by Courtney E. Webb

 

Buzz, buzz.

Denise stirred. Buzz, buzz, the sound continued. A soft, vibrating movement on her side.

She rolled back and forth a couple of times and her eyes popped open. The buzzing sound continued. She focused for a moment then hit the little tracker resting in her pajama pocket and sat up. Denise wiped the sleep out of her eyes and pulled the tracker out of her pocket. It read: 7 hours and 42 minutes.

Hum, she thought to herself. “Well, it’s not exactly eight hours of sleep but it’s probably okay,” she mused out loud. After taking a pee, she came back to her scales and stepped on; 146 pounds. She frowned. “Damn vacation!” She was up two pounds and she had been working so hard too.

Stepping off the scale she sighed, Guess that’s the price for fun, huh? Going over to her desk, she pulled out the sugar monitor and pricking her finger, put a little sample of blood on the test strip. After several seconds it read ‘94’. She smiled. Her blood sugar was doing great! And the new diet plan emphasized low sugar levels to get the weight off. She was working toward her goal nicely.

In the kitchen, Denise hit the start button on the coffee maker. Regular black, no special coffees or sugar additives. She opened a new box of Special K cereal and retrieved the non-fat milk from the frig. Slicing half of a green banana into the cereal, she started to eat.

Back at her desk she sliced open the envelopes with an antique ivory letter opener. A gift from her Scottish grandmother. Opening her mail, she began to check bank balances.

“Hum.” she saw that one checking had a $5,000 balance and the other one was at an all-time low of $1,000. “That vacation again. Whew! Just wiped me out!” Frisky, the cat, sitting close by, looked concerned.

Savings had a nice $25,000 balance and her 401k was rocking along smoothly. Denise felt proud of herself. As the daughter of a welfare mother and humble beginnings, she was doing pretty well for herself.

However, thinking back, she had had to fight and fight with that travel agent to get them to take payment for the trip in cash.

“But everyone pays by card,” the woman had said pleading, trying to push the bills back at Denise.

Denise skillfully pushed the bills back toward the travel agent.

“I’m very uncomfortable using ‘cards’.” Denise smiled beatifically. “This is how I do business.”

The woman shook her head, mumbling and then reluctantly snatched up the cash and clumped over to her boss’s desk. The young woman handed the cash off to him and soft mumbling followed. The travel agency manager, was a chubby little guy, who didn’t do much, as far as Denise could tell, except eat and play games on his cell phone all day.

She had been to this same agency before and she wondered if he remembered her. They had gone through the same song and dance last time. The clerk was leaned over her boss’s desk, her back to Denise. The little fat guy stole a glance at her around his employee. She smiled back at him. She knew what was coming. He heaved himself up from his desk, reluctantly and cautiously approached her.

He smiled first. She smiled back.

“Miss Smith,” he ventured, looking down at the agency document in his hand. The clerk lingered in the background, uncertainly. Denise, nodded helpfully.

“Miss Smith,” he repeated, “we don’t usually work with cash transactions. They can be…” he searched manfully for the proper words, “they can be difficult to…trace.” He smiled again hoping to hell that she would understand without causing a fuss.

Denise was ready, they had in fact had the same conversation over a year ago.

“Oh, yes, I totally understand, Mr… ?”

“Shin.”

“Mr. Shin.” She repeated carefully. “I absolutely understand your position but,” she smiled, “I don’t like using credit cards because of all the interest and banking fees. I know that’s how most people do it, but can’t you make an exception this time? Besides, you did it this way over a year ago.” Mr. Shin’s eyebrows shot up.

He’s probably surprised he let a woman get the drop on him before, she thought with a smirk.

The man stared at her almost a full minute then shook his head and waved for the girl to continue. He turned around and took the wad of cash back to his desk. With a look of almost disgust, he pulled out a metal box and stuck in the cash. He snapped the box shut with a scowl. Shin frowned at his cell phone.

Probably means an extra trip to the bank, Denise thought to herself. Oh, well!

Denise, smiling, completed her trip arrangements to Belize with the girl and got her confirmation paper. She left the agency smiling, happy when she got people to see things her way. She had learned long ago that the banks were the biggest rip off artists in the business with their interest rates and fees on top of fees. Better in my pocket than in theirs, she thought grinning.

She got into her little economy car and started the engine. It was an uninspiring grey green color that she hated; but what the heck, her brother, the used-car salesman, had gotten her a super discount deal, so – no complaints.

“Now,” she mused. She rummaged through her purse and found what she was looking for. She had some coupons in her envelope that were about to expire. Needed to get over to the store pick up those items while they were still good. She sped off full of her next mission.

#

Miles away, two heads leaned together and whispered in furious tones.

“No, it has to been then, we must get ready!”

The other person sighed and slumped back.

End of Part I

 

(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