Page 39 of The Picasso Heist
I slide the first fortune cookie up to the one-forty-nine-million-dollar soy sauce packet and move them both southbound down the block. “And off we go,” I say.
Immediately, Nikolov blocks the path, his hand coming down like a gate. “Tell me again,” he says. “Why won’t the cop draw his gun? What’d you say his name was—Eddie?”
He’s talking about Echelon’s security guard. “First of all, Eddie’s anex-cop and has been for thirty years,” I say. “Second of all, Eddie hasn’t missed a meal since the day he retired.”
“So he’s fat and old. But he’s still carrying,” says Nikolov.
I know where he’s going with this, and I don’t like it. Not at all. “No one’s shooting anyone, and Eddie’sdefinitelynot shooting anyone.”
“Once again, how can you be sure?” asks Nikolov.
“Remember that chair umpire I told you about, the one I courtsided on through your betting site from one tournament to the next? Slow Hand Luke, I called him.”
“Yeah, I remember. What about him?”
“Eddie would make Slow Hand Luke look like the fastest draw in the West,” I say. I slide the fortune cookie and soy sauce packet around Nikolov’s hand until they’re all the way down the block and around the corner. “By the time Eddie even thinks of reaching for his gun, he won’t even know in what direction to aim.”
“Okay, keep going,” says Nikolov. But from the way he nods when he says it, I know I haven’t quite convinced him. He’s still thinking about what he might and might not do about Eddie being armed.
As if I didn’t have enough things to worry about with this heist, now I have one more.
CHAPTER34
FUNNY THING ABOUTa piece of art that sells for a hundred and forty-nine million dollars: No one wants to touch it unless they absolutely, positively have to.
Another funny thing about that same piece of art: Although no one wants to touch it, everyone wants it out the door as soon as possible. The buyer, the seller, the auction house—they all have something to gain. Or lose.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the man of the hour, Mr. Enzio Bergamo!”
Charles Waxman is in full smarm mode, standing in the center of Echelon’s lobby, a two-story foyer of polished marble boasting a massive spiral staircase. He has his arms spread wide and turns in a circle on the heels of his wingtips, milking the applause. He’s not a CEO; he’s P. T. Barnum.
As is tradition after a major sale, the entire Echelon staff has gathered on the ground floor, up the stairs, and all along the balconiesto welcome and congratulate the high bidder. And as major sales go, this one takes the cake.
Which explains the actual cake that Bergamo has the honor of cutting. But first, he says a few words of thanks to “the distinguished men and women of Echelon” and jokes that he’ll need to sell a lot more dresses now to pay for his new Picasso.
The joke was his but the use of the worddistinguishedcame from me. “Whatever you do, don’t reference their expertise or professionalism or say anything that implies competence,” I told him. Bergamo didn’t have to ask why.
“Not having any cake, are you?”
I jump at the sound of Terrance Willinghoff’s voice behind me. How long has he been standing there? Could he see what I was texting? Could he seewhoI was texting?
“You scared me,” I say, casually lowering my phone. I take a quick glance around; people are gathered in small groups, talking and enjoying slices of Black Forest gâteau. “Oh… no. I mean yes, I’m passing on the cake.”
Terrance, sporting a double Windsor knot in his tie twice the size of the Hope Diamond, looks suspicious, as if we’re not actually talking about cake. “I know what you’re up to,” he says.
Gulp. “You mean you know I’m watching my girlish figure?”
“No, but perhaps somebody else is. And perhaps you’re more than okay with that. Courting it, even.”
“Excuse me?”I don’t have to pretend to act incredulous. If Jacinda had heard him say that, she would’ve dragged him by his ear into the human resources office.
But Terrance is undeterred, on a mission. “Your hearing is just fine, Halston.”
He’s my boss. I work for him. But still. “Are you accusing me of something?” I ask.
“Of course not,” he says.
Liar.I’ll rephrase. “Did I do something wrong?”
