Page 77 of The Picasso Heist
He thinks I’m doubting him, but I’m not; I’m stalling as I quickly type on my phone. “Okay, good. I believe you,” I say, leaning over to show him my screen.
Ask if u can give me ride home
He nods, starting to get the hang of it. “So where can I drop you off, Halston? Do you want a ride back to your apartment?”
“Actually, I thought I’d visit the zoo since I’m up here. It’s been years. I used to love going to see the sea lions as a kid.”
Bergamo lowers the partition a few inches, clearing his throat. “Nico,” he says. “Central Park Zoo.”
The partition slides back up, and I talk a little more about the sea lions and how watching them remains one of my favorite memories. I’m going on and on. I’m killing time. Plus I’m preventing Bergamo from slipping up and saying something he shouldn’t.
Within minutes we’re pulling up to the zoo. I type quickly again on my phone, show him the screen. We say our goodbyes, and I watch from the curb as the limo drives off.
“How much is admission?” I ask the woman behind the glass at the zoo’s ticket booth. The prices are posted two feet from my head but I have my reasons for playing dumb.
Soon, ticket in hand, I enter the zoo and head directly to the bathroom. From the bathroom I make a beeline for the exit and return to where Bergamo dropped me off. I’d told him to circle back in five minutes, and his limo is there waiting. I get back in and toss the wire with its transmitter into Bergamo’s lap. The small strip of tape, fresh off my skin, is still attached to the microphone.
“What the hell is going on?” he asks. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Helping you,” I answer. “Helping us.”
“Why are you wearing a wire?”
“Because apparently you got greedy, which would have been fine if you hadn’t also gotten sloppy.”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“Don’t even try that with me.” I point at the transmitter in his lap. “Do you realize the risk I’m taking?”
He doesn’t, not fully. Everything’s happening so fast, he needs more time to think it through, but the headline should be a no-brainer: The FBI has it in for him. They know something. It’s big.
“How much did they tell you?” he asks.
“Enough. They know you’re laundering money for Dominick Lugieri. They just can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt,” I say. “And, by the way, are you insane? Getting mixed up with a guy like Lugieri?”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem when it was Anton Nikolov. The Bulgarians, the Italians—what’s the difference?”
“You were just as stupid to be in bed with Anton Nikolov. All I did was leverage it after the fact.”
“You mean allwedid.” He catches himself. All this talk of connections. “Wait, hold on,” he says. “How did the FBI even get to you?”
“How do you think? Through you. You were under surveillance and suddenly I showed up in the picture… literally. And not even those grainy black-and-white shots. Crystal-clear color. Video too. But they’re so desperate to get their smoking gun on Lugieri that they’re giving me a pass on whatever it is you and I are up to. As long as I cooperate.”
“You actually trust them?”
“Of course not. But what choice do I have? What choice dowehave?” I ask. “What matters now is making sure they keep trusting me.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“For starters, how about a thank-you?”
Bergamo looks down at the transmitter again. I could have kept it on, trapped him, gotten him to incriminate himself. Instead, it’s in his lap, no longer recording.
“Thank you,” he says.
“As for what I’m proposing, it’s simple. We need to give them Lugieri without giving you up.”
“And how do we do that? More important, how do we do that without Lugieri finding out? Because if he does, I’m a dead man.”
