Page 45 of The Picasso Heist
“That’s funny,” he says, meticulously adding a few drops of bitters and a splash of water to the sugar cube. He reaches for a muddler. “Zabaven,as we say in Bulgarian. That means ‘funny.’”
According to Nikolov, Bergamo wanted the chance to take one last look at the real Picasso. He’d formed some kind of bond with the painting while bidding on it, or so he said, even though he knew all along that he’d never own it. He’d done a favor for Nikolov, albeit not by choice, and to Nikolov’s credit, that fact wasn’t lost on him.
“Okay, I get it,” I say. “I understand why you’re letting him come here. But why do I have to be here?”
“I told you. He asked.” Nikolov reaches for a few ice cubes and finally glances at me. He squints. “Why do you look so concerned, Halston?”
“Because this wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.
“You’re right, but the plan’s over. It worked. Relax.” He eyes my LaCroix as he pours the bourbon. “Maybe even have a real drink.”
I pass on the drink but take him up on the relaxing. He’s right. The plan worked. And yes, Bergamo had played his part, and played it well. The way he ripped smarmy Waxman a new one, threatening to sue Echelon over its lack of adequate security, did wonders for speeding up the insurance review. Even better were the city’s security cameras that supported every word of what I told the police, right up to the painting being squashed like a bug underneath the wheel of the cement mixer.
The police are still looking for the thief.Good luck with that, guys.He was on the first flight back to Bulgaria.
As for the cement-mixer driver, cameras showed him getting outof the truck, looking thoroughly confused, then listening to me explain what had happened. He gave me his cell number and helped me gather the remains of the painting in its crushed case. The next day, the police called him to set up a time for an official statement. We coached him to act scared and ask a lot of dumb questions, like “Am I going to have to pay for the painting?” Not for a minute did the police think this rocks-for-brains guy was an accomplice.
The investigation will continue. Detectives will focus on the idea that it was an inside job, that someone with either Echelon or the courier company hired by Bergamo to transport the painting was involved. How else did the thief know exactly where to be at exactly the right time?
For sure, no one will be above scrutiny. But if there were one person they wouldn’t suspect, it might be the young woman working for Echelon who actually chased the thief for ten blocks.
Just saying.
CHAPTER41
THE DOORMAN RINGSup to the apartment as Nikolov stirs his drink. For the record, you never shake an old-fashioned. You always stir it.
Bergamo walks in, all smiles. This is the first time we’ve all been together since the day of the heist. I told Nikolov that was one time too many. Yes, the insurance got paid, but the police investigation is ongoing. This is not the moment to get sloppy.
Speaking of sloppy.
I can smell Bergamo from across the room. He’s been drinking. A lot. Everything about him is loose—his shirt, his tie, and, especially, his tongue. He’s slurring his words.
“Do you know where I’m supposed to be right now? Back uptown at a Dior party surrounded by supermodels—I mean dozens of gorgeous girls, some of the most beautiful women in the world, each one flirting with me more than the next so they can be the face of my next ad campaign. But instead I’m here. I’m fucking here, all right?” he says, turning on his heel and almost losing his balance. “Where is it?”
Nikolov casually points at the far wall, behind the couch where Blaggy’s sitting. “Over there,” he says.
Bergamo does this combination walk/strut across the living room and stops as soon as he gets past the couch and sees the painting leaning against the wall. He was smiling when he came in, but now he’s positively beaming.
“It really is beautiful,” he says. “So beautiful.”
He stares at it in silence, barely blinking, and Nikolov shoots me a quick, knowing smile. Bergamo truly wanted to have one last look at it, just like he said.
“Enzi, can I fix you a drink?” asks Nikolov.
The question snaps Bergamo out of his trance. “Huh? Oh, no. No, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. Bergamo literally waves goodbye to the painting and walks toward Nikolov at the bar. “But speaking of good…”
Nikolov nods. “I know what you’re about to say.”
“I don’t even know what I’m about to say.” Bergamo laughs, raising his finger in the air. “But I know what I’m thinking, so just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay,” says Nikolov. “I’m listening.”
“What I want to say… what I need to know is that we’re square. I owe you nothing, Anton, no more favors. No anything. That’s what I need,” he says. He balls his fists and says, à la Al Pacino, “‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’”
