The interior of Harvey’s was filled, wall to wall, with awards, trophies, pendants, charms, commemorative cups, water bottles, fake fish mounted above empty gold labels, tote bags that said YOUR LOGO HERE on them. There were also pennants, dish towels, sun visors and every other conceivable item that could possibly have a logo or saying or award declaration placed on it.
The store was a narrow funnel that led to a single counter in the back, where the cash register was located. Behind the counter was a double door that led into, presumably, Harvey’s great factory of fame and recognition. All I knew for certain from where I stood soaking up the ambience of Harvey’s was that he hadn’t dusted in at least a decade, nor bothered to change any of his displays.
“Nice place,” I said.
“Maybe he does a big mail-order business,” Barry said. “Now, just follow my lead here. He was very specific in his directions.”
“You’re the boss,” I said.
We walked to the back of the store and Barry rang the bell on the counter… the one that had a sign next to it that said PLEASE RING THE BELL. I MAY NOT HEAR YOU COME IN OTHERWISE, which to me sounded like an invitation to pull the cash register off the counter. Except, oddly, the register was bolted to the wall and down to the floor using thick titanium bars. Not exactly standard for a trophy shop.
And then I began to notice other details. The floor, while dusty, was lined with razor-thin metal piping that led directly into a series of small boxes built into the floor at the front of the store. The only time I’d seen that previously was in a vault inside a mansion in Belarus, which is good, because once you see a floor that’s capable of electrocuting you with the flip of a switch, you generally want to avoid a second occurrence.
The double doors swung open and out came a man of about seventy. Maybe seventy-five. He did not look like the kind of guy who would electrocute you without cause. Nor did he look like someone named Jacques. Harvey? Certainly. He was bald except for a wisp of gray hair in the center of his head, wore eyeglasses with no frames and had on a dust-covered gray shirt covered only nominally by a dust-covered gray apron.
“Are you here to pick up your trophy or to design a plaque?” Harvey said.
Barry started to speak, stopped, started again, and then reached into his pocket for the scrap of the yellow pages he’d scribbled on, and attempted to read his own handwriting. “Uh, we are here to pick up the trophy for, uh, the, uh, Desperados?”
Harvey didn’t respond.
“The, uh, Diamondbacks?”
Still nothing.
Barry attempted again. “The, gosh, Destroyers?”
Harvey scratched at something on this nose.
“Mike, you wanna take a shot at this?” Barry said and handed me the paper.
Anyone with this much patience and an electrified floor probably didn’t appreciate Barry’s inability to read his own words, so I decided to take a more direct approach. “Harvey,” I said, “we’re here because I need a plate to counterfeit money from. Is this the right place?”
Harvey pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pants pocket, took off his glasses and then spent a few moments cleaning the lenses, all the while breathing so heavily I thought he was having a stroke. When the glasses were finally clean enough, he put them back on and stared at me with something like recognition. It was a look I’d seen many times before, just in a different package, and usually not in a trophy store.
“Marines?” he said.
“Rangers,” I said.
“CIA?”
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“Not officially, no,” I said.
“You lose your pension or something?”
“Something,” I said.
“You going to pay someone to blow up a government building or fund a terrorist cell?”
“No,” I said.
“You usually work for people like Barry?”
“For? No. Barry and I have some mutual interests. In this case, specifically, I’m trying to keep him alive.”
“In the event it’s possible, will you return the plate to me?”
“In the event it’s possible, absolutely.”
“Are you local?”
“Born and raised right here,” I said.
“Back for a visit?”
“You could say I had a burning desire to come home.”
Harvey cleared his throat and then spat on the floor. I had the sense maybe he’d found himself in a similar situation in the past.
“Yes,” he said. “Well. I don’t suppose you have a card or something?”
“My name is Michael Westen,” I said.
“Oh. I see.”
“Were you ever in Germany?” I said.
“East or West?”
“East.”
“For a time,” he said.
“There used to be a lovely pastry shop in the Ottersleben district of Magdeburg,” I said. “Karl’s, I believe it was called. You ever get there?”
“Delectable!” Harvey smacked his lips. Karl’s was a drop spot for American and British spies for about fifteen years. If you did time in East Germany, you had yourself a few pastries at Karl’s. “Wait here,” Harvey said, and disappeared back through the doors.
Barry began to say something, but I put a hand up over his mouth. “Don’t speak,” I said.
A few moments later, Harvey appeared holding a chromium plate. It looked to weigh about fifty pounds, which meant either Harvey was in surprisingly good shape underneath the dust or he’d spent a lot of years lugging heavy plating. “Just the twenties?” he asked.
“The twenties will be fine,” I said.
He pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped off his face and then he nodded at me. I nodded back. And then I picked up the plate and made my way out of the store, with Barry trailing behind me.
“What just happened?” Barry asked once we were back in my car.
“I’m going to guess that old Harvey was a spook,” I said. “Probably still is.”
“You recognize him from the Masonic Temple or something?”
“His floor was electrified, Barry,” I said. “You didn’t notice that?”
“No,” Barry said. “I don’t even know what an electrified floor looks like.”
“The only other time I’ve seen it in a domestic situation was in a house in Belarus owned by a former Soviet commissar. It’s not a standard upgrade.”
“And he just gave you the plate because you both know the secret handshake and had eaten at the same pastry shop?”
“Something like that.”
“You gave him your name.”
“It’s all a man’s worth these days,” I said.
“Do you know what a plate like that is worth on the black market?”
“Barry,” I said, “I told him I’d return it if I could, and I mean to do that.”
“I’m just saying,” Barry said, “that you and I could both be very wealthy men. I’d be willing to split any profit with you sixty-forty, and understand that extra ten percent on my end would be my standard finder’s fee.”
“Barry,” I said.
“Just letting you know it’s an option.” We drove in silence for a few moments, until Barry said, “A guy like him, what’s he doing running a trophy shop?”
“You said yourself that everyone needs a day job, Barry.”
“An electrified floor?”
“Yes.”
“So if he wanted to, he could flip a switch and sizzle everyone?”
“That’s the idea.”
“You have a weird life,” Barry said. He was silent for a moment, and then said, as if it had just dawned on him, “Wait. Did you say East Germany?”
“Did I?”
“Didn’t the wall come down in, what, 1990?”
“I don’t recall.”
“So you were there when you were in your teens? You left high school and ended up in East Germany?”
“Barry,” I said, “if you ask me any more questions, I’m actually required to kill you.”
That wasn’t strictly true-at least not since I’d been burned-but it’s nice to keep your associates guessing.
My cell phone rang. It was Fiona. “Sam is taking Father Eduardo to your mother’s, and then he said he was going to check out the plates on the police cruiser,” she said. “Am I free to spend the rest of my afternoon shopping, or would you like me to beat Barry some more?”