief held out a stopping hand. “Bien sure, Monsieur. Je Regret, c’est dommage. But I must.”

The chief carefully removed the painting from the wall, snapped his fingers and a young gendarme ran forth with a padded, zipped bag and the painting was carefully placed inside.

“Of course, Monsieur, we will return that part of the property which is yours. The picture of the fruit. Naturally when it is properly removed from the Renoir.”

As the constable told the story, La Salle virtually collapsed at his desk and merely waved them out of the room.

The entire contingent removed to the police station where the British Embassy man was on hand to take possession of the goods and thence on to London for expert confirmation.

“Once that is done, the painting goes back to Harvard Art,” Blimey added with a sigh rolling a pen around on his desk.

“What’s the problem Blimey?” Sam queried. “You don’t seem happy. You just saved your company a mint.” Sam and Bill were back in the insurance office, prior to flying home.

“I told you that you Yanks would cause an International incident.”

“You said that, yes. And?”

Another sigh. “The French government wants the painting back. Says it’s the property, in rights, of the French people. Kind of ‘the stinking Americans have no right to it,’ etc., etc., etc.”

Sam had to laugh at Blimey’s comical face. He got up and slapped the guy on the back.

“Blimey, that’s one for the politicians, isn’t it? Above our pay grade and all that?”

“I guess,” was the gloomy reply. “Hey, the higher ups were so impressed by my work,” he adjusted a little plaque on his desk that wasn’t there before. They may let me take a little extra vacation, take the missus.”

“Ah,” intoned Sam.

“Was thinking about San Francisco,” Blimey cocked a little bird eye at Sam.
Sam laughed. “The door is always open Blimey, always open. Might even buy you a beer.”

Blimey smiled as he led the two men downstairs. “I also love all Dashiell Hammetts works and I understand you can take a tour there. Dashiell slept here, Dashiell wrote that kind of thing…” They chattered all the way to the front door.

(Discovering Art – Part IV – Back in the States)

****

“

(Part I – a priceless Renoir has been stolen from the de Young Museum in San Francisco. A museum curator, Ms. Jones, has called Sam Reynolds to ask for his help.)

*****

(Discovering Art – Part II – Sam plans to go to London)

“Of course you’ll get paid, you Asshole. Don’t I always come through?”

“No, I don’t know exactly how many days. Until it gets done.”

“You always have a little business on the side. Let your brother take over for a while. He could stand to do some work.”

“Kidding? I love him like he was my brother. Yes, we will need gear. London, no I think it has to be London.”

“Yeah, same place, like before. Hey, remember that roast beef and the beer? Worth the trip just for that.”

“Of course, you know a girl. You always know a girl. One week and we’ll work out the fees. Okay, brother, see you then.”

Sam got off the phone and wiped his brow. “That guy is such an animal!” but he was smiling.

Kristie was at the kitchen counter listening and wiping the same spot on the counter again and again.

Sam got up from the desk and went over to her.

“What’s the matter darling? Is it the trip?”

“Oh, Sam,” she let out a sniffle and turned into his shoulder. He gave her a hug.

She pulled back. “It’s not just the trip. It’s the place and this guy you are going after. He’s not just some little two-bit thug in some back water ….”

“Kristie.” He pulled her close and put a little peck on her nose. “It’s me, Sam Reynolds. I have been through this kind of stuff before. Bill will be with me and you know what a giant he is.”

She sniffed again. He held her chin.

“We are going to have a lot of backup. We are not going in alone. Not going to try anything stupid.”

“Hero stuff?”

“No hero stuff, believe me. They are paying us to get back a painting, not to get killed.”

“Better?”

Another sniffle. “A little,” in a quiet voice.

“I love you and I plan to come back.”

Kristie held on and put her head on his shoulder staring out into the garden.

*****

“We’re here to see Mr. Blintner.” Sam handed the receptionist a fresh card. “We have an appointment.”

The girl took the card and studied it a moment and then gave a questioning look at the 6’4” of Bill Bass. There was an intake of breath. She recovered herself.

“Won’t you gentlemen have a seat, please?” She gestured at the bank of chairs against the wall. “I’ll give him a ring.”

Sam and Bill went and sat down. There was a soft conversation as the young lady rang Blintner. “No, sir, they are downstairs.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I will.”

Sam stared around the large foyer of Lloyds of London while Bill thumbed through a magazine. Impressive, he thought, so this is what British insurance looks like.

“Mr. Blintner will be with you momentarily. Would you care for coffee or tea?” This said with crisp English intonation. There was a little question in her voice. Sam glanced at her pert little face under a spikey modern do.
She’s trying, Sam thought.

“A coffee, I think, black.”

The young lady got her slim but curvy figure up. “You, sir?” she looked toward Bill.

“You have plain water?”

She nodded and went to fulfill their requests.

An A for manners, Sam thought to himself. You got the give that to the English. They usually have pretty good manners. He looked down and rubbed some dust off a Frye boot.

In a few minutes, the girl was back with a little tray complete with coffee and a tall bottle of water. She set it down on the small side table between the two men.

“Mr. Blintner will be down soon.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Sam replied and picked up his cup.

“Nice digs,” Bill commented.

“I’d say so.”

They both absorbed ambience in thoughtful silence for a few minutes. There was a silent, swoosh, and an elevator off to the side opened quietly.

A little overweight man of about fifty in a canary yellow shirt, sus
penders, and a red bow tie approached them.

“Ah, Mr. Reynolds,” he had his hand out. “And Mr. …?”

“Bass, Bill Bass,” as he folded the little man’s man in his oversized paw.

With a slight wince, their host continued, “Right, Archie Blintner here. Come on up with me.” He gave a short wave and they followed him to the elevator.

Mr. Blintner got them settled into chairs in his modestly decorated office. They had passed a series of modules filled with the hushed voices of insurance people busy doing their work. A soft ‘ping-ping’ that Sam realized were the new sounds of telephones ringing filled the almost church-like atmosphere.

“So, you’re here about the Renoir painting,” Blintner started.

“Yes, Ms. Jones ….”

“Ah, Ms. Jones…” Mr. Blintner straightened some items on his desk that were already straight. “Got a bee in her bonnet, has she?”

“Well, Mr. Blintner,” Sam answered. “I don’t know as I would exactly call it a bee …”

“Call me Blimey, everyone does.”

