Nigel sighed, removed his suit coat, opened his collar, loosened his tie, and took down the framed replica of The Woman by the Water. He unwrapped the original painting and worked silently, trying not to think about the fact that he’d given away $112,000 of his own money to be right back where he’d started days ago. He was a ruined man now. He saw no way to save his business, not with both his savings and commercial accounts looted. The only silver lining was that there was no more fear of going to prison. But to Nigel Wickland at this moment, prison didn’t seem as terrifying as facing old age penniless.
When he removed the replica, he tossed it onto the mover’s blanket and replaced the original painting in its frame. Then he removed the framed replica of Flowers on the Hillside and did the same. It was slow and tedious because he loved and respected the Impressionist pieces too much to do anything less than his best for them. He felt a sudden sentimental wish that someone who appreciated them as much as he did might possess them someday.
When Nigel was nearly finished, he said, “Could you at least get me another of those Vichy waters?”
Raleigh said, “It was tap water, you supercilious snob. You can have all you want when you’re done.”
Jonas Claymore had let out a howl of triumph the moment he’d seen the van in the Brueger driveway. He couldn’t imagine why the man had come back to the house unless he was making another attempt at selling them the two paintings now that Megan had returned them for 12K. His 12K. Gone!
Jonas was getting itchy now. The meth was producing all sorts of side effects that he hadn’t felt before, at least not to this extent. His whole body was twitching. He felt like his teeth were twitching. It was all he could do to stand there peeking through the junipers again and not run down and kick in the door and put the knife at the throat of that art dealer who’d double-crossed him with Megan. He could only hope the fucker knew where Megan was holed up. He would make him talk, oh, yes.
Jonas took a piss on the junipers and then passed the time fantasizing about climbing into the window of wherever Megan was staying and cutting her tits off. But they were so small it would be no big loss to her.
“Can you please put the gun away now?” Nigel said when he had both worthless replicas loosely wrapped in the mover’s blankets.
Raleigh tucked the gun in his pocket and picked up the toolbox, saying, “You carry the replicas. Maybe you can get a few bucks for them somewhere. They’re almost as beautiful as the originals. You might try craigslist.”
“I couldn’t get enough to pay for the lab work we did,” Nigel said. “I’ll just use them as remembrances of things past. When I’m residing on skid row.”
“You’ll be all right, Nigel,” Raleigh said. “An English gentleman of your quality can easily get a job doing what I do. I can see you as a domestic servant for a rich old man who needs someone cultured to wipe his ass.”
Raleigh Dibble walked outside with Nigel Wickland, who tossed the blanketed replicas onto the floor of the van. “I won’t ask you for a ride back to my car, Nigel,” Raleigh said. “I’ll taxi down and pick it up tomorrow. I think we’ve seen enough of each other.”
Nigel said, “Perhaps I’ll have to see you again if Leona still plans to use me to supervise the storage of her artwork. But I certainly hope not.”
Raleigh said, “Good-bye, Nigel. Sorry how things have turned out for you. I guess you’ll just have to face old age as irrelevant as the rest of us.”
Nothing else was said. Raleigh watched the van drive away over the fake cobblestone driveway for the last time. He turned and entered the house, not seeing the one taillight of the little VW bug following the van, and winking at him just as before.
When Raleigh Dibble fell into bed, he knew he’d be able to sleep soundly at last. He didn’t have great prospects for a successful future, but he thought that perhaps he’d get a good reference from Leona Brueger before she sold the house and moved away. He thought it would be wonderful if the new buyers of this house needed a butler chef with his skills. He wanted to stay in this house. He liked it here with or without all the artwork.
He was lying in bed with the window open watching moonbeams fluttering across the wall of his bedroom, and he was content. Before drifting off to sleep, he thought of the fragile, charming tulip of a girl with alabaster skin who had kissed his cheek. She was so wistful, so delightfully young. Raleigh Dibble would always remember her as the girl in the candy-striped dress.
TWENTY-SIX
He didn’t need to take the trouble to stay behind the cargo van. Jonas knew where it was going and he wanted to be there before the van arrived. He drove so fast that he didn’t make the yellow and blew through a red light on Sunset Boulevard. He looked around frantically for a black-and-white but saw none. When he reached Beverly Hills, he pulled onto the side street next to the Wickland Gallery and ran into the alley, relieved to see that he had not been wrong about the red BMW Roadster. It belonged to the fairy art dealer, he was sure of it. The man would be back.
He squeezed his bony body behind the Dumpster in the alley, but since the container was full of trash, he couldn’t budge it, and he had trouble folding his tall frame so that his head was not protruding. It was miserable there, and he was still flashing on paranoid thoughts. His discomfort made him ever more furious at what this sissy and Megan had conspired to do to him. He was bent over in an angular squat, listening to all the nighttime traffic on Wilshire Boulevard, when he heard the van enter through the alley. Jonas took the knife from under his sweatshirt, pulled up his hoodie, and got ready to attack.
Nigel thought he’d need to sleep around the clock to recover from this horror. He touched the remote-control button and the door slid open. He drove the van into the storage room, turned off the headlights, and pushed the button to close the door. When he stepped out of the van, the interior van lights stayed on briefly, and he used the light to open the side door and remove the blanketed replicas. He tossed them contemptuously onto the workbench. And then he felt the knife at his throat.
Jonas Claymore, who was even taller than Nigel, grabbed him from behind by the collar of his suit coat and pressed his cheek to Nigel’s, saying, “Don’t fucking twitch.”
“Oh, my god!” Nigel said. “Oh, my lord!”
“Right now I’m your lord,” Jonas said. “And you better do what your lord says.”
“Anything!” Nigel said, his hands in the air just as before. “Anything!”
“Turn on the lights in here.”
“The switch is by the door to my office,” Nigel said.
“Move over there real slow,” Jonas said.
Nigel could smell the hooded man’s body odor. It was foul. He moved awkwardly to the light switch, like a dog whose master had him by the collar, and he switched on the lights.
“Where’s my paintings?” Jonas said.
The voice! Yes, it was the thief who’d called him with his demand for a reward. Nigel said, “Sir, please release me and take away the knife so we can talk.”
Jonas tightened his grip on Nigel’s collar and stayed behind him, saying, “We’re gonna talk, but first, where’s my paintings?”
“Sir,” Nigel said. “I truly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jonas said, “I’m talking about cutting your head off like a fucking Eye-raqi dune coon, that’s what I’m talking about.”
It was too much. Too much terror for one night. It was so unbelievable, he felt like screaming himself awake. But he didn’t scream. He peed. Jonas saw it running from under the cuff of Nigel’s trousers onto the concrete floor of the storage room.