Page 102 of The Wicked
“Yes,” Milk said. “Dog was able to find the location of the person who’s been exchanging emails with us for months. We traced them to Australia.”
“Australia? A lot of people want this thing,” I said.
“It’s fucking gold. Three hundred fucking million bars. Of course people are gonna kill for it,” Dog responded.
“The painting originally belonged to some dead rich dude, Arturo Garza. Feared by most made men,” Devil added.
Ah… I see.
“He made a map, placed it in the original frame, and made about ninety-nine copies of the painting, and sent them out. It’s basically a quest for gold, and obviously something else,” Milk said.
“We haven’t figured out what that something else is,” Devil said, “but if bosses of criminal families are also hunting for it, it’s gotta be big.”
“Probably intel,” Milk said. “Groundbreaking intel is the only reason these men would want it.”
“The power…” I said. “This is huge. People are getting informed of this quest every day. Forget the intel, and think about how many people out there are killing to get their hands on that gold.”
“I want to get my hands on the gold,” Dog said. “We’ll be made for fucking life if we find the original painting.”
“I’m guessing the one sitting in our car right now isn’t the original. Do we know how each painting is released?”
“It’s spontaneous. Arturo was a mastermind. He wanted this quest to last for a long time, and it’s working; everyone is barreling down, following the same patterns. While there’s probably a quest twist somewhere, we have to brainstorm, think likehim… that’s the only way we can win this… if we all want the gold, that is,” Upper said.
“I want the gold,” Milk said. “And I love quests! It’ll be fun.”
“And I want to know what’s got these powerful men cowering,” I said.
“I’m curious too,” Devil joined in. “We can’t talk expressively about this over the phone.”
“I’ll be on my way as soon as I eat.”
“Can you pack something for me too? I’m starving,” Dog said.
“You literally just ate,” Milk said.
“Did I?”
I chuckled