“Ah, well, you can call me Sam, everyone does.”

Bill waved a finger, “Bill.”

“And, I assume you both have licenses to work at PI’s, do you?”

Sam flipped his out and Bill followed.

Blimey examined them for a moment. “Yes, yes, very good, thank you. Can I offer you gentlemen a spot of good Scottish whiskey, a beer?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Ah, maybe another time,” Sam replied and Bill looked disappointed. Blimey closed the drawer he was in the process of opening. He looked a little disappointed too.

“So, Ms. Jones …”

“Ah, yes, our Ms. Jones. Has some idea about this Frenchman and the painting, I take it?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Rene La Salle, French businessman, millionaire, villa on the coast, philanthropist to many charities, picture in the newspapers all the time. That La Salle, right?”

Sam could see where this was going. “Well, yes …”

Blimey smiled. Sam smiled back a little uncertainly.

“And all this based on a feeling she had.” Heavy emphasis on the word feeling.
“Ah, well, yes.”

More smiling. “Sure you don’t want a spot of scotch on this?” Blimey inquired again.

Sam shook his head.

Blintner flipped open a thin file that was on his desk. “We got the memorandum from the de Young and I did some research on our ‘suspect.’” He glanced at Sam. “Of course, I already was familiar with the name from the papers, but, what the heck, as you Americans say,” he smiled broadly.

“And?”

“And,” Blintner continued, “the man is squeaky clean, no record, no priors, gives to the poor, all around regular guy. Just simply has a thing about collecting art. French art. No crime in that is there?”

“Well, no …” Sam had to admit.

“So, he comes to the museum’s gala party, admires some art and three weeks later there is a theft. The connections is …?”

“I will admit the connection is a little thin…”

“Thin! Try there is nothing, nothing at all.” Blintner sat back and crossed his pudgy fingers across his well-tailored and pudgy stomach.

Sam considered this. “So, what activity on this matter is going on over this side of the pond?”

Blintner considered him. “Inquiries are being made in the usual places where this type of art is usually sold. Discrete inquiries,” he added with emphasis.
“And in the meantime …”

“In the meantime, we sit and wait,” was the reply and a chilly smile.

“Hum…” Sam considered. “Well, if the painting is not found, your company stands to be out a considerable amount of money.”

Blintner nodded.

“So, what if she is right? Ms. Jones, I mean. What if her instincts were right-on and he is the ‘collector’ in this case. If he wanted the picture for himself, he’s not going to sell it. It’s for personal use only.”

“We have no proof he even has it.”

“What if we got proof?”

“The man is untouchable.”

“What if we found a way?”

Blintner bent sideways and pulled out the bottle from his bottom drawer with a glass. He gestured to Sam who waved no. Bill nodded yes. Blintner poured two fingers for himself and pulling out another glass, another two fingers for Bill and handed him the glass.

He took a large gulp and put the glass down and ran a hand across his mouth.
“How?”

“We have a plan.”

“Jesus.”

“Just hear us out.”

Blintner held up a hand. “Hey, I grew up with John Wayne movies, I know all about it. Let’s see,” he stared off in the distance. “The headline reads something like this.” He framed an imaginary title with his hands. “American cowboy comes to Europe, shoots the place up and starts International incident.”
Putting his hands down. “Am I close?”

“Blimey,” Sam said slowly, “do you want to get the picture back?”

There was a little struggle on Blimey’s features. “Yes, of course, I want the damn thing back.”

“Well, then, just hear us out.”

Blimey frowned, took another sip of scotch. “Let’s hear it.”

Sam leaned forward and outlined the plan.

Three quarters of an hour later, the Scotch was gone and Blimey was contemplating Sam. “We cannot have our names involved in this …. scheme.”

“Granted.”

“What exactly is it you want me, us to do?”

“We’ll need some men, some good men. A boat, something bigger than a yacht and smaller than a freighter.”

“Maybe a coast-guard sized cutter?” Blimey asked.

“Right, that’s the idea. Perfect really. And, we will need some cooperation with the French police.”

“Ah, shit,” was Blimey’s reply. “You don’t ask for much.”

“Tell them it is for the greater good, restoring French art to its rightful place and all that.”

“They won’t like it and they won’t want to do it.”

“I know, I know,” Sam waved a hand. “But if I provide proof, real proof, the picture is there, then …?”

“If there is actual proof, even the Frogs may reconsider. As long as no charges are filed and we are not talking any court time, etc.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. The client just wants the thing returned.”

Blimey eyed his drawer again and changed his mind. “Let me think on it and talk to my superiors. They want the damn thing back too, it’s a lot of money….” His voice trailed off. Sam guessed he was trying to think how to best deliver the message without getting shot himself.

Sam stood up. “We’re at the Waldorf-Hilton.” He laid a hotel card down on the desk. “Why don’t you give a call as soon as you have something?”

Blimey nodded dumbly and got up leading them to the door. “Personally, I think you’re both a little crazy.” He eyed them up and down. “But, then again, I always did love John Wayne.” With a little chuckle, he waved them to the elevators and they let themselves out.

Sam and Bill were at a local pub each having a sandwich and beer.

“You think he’ll go for it?” Bill asked.

Sam took a bite and considered. “Hard to say. They are kind of up against it. What with this guy’s reputation and all. But still … it’s a lot of money and they have to weigh that too.”

He took a pull on his beer. “All we are really doing at this point is trying to prove the man has the thing. After that, it is really up to the French police and what they will or won’t do.”

Bill nodded his big head. “Crap shoot.”

“Well yes, more or less.”

They finished their lunch and watched soccer on the telly above the bar.

They got the call at their hotel later that evening. Eight o’clock the phone in their room purred softly and Sam answered it.

“Yes, this is Sam Reynolds.”

“Blimey, how are you?”

“Yes, yes. Good, that can be arranged. Tomorrow, nine a.m., sharp? Fine. We’ll be there.”

He hung up the phone and gave Bill a high-five.

“We’re in!”

Continued in Part III

DISCOVERING FINE ART

Courtney Webb

(Part I – a priceless Renoir has been stolen from the de Young Museum in San Francisco. A museum curator, Dr. Jones, has called Sam Reynolds, PI, to ask for his help.)

“Yes, Police Chief Roscoe told me all about you when I called. He was very chatty actually.” Dr. Jones, museum curator for the de Young Museum, in San Francisco, smiled at Sam.

In turn, he tried to not look too startled. He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or bad thing. “All about me, huh?”

She laughed. “He was actually very complimentary. Said you’re a good PI and good at finding things.”

“Ah, well ….” Sam Reynolds shrugged.

“So, you’re not sure if it was a woman or a man? In the museum? You were there right?”

Dr. Jones walked over to the coffee bar to get Sam a cup of black. Hitting the button on the top of the black carafe; the dark steaming liquid poured out. She placed the china cup and saucer on a short tray, complete with a tiny mug of crèam and crystals of rock sugar in a petite bowl. The sugar had its own tiny set of silver tongs and a small spoon.

Sam took this all in as he was about to pick up the blue china cup with a gold rim. He paused a moment, picked up the cup carefully and decided it was an old style, but not an old cup. Should be safe. He proceeded to pour a dab of crèam into the coffee and gave up on the sugar tongs. No point in attempting that and looking like a complete country clown.

He sipped the coffee. Hum, good.

Ms. Jones gave him a minute with the coffee things. She had poured herself a cup as well and had re-seated herself, elegantly, in her large black leather swivel chair. She rocked a bit. Her long, slim legs bounced lightly against each other; the only subtle indicator of impatience.

Sam looked up from his cup and saw Ms. Jones appraising him. He might have been sixty-six years old, but Sam still knew when a woman was checking him out. And Ms. Jones was doing just that. He smoothed down his mustache with his free hand.

“To be perfectly honest, I can’t say. Sam took another sip from his cup. “The perp was short enough to be a woman, but with small hips. Since the face and hair were completely covered, it’s hard to say.” He carefully placed the cup back into its saucer and wiped his moustache.

She nodded at him, a gleam in her hazel eyes.

“I would say one thing, though.” He grew thoughtful. “Him or her, whichever, was going up that rope to the helicopter hand over hand.” He made motions with his hands. “And moving fast. Now, I wouldn’t say a woman couldn’t do that, but, it’s just that I have seen more men able to pull that off, like in military training camps.”

“Hum,” was the return comment.

“Also, it reminded me of something, and I can’t remember exactly what.” Sam gazed into middle distance trying to think.

“And who were you with just then?” she asked. Your sister someone said.”

Sam took a fortifying sip. “Ah, with my girlfriend, yes, Kristie Nichols and her two daughters.”

The slightest shadow of disappointment passed over Ms. Jones’s face and then disappeared.

Might as well get it out, better sooner than later, Sam thought to himself.
There was a pause in the conversation, each in their own thoughts.

“So,” Ms. Jones put her cup down and pressed her fingers together, “I understand you don’t know a lot about art but you are good at finding people.”

“Well,” Sam blushed a little, “a time or two.”

Dr. Jones flipped open a thin file. “A boy in Indonesia, who got in with the wrong people, a young man in Vegas, who likewise picked the wrong playmates. Also, you gave assistance in the capture of an alleged killer, who was on the loose in Yosemite Park. Let’s not be too modest, Mr. Reynolds.”

She smiled at him and little dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth. He was flustered a moment. For a museum curator, she was pretty good looking.

He shook himself. “So, how can I be of help?”

“I think I may know who took the painting.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I met him.”

“Where?”

“Right here in this building, three weeks ago.”

Sam stared at her.

Dr. Jones leaned over to her intercom and pushed a button. “Jules, we’ll be heading out for a bit. Could you hold my calls?”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Jones!” The young man nearly jumped through the wire in his enthusiasm.

She abruptly pushed herself up from her desk. Her thin gray jacket fell forward across a pale blue silk blouse. “Let’s take a walk.”

Sam got up, and she lead the way out of her sixth story corner office, with its spectacular view and plush navy carpet. She guided him through the outer chamber, where her assistant, scrubbed to within an inch of his life, dazzled them both with a huge smile.

“Need anything, Dr. Jones?”

“I’m good, Jules. We’ll be about forty minutes.” The man looked like he was just about to salute but stopped himself.

Sam almost laughed. The merest smile flickered across the curator’s mouth, as she held the door for him.

Once in the hall Dr. Jones paused and pushed a lock of deep auburn hair aside.

“I know, it’s a bit much, huh?”

“Hey, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yeah, I bet,” she said and grimaced. “Anyway, back to art. We’re going to take a little tour and I’ll be your guide.”

They reached the elevator and she hit the button to the second floor. They entered the elevator which glided silently down. The doors opened with a soft whoosh to a large poster advertising The Impressionist Exhibit Is Here! She looped a slim arm around the crook of his elbow and they strolled through the exhibit.

She paused at a grouping of paintings. “What do you think?”

He peered at one, got close and then backed away. The little gold plaque read Degas.

“I don’t know. They look a little dauby. Like, well, like daubs of paint were just kind of stuck on there. I don’t know. Sort of unfinished.”

“Yes,” she replied smoothly, “but back away from it a little and look again. See if it doesn’t look more clear, more uniform.” He did as she asked and stared at the painting.

“You know, I think you’re right. You almost need a little distance from the thing to really see it.”

She clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh, Mr. Reynolds, what a good student you are!” Taking his arm, they made the circuit and she suggested they go to the coffee shop. “They have some great rolls down there, you’ll have to try one.”

At eleven o’clock it was still a little early for lunch, but Sam could always fit in a snack. They made their way to the same coffee shop he had been to before, a week earlier with Kristie and the girls.

They both got rolls, he got a plain bottle of water and she ordered a tea. When he pulled out money, she waved it away and showed the cashier a plastic card she wore on a loop around her neck.

Dr. Jones steered them to a corner away from the other customers. “This way we can talk without … interruptions.”

Sam was all ears. He had to admit, when you got past the façade, Dr. Jones was intriguing.

“Have you ever heard the name Rene Auguste La Salle?”

He shook his head.

“No, well you wouldn’t. French, industrialist, into natural gas, oil, petroleum products. You know, all those things that make people a lot of money.”
Sam bit into his roll, nodded.

“Right, well money. He has a lot of money.” She nibbled on her roll. “The scuttlebutt around the art world is that he may be the long lost illegitimate great-grandson of Rene Auguste Renoir.”

When Sam gave her a questioning look, she laughed. “I am originally from Missouri, Mr. Reynolds. The bible belt. Father was a farmer, my mother was the high school art teacher. Dad, ex-military, like you.” She gave him a little wink which caught him off-guard. “Always had the dream to come and live in the big city, and, here I am.” She waved expansively at the café.

“Well …” Sam didn’t know quite what to say.

She grinned at him. She is enjoying this a little too much, he thought ruefully.

“Anyway, back to La Salle. Industrialist but fanatical art collector, of all things French. And, by the by, no price is too high.”

“Which gets us to your collection …”

“Which get us to this collection. Three weeks ago, we had the gala opening of the collection and always have a private viewing before the public gets to come tromping in.”

“Ah … and …”

“And,” the words started to come out more slowly, “the guest list was comprised of individuals who had made donations to the museum.”

“Donations?”

“Yes, and for the most part, mostly the largest donations got on the list.”

The pieces were starting to fit together. “And Mr. La Salle of course …”

“Had made an extremely generous donation to the museum this year.” She wrinkled up her nose a little like there was a bad smell.

“Ah … large donation.”

“Very large donation. Which, of course, guaranteed him a ticket into the pre-screening gala which he accepted.”

“And came all the way from France?”

“Yup, all the way just to see our little show.” Dr. Jones frowned.

“Let me guess,” Sam picked at the last little crumbs of his roll. “He liked the exhibit but he really liked the Renoir painting.”

Dr. Jones squirmed a little in her chair and for a moment looked a lot younger.

Kind of reminds me of my daughter when she was in trouble, Sam mused.

“Ah, yes. That is about it. Liked the collection but really did like the Renoir. Even asked me if it was for sale.”

“What did you tell him?”

More squirming. “Well, first I laughed at the idea. Then, I realized he wasn’t kidding and had to tell him it is a priceless piece of art and not for sale at any price.”

“What was his response to that?”

There was a pause. “Well, he just smiled this big smile and said “Naturally.”
Very, sort of French, you know how they are. Ah, maybe you don’t but, he didn’t seem mad or upset or anything. Just smiled and drifted away. I went to talk to other guests. I thought that was that until last week and the theft …” She gazed out to the gardens.

“Hum …” Sam could tell how upset she was. “So, now what?”

Dr. Jones seemed to gather herself together and looked at him. “There is insurance to cover the theft. But, what I said is true. It is a priceless piece of art, it should belong to the public and stay in a museum where people who know what they are doing can care for it properly.”

“Who actually owns it?”

“Harvard Art Museum,” she looked down.

“So, to be a little blunt, Dr. Jones, what happens to you if it is not recovered?”

She sighed. “Oh, it’s not like I am going to lose my job or anything like that. I am not in charge of security. But, it was my responsibility getting the art here for the exhibit and it doesn’t look good for me or the de Young.”

“Ah …” Sam tapped his finger against the table.

“And you want me to …?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

There was a deep intake of breath. “La Salle is a French citizen and lives on a luxury estate in the South of France. We have absolutely no proof that he was involved in any of this and no jurisdiction over him.”

Some of the elegance that Dr. Jones exuded slipped away and a note of desperation edged into her voice. “There is an insurance adjuster already assigned to the case by Lloyds and he is supposed to be pretty good. But …” She paused.

“But …”

“But, I don’t know. The guy seems like a lot of bluff and bluster to me and I don’t have much confidence.”

“Have you shared your theory/feelings with anyone?”

“I told all this to my boss and he told me I am grasping at straws because I’m desperate.”

“Are you?”

“Desperate? Yes. Grasping at straws? I don’t think so.”

She turned and looked intently into Sam’s eyes. “Did you ever just have a feeling, a really strong feeling about someone? Something about them that was creepy or not right, or something, and you couldn’t put your finger on it. But, was there?”

Sam grinned and nodded.

“Well, it’s the same thing here, Mr. Reynolds. If you could have seen him look at that painting. It was a little weird, he almost tried to touch it but stopped himself. That look on his face, like he was hungry.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know how else to explain it. I absolutely hate the phrase women’s intuition it is so cliché. But, the feeling I got was so strong. What do you think? Give it a stab?”

“Well,” Sam responded slowly. He recognized the helplessness in her voice and the sheer nature of the dilemma. He also knew that people didn’t get corner offices anywhere without a tremendous amount of work. “I don’t work for free.”

“The museum has given me a budget.”

“I might have to get some help.”

“We’ll pay. It will be worth it.”

“No guarantee of results and you still have to pay the fees.”

“Not complaining.”

“Okay then, Dr. Jones. I guess we got us a deal.”

To Sam’s immense surprise, Dr. Jones leaned over and gave him a big hug. He thought he saw a little tear in the corner of her eye when they got up.
She grabbed a paper napkin and dabbed at her face.

“Come on back to my office and I’ll have Jules do the paperwork. Oh, and geese!” She stared at her watch. “I have got to get to a meeting! Can you find your way back upstairs?”

He told her he could. She grabbed his hand and shook it. “Thank you so much, Mr. Reynolds. So much!”

“You’re welcome young lady and you can start your thanks by calling me Sam.”

“Okay, Sam. Talk to you soon!” She started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “Yes, and I’m Ellen!” With a spin, Ellen, turned on her heel and was out of the café in a flash.

“Whew,” was all Sam could say. “Okay, Jules, let’s get this horse on the road.” He went to track down the obsequious Jules.

Continued on in Part III

Part II – by Courtney Webb

Mouth open, she took his food and Sam turned to go back in the main foyer. There were several loud bangs! Accompanied by flashes of light. Out of the wing housing the Degas Exhibit, a short, black clad figure emerged. He was dressed in all black and red and looked like a Ninja complete with a drawn scimitar. A black mask covered the face and hair.

Sam’s heart stopped when he looked at the walking figure more closely and realized that dynamite was strapped to the assailant’s chest. A large red, digital screen was above the tapped sticks and the numbers were counting down. People were screaming and running.

The masked figure kept swinging the curved sword at anyone that got close but was eerily silent. It seemed to Sam that time slowed down. He wasn’t sure how long he stood here, frozen. Suddenly, there was a crackling sound like a radio and the figure stopped, paused, seemed to listen, then ran through the foyer and around a corner.

“Stop him,” a guard shouted. The guards couldn’t seem to decide whether to advance or retreat. Sam followed at a distance.

He poked his head around the corner that way the Ninja had gone and realized it was a pair of elevators. A large sign read Observation – 9th Floor.

Weird, he’s going to blow us up and then takes the elevator?

Sam could swear that he heard a helicopter.

I’ll take the stairs. What the hell, only nine floors.

Huffing and puffing he got up to the ninth floor and saw a group of people huddled in a corner. Large pane glass windows framed awe inspiring views of the San Francisco Bay. He didn’t see the Ninja. He looked at the people. One man looked up and pointed to a door on the far side of the room. It was marked Emergency Exit Only – Keep Out, in large red letters.

Sam ran to the door and saw it wasn’t shut. Cautiously, he peeked out. There was a loud Whoosh! Sound and furious air knocked him back. A Black-hawk helicopter swished upwards; the figure of the black Ninja dangled from a rope cord below the chopper.

Sam could see that the bay door was open and two men were busily pulling the Ninja into the open door. The chopper did a left swoop and headed out to sea. He shielded his eyes against the sun but could see no identifying marks on the bird. He didn’t have a camera on his phone so he couldn’t get a picture. He closed the door. By this time, the guards had gotten over their fright and were spilling into the observation room like ants.

Sam went back down the way he had come. He could hear the sound of sirens in the background as he made his way back to the coffee shop.

Man, could I use that sandwich now! That and maybe a beer, too.

“#”

An hour later, sandwich eaten, coffee drunk and an endless series of high pitched blabbing questions from his girls, Sam separated himself. SF police had questions and he gave them the short bits of information he had.

“To wrap up,” Sam mashed the paper coffee cup in his hands,”the whole thing started with a girl getting pinched in the restroom. Then,an old man got slapped so hard it knocked his false teeth loose so that he started to choke. As soon as that was over, a Ninja suicide bomber showed up, who, it seems, wasn’t a bomber at all.” He stopped for them to catch up.

The two beefy officers both had out little black notebooks and short pens and hastily made notes, shaking their heads. In the end, the shorter one, Vasquez, his badge read, said, “So, that’s it?” He closed his notebook and was tapping it with the little pen.

“Pretty much, I guess.” Sam ran a hand through his tousled hair.

Vasquez looked at his partner, Wilson.

“Ah, no more questions at this point,” Wilson added with a slight shrug.

“So, Mr. Reynolds,” Vasquez turned back to Sam, “you got a business card where we can reach you if needed?”

“Sure.” Sam pulled his wallet out of a back pocket and pulled out a little card, somewhat curved with wear and handed it over.

Vasquez examined the card and stuck it into his notebook.

“We may be in touch.” The two men departed.

The museum employees and curators closed the museum for the day. Sam could see frantic employees running back and forth with clipboards and pens, scratching notes. They spoke to each other in hushed notes. It looked to Sam like they were looking for something.

Just as they were about to leave, a Miss Jones, PhD, of the museum staff tracked him down.

“Oh, Mr. Reynolds is it?” he heard behind him and stopped.

A tall, pretty young woman in a business suit approached. She held out a hand and Sam gave her a shake.

“I am Ms. Jones, curator for the museum. Here is my card,” she handed Sam a crisp, white square with her name. “I understand you saw some of what happened.”

Sam nodded.

“Maybe we can talk about it sometime?” she looked over toward Sam’s little group.

“Sure.” Once again, Sam dug out his wallet and pulled out another beleagered business card and gave it to her.

“Ah, Sam Reynolds, PI. Hum,” she gave a faint smile and finished with “Well, another time then.”

Ever the nosy one, Sam waved at the beleaguered employees. “So, what’s all that now?” he asked.

“Oh,” she smiled. “They are re-cataloging the collection.”

Sam arched an eyebrow.

“Trying to figure out what, if anything had been taken. We’re still not sure.”

“Ah,” Sam replied. “Well, be seeing ‘ya.”

Ms. Jones smiled again and giving them a little wave, turned and retreated back to the museum.

Sam ushered the girls back to his truck.

“Well, can you believe all that?” a stunned Chelsea commented as they worked their way back to the car. “Wow, and I though LA was bad. Whew!”

“Yeah, but it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?” Angela added. She turned to Sam. “Somehow these things always seem to happen when you’re around. No wonder Mom likes you so much.”

“No, your mother likes me because she has good taste. Isn’t that right Kristie?”

Kristie tossed her dark blond curls. “That and he makes a good fried egg sandwich.”

Sam shrugged with a ‘what can I say? look. They laughed.

“#”

Later, they were back home in Tranquility, California, in Kristie’s kitchen. The girls had disappeared to their respective rooms and Sam and Kristie were alone. Standing at her granite topped island, she poured them both mugs of coffee.

“You know you really scared the shit out of me chasing after that guy.”

“I know sweet. But, I really didn’t think he was going to blow anything up if he was also running for an elevator. Didn’t make sense.”

“Still, wish you wouldn’t play hero all the time.”

“I know, I know. I’m okay though. We’re all back home. Give me a hug.” He pulled her close and she reluctantly let him. At that very moment, Sam’s phone rang.

“Shit.” He looked down. “415 area code. Maybe I should get this.”

Kristie grimaced and went back to her coffee.

“Sam Reynolds. Yes. Yes, Ms. Jones. How are things? It was a what? Let me get a piece of paper.” He gestured to Kristie and she handed him a notepad and pen.

“Let me spell that. R e n o i r. Renoir, French, right? Yeah, got that part. At the Milliners, 13” by 9”. Is that worth a lot of money?” There was a pause. “Well, yes, I would say that’s a lot. Sure. Well, it’s kind of late now. Tomorrow? Yup, will call you first thing. Thanks, no problem. Talk to you then.”

He hung up the phone and looked at the note. “It was a painting by this Renoir guy. It was switched during all the commotion with a fake one. Very close to the original. That’s why they didn’t know right away what was gone.”

Kristie gaped. “Renoir, unbelievable.”

“Guess so,” Sam replied. “Like I always say, what I don’t know about art …”

“Would fill several volumes, right, I remember. Wow, this is big.” She looked at him. “What does Ms. Jones want from you?” She eyed him cautiously.

“Well, since I did see the Ninja guy and I did see the getaway chopper, and since I do a little PI work …”

“She wants you to help them get the paining back,” Kristie finished.

“Well, something like that,” Sam replied with a smile.

“Oh, Sam Reynolds, I can never take you anywhere!” Kristie shook her head and they both laughed.

END

(Sam’s adventure continues in Discovering Fine Art.)

FINE ART
By Courtney Webb

“Oh, Mom. Come over here. Get a picture with this one.”

Chelsea, Kristie’s youngest daughter, waved at her. She was standing in front of a ‘Make Love Not War’ circular poster on the glass wall entrance to the de Young Museum, San Francisco.

Kristie obliged and went over and stood by her daughter while Angela snapped a picture on her cell-phone. “That one!” Angela pointed to a “Reality is a Trip” poster in acid green. Her sister and mom scuttled over to that poster next as the camera clicked.

“My turn!” Angela cried and stuck the camera phone into Sam’s folded arms and ran to join the others. “Come on Sam. Just hit the white button.”

Sam stared hard at the screen a minute, figured out where the button was and hit it. Their picture instantly popped up on the screen. “Whoa, that was fast.” He held the camera/phone up to look at the picture. Got to admit, these gadgets get the best of me, he mused to himself.

The girls were giggling together and looking at their shots. “Gosh, Sam, you must remember all this stuff!” Angela burst out.

“Well, let’s say, some of this stuff.” Sam replied simply, not wanting to get sucked into a rehash of the good old days. He was more of a ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ kind of kind of guy.

Thankfully, the young women and Kristie were all eager to get inside to the Degas exhibit and he didn’t have to pull out war stories. They shuffled in with the crowd and were handed pamphlets for the exhibits.

“Tickets for Degas are to your left. The line forms
to the right for the Degas Millinery Exhibit,” a young woman shouted at the crowd, arms waving. “Please line up to buy your tickets.” The female guard was stuffed into a gray and white uniform complete with her name embroidered in red.

Kristie and group split off to the right to stand in a lengthy line.

“How much are the tickets?” Sam asked Kristie. She peered around.

“I don’t see a sign.”

“I’ll check on my phone. They have Wi-Fi in here,” Chelsea replied. She and her sister got busy with their phones. Their heads bent over, Sam thought again how much these twenty somethings looked like their mom.

“Looks like $28 dollars.”

“Each?” Sam looked astonished.

“Gosh, Sam. That’s really not bad,” Angela told him. “This is San Francisco after all, and these are pretty famous artists.” She arched a delicate eyebrow at him.

“Okay, okay.” He waved his hands in submission. Sam would be the very first to admit he was no art expert, modern or otherwise. He stood watching the queue move slowly to the ticket counter. He consulted the glossy brochure.

“Hum. Look Kristie, they have a bunch of other exhibits too. And these are free.” He glanced at her from under bushy eyebrows. His thrifty nature was kicking in.

“Oh, Sam,” Kristie turned to him. “This is what the girls came for. They really want to see the Expressionist paintings.” She pouted a little. “Me too.”

“Oh,” was Sam’s cautious reply. He continued to peruse the brochure. “African art, Indonesian … interesting.”

Kristie pulled Sam a little out of the line. “Look, I know how much you hate lines and this really wasn’t your idea. Would you rather go look at some of the other stuff and then meet us later?”

Sam kept his head down; still examining the pamphlet said “Well, maybe that would work.” He knew how much this little family get together meant to Kristie.

“Okay, settled then.” Kristie glanced at the primitive art photos. “We’ll go through the line and meet you in the coffee shop. How’s that?”

“Well, that would be okay, Darlin. Any idea how long this thing is going to take?” He looked at her now. His brilliant blue eyes met her lighter blue and she smiled, as always. When he smiled with perfect white teeth, his dimples would show. Kristie sighed. She ruffled his white/blond hair.

“You are such a kid.” She turned, “Guard,” Kristie waved at one of the many uniformed young people standing around. A young man sauntered over. “About how long does it take to get through the exhibit?”

The lanky guard, a teen with bad skin, considered a moment, looked at the line and his watch. “Should take you about forty-five minutes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Kristie nodded and the kid ambled off.

“Okay, so, forty-five minutes. Can you keep yourself entertained that long?”
“Yeah, yeah. I kin do that.” By this time Sam had the brochure rolled up into a little tube and patted her on the shoulder. “Looks like you are about to lose your girls there.” He pointed to the daughters who had continued to move up with the line, shooting their mother exasperated looks.

“Right!” Kristie gave Sam a little peck. “Coffee shop.” She turned and hurried to catch up with them.

Tapping the tube in the palm of his hand, Sam wandered across the floor of the museum, staring up. The enormous modern structure was a series of tall glass walls, chrome and steel structures that gave it a light airy feel. The grounds were covered with lush green beds, lending a feeling of privacy and repose to the place, even in the center of the city.

Sam wasn’t much for all this modern stuff, but still, he had to admit the place was pretty impressive. He worked his way through the historical art exhibit of the Americas. They went from the Northern Eskimos and their carved walrus tusks to the Central and South Americans with endless examples of pottery and baskets.

He paused at some carved tusks to wonder at the artistry that created the tiny figures. One work was a carved cribbage game. What rich man had that on his mantel a year or two? he wondered. Eventually, he worked through these exhibits and decided to try upstairs.

One floor up, Sam was mesmerized by the statutes and masks from New Guinea. Unreal; these things scare me, he admitted to himself. He stopped to stare for a long while at a face above a shaman costume.

That is a real human head, he finally concluded. It’s not carved at all. Creepy. He shook himself. His phone buzzed.

“Almost done, K.” He decided to get a little exercise and took the stairs back down to meet the girls. Back on the first floor, he looked around for a restroom.

Better go now, then eat.

Spotting the Restrooms sign he followed it. He rounded the corner and was momentarily confused. There were clearly two restrooms, but the Men/Women signs had been covered over with plain sheets of paper. A new Gender-Neutral sign was in their place on both doors.

He could see what looked to be an extensive line with a lot of women and a much shorter line with a few men. Looks like people have figured this nonsense out for themselves, he thought and followed the short line.

As expected, there were stand-up urinals in this restroom, one of which he used. He paused to wash his hands and dry them with the latest blower. As he came out, he heard the scream. The scream was promptly followed by a resounding ‘slap!’ and then a gurgling/choking sound. Sam whipped his head around and realized the sounds all emanated from the Not Women’s restroom.

There was still a line of women in the queue when he heard a shout. “He’s choking!”

In a quick flash-black, Sam remembered that going into the Not Men’s room, there was an old geezer shuffling into the other facility with the line of women. Oh no, he started to work his way into the crowd of women who were now yelling as a group.

Pushing his way through, he found the elderly man on his knees in the restroom with his hands around his own throat, turning red. Sam instantly realized the problem, grabbed the man around the back and slapped him as hard as he could. A set of false teeth flew out of the man’s mouth and landed on the foot of a chubby matron. The matron saw the teeth on her foot, screamed, reflexively tossed her foot up where the teeth flew forward striking a young woman on the forehead before falling again to the floor. This young woman also screamed and ran for the door where several patrons were already fighting to get out.

At the same time, several museum guards, of both sexes, were fighting to get in. Sam had laid the old man on the tile floor on his side and was checking him for pulse and breathing. He had to block women from stepping on the old guy in their panic to leave.

Two guards finally managed to work their way in and over to the old man. The old guy kept gesturing for his teeth that were now sitting under a sink. Sam retrieved the choppers and washed them off before giving them back. The man was now sitting up and one guard was administering a bottle of water to him by mouth.

“She said I pinched her. I never, I never. I would never …” The old man looked like he was about to cry. Sam got up and worked his way out of what was now a gawking crowd.

He found Kristie and the girls in the middle of the main floor gaping at the commotion. No less than five or six guards were milling around the area.

“Sam, what is going on?” Kristie demanded as he came up to them.

“Let’s go eat and I’ll tell you.” He shooed them to the corner of the building and through the café door. They got in line and paid for their food. Angela wanted to sit outside and Sam had an exterior door open for them when they all heard a “Boom!” sound.

“What …” Sam looked over his shoulder. “Kristie, take my coffee and sandwich. I’ll be back.”

Continued
Part II

Sam Does Meditation – Part IV

On the way to San Francisco, Sam broke all speed laws and all laws against talking on the phone while driving. He got hold of Phillips, his contact at the Bureau and gave him a very abbreviated version of the facts. They would meet at Bio-Tech. It usually took an hour and a half to get to the big city; Sam did it in less than 60 minutes.

They screeched up in front of Bio-Tech. The Bureau guy was there in an un-marked and a couple of SFPD were there, sirens off. They pushed Chan out of the truck and into the foyer. His crying had subsided to low moans interlaced with hiccups. Brother Huang kept patting his hand, consoling him.

The entire contingent sped into the building. Chan presented his ID to the two guards at the desk who were, by this time, ogling at the cops. Phillips presented his FBI gold shield.

A fat middle-aged security guy with the name Stanley embroidered on his shirt answered their questions.

“Well, yes, Dr. Chan. Dr. Lee was in here about, when?” he looked at the other guard. “About an hour or so ago. Said he left his briefcase and had to get it. Going to catch a red-eye flight at the airport. Didn’t he say that?” The other guy nodded silently. “But he had his proper badge, Dr. Chan, he did have access to that little office. And we had seen the brief case before, didn’t we?” The other guy, younger, nodded still staring down at his computer screen, not looking too happy.

“You say about an hour ago?” Sam took over.

“Bill, look that up on the log for the man, will you?” Stanley asked the younger man.

Sam grabbed Chan by the elbow. “Let’s get upstairs and see what’s missing.” The FBI agent followed.Huang and the cops remained in the lobby. Sam ran to the elevators, pulling Chan. The scientist pointed out the proper buttons.

“I got to let you in. Just a minute.” Stanley yelled at them.

Sam patted his foot. The elevator door slowly opened, and they got in. Chan pushed the button for the sixth floor.

Getting off the elevator, Chan seemed more in his element and raced down the hall. The hazy fog he had been in for the last hour seemed to have lifted. He punched in a code at the security portal and pressed his right hand against the tiny flickering screen. There were a series of beeps! And Sam could hear clicks and the big, heavy white door opened. The three men hurried inside.

Chan began racing around the lab doing checks, muttering to himself. Phillips and Sam stood awkwardly waiting for him to finish. Phillips was checking something on his cell phone. He showed the phone to Sam.

“Red-eye to Beijing, 11:00 pm,” the agent said quietly. Sam nodded.

“Not here, not here.” They could hear Chan talking to himself, moving deeper in to the lab. “That’s okay, that’s okay.” Then there was a pregnant pause and “Oh, shit!”

Phillips and Sam looked at each other.

Chan walked slowly back to them, shoulders slumped. “He has taken the cryo-center with the baby embryo. The latest one.” His face was ashen.

Phillips started making phone calls immediately as they all ran down the stairs this time, not waiting for the elevator. On the lobby floor, they gathered up the rest of the crew. Phillips gave quick instructions to the cops who peeled off to their pandas. Lights on and sirens blaring, they all headed for San Francisco International Airport.

“Let’s take mine, it’s faster,” Phillips told them with a wave of his hand. Sam and Chan piled into the unmarked and Phillips hit the accelerator. The car sprang forward.

Chan was mute with shock; Sam pulled a small silver flash from his back pocket. He made the young man take a swig. Chan coughed but got some color back in his face. Phillips was yelling non-stop on his phone, giving orders.

Screeching up to the airport in record time, the agent parked illegally in the red zone in front of Departures. Hustling out of the car, Sam somewhat dragged and somewhat pushed a limp Chan in front of him. Two cops stayed behind to see that Airport Security didn’t tow the vehicle.

Phillips located the gate number and pointed. Two men that he seemed to recognize came running up to him.

“This the guy?” They both asked. Phillips nodded. “He has to give a positive ID for us to stop him.”

They practically ran to the gate, Chan virtually lifted off his feet and hurried along by the beefy agents. They got to gate 21; there was a line of people boarding.

The agents stopped, placing Chan on his feet. The young man looked around wildly. Then, “Him, that’s him!” he screamed, pointing.

Dr. Lee saw Chan and the cops and tried to run but the agents were fast on their feet. They grabbed the man and his precious cargo. One agent immediately relieved Lee of his old brown briefcase and brought it over.

He put it down at Chan’s feet and opened the bag. “This it?” Chan poked his nose inside the bag.

“That’s it.” He sagged so much, Sam had to grab him. He thought for a minute the kid was going to faint.

The two agents had a tight grip on Dr. Lee and were walking him out. The man jerked to a stop in front of Chan.

“You Americans are all the same, always thinking you can save the world. Single-handed.” He spat. “Aoman de pigu,”(you arrogant ass.)

The agents pulled him away and Chen stared after him.

Phillips dropped Sam and Chan at Bio-Tech and waited in the lot. Brother Huang was still waiting patiently in the foyer, causually chatting with the security guards. He waved as they came in. Sam gave him a thumbs up and he smiled and went back to his chit-chat.

Sam and Chan went back upstairs to the lab with the stolen ‘merchandise.’ Gingerly, Chan resettled the cryo-canister back into its cradle. He checked that everything was back where it was supposed to be in the lab.

He patted the canister. “She’s okay.”

“She?” asked an incredulous Sam.

“Yes, she. I peeked.” Sam felt his head spinning again.

Chan turned off the lights and closed the security door.

Sam checked with Phillips and they agreed to meet at an all-night coffee shop. Once there, Huang ordered bacon, eggs, and coffee.

“What?” he asked Sam.

“Oh, nothing, I just thought. . ..” Sam didn’t finish his sentence.

Huang held a butter knife to his temple. “Can’t be good all the time, Sam-Shi. Not good for you. Not the way.”

Sam had to laugh and sipped on his very black coffee and nibbled on a sweet roll.

“So,” Agent Phillips said to Chan, “tell us when it started.”

Chan sighed and sipped his hot herbal tea. He paused to pour a glob of honey into the cup.

“It started when I took a trip to China. I met this girl…” Sam and Phillips shifted and smiled at each other. “I’ve always been kind of a bookworm,” they nodded, “and she was so friendly and pretty and . . .”

“And….” Sam prompted.

“And she took me to an orphanage and showed me these kids. Those poor kids. They had so many things wrong with them and no one wanted them. They were just throwaways in that society. It was terrible.” He sighed again and sipped his tea, remembering.

“Then. . ..” Sam nudged.

“Then, well, she told me I could help. How can I help? I told her. I am just one guy. I can’t adopt all those kids. No way. I’m not married. . ..” he paused. “She told me there was another way I could help, with my research. My genetics research.”

Sam took over for a little while. “What the wiz kid here does is cutting-edge research on embryos. That is where the embryo is genetically altered to eliminate ‘bad genes’ or genes known to cause chronic illnesses and diseases. Am I right?” He looked at Chan who nodded.

“But it’s in a very experimental stage,” Chan continued. “There is no way the US Government will allow us to do that with a full-term baby unless and until there is a lot more research done. We don’t want to have. . . mistakes.” He sighed.

“And, create a monster when all we are trying to do is help, etc.,” Sam added.

Chan nodded and stared at his tea, both hands wrapped around the mug.

“But, the Chinese government is not so cautious and would like to start those experiments as soon as possible,” Phillips continued.

“She told me she was with the orphanage,” pleaded Chan.

“Dr. Chan, I am not positive,” Phillips added, “but it is likely this entire operation was funded by the Chinese military. Who,” he looked at Sam, “are desirous of creating a super-army.”

“But the girl. . .” Chan continued.

“Part and parcel, sir. Part and parcel.”

Chan seemed unsettled.

“Dr. Chan,” Phillips said softly, “did it never occur to you how odd it was that someone you only met, in a foreign country would know about your research?”

“Well, she was so interested in what I said. I talked and talked. I just assumed I must have mentioned it.” Chan carefully studied the table.

Over his head, Sam and Phillips shook theirs.

Phillips picked up the bill. It was 3 am. Sam said he and Huang would drive the scientist home.

“Am I going to be charged?” asked a tremulous Chan.

“Well, Dr. Chan, since we got everything back, it looks like nothing was actually stolen. And, since Dr. Lee has diplomatic immunity, he will go home very soon. As for your employer, well. That’s up to them.” Phillips gave a knowing look to Sam. “Someone will have to tell them something. You have about 4 hours to figure out what to say to your boss.” Phillips saluted to Sam.

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Sam Reynolds.”

“Anytime, Phillips, anytime.”

Phillips turned to leave.

“Oh, last thing Dr. Chan.”

Chan looked at him.

“I wouldn’t advise more trips to China anytime soon.” He got into his unmarked and drove away.

“Let’s get you home, bub.” Sam gathered them up and back into the truck. Chan gave directions and Sam drove to his apartment.

“Thanks, Sam.” Dr. Chan told him ruefully. “And thanks to you too, Brother Huang. I don’t know if I’ll have a job Monday. But, I have been a complete fool. I guess it could have been worse. He could have gotten on that plane.”

“Yup,” Sam answered. “It could have been worse. Night, Dr. Chan.”

Sam rolled up the window and pulled into the street. He looked at Huang.

“So true, Sam-Shi. Glad you brought that up.” Huang responded to the unspoken remark. “It could have been worse. He could have been killed by Lee, not just hit on the head.”

“Exactly, Huang. Exactly what I was thinking.” They both laughed and headed into the new dawn of a new day, going back to the Green Veil.

Sam slept very late the next day and awoke to the sound of his phone pinging at him.

“Hello, hello,” he was groggy.

“Sam, it’s Kristie!”

“Hello, darling, what gets you up so early?”

“Sam, it’s after 11 am, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, yeah. Late night. What’s up?”

“Well, the thing fell through with the kids. The boyfriend got sick and Chelsea sprained her ankle.”

“So. . .?”

“So, the weekend is off. You still want me to come up? I can go shopping at Nordstrom’s!”

Sam paused. Shopping.

“Then there’s the pool at the Clairmont Hotel, wine in the jacuzzi. Couples massages, Chateaubriand for dinner.”

“Hmm, sounding better all the time.”

“Super, I’ll make the reservations and pack. I should be up in three maybe four hours. Oh, I love you, Sam. You’re so dependable. Such a quiet weekend. Just the two of us. Kiss, kiss.” She was gone and off the phone.

Sam rolled over in bed and held the phone to his chest. “Just the two of us. Quiet weekend. Wonder if Brother Huang has some eggs and bacon hidden somewhere, that old rascal. Maybe some coffee too.” The thought occurred he hadn’t thought about a cigarette once since he got to the Green Veil.

“I guess meditation does work. Ha!”

Sam rolled out of bed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Wearing his favorite pair of boots once agin, he was ready for the day.

The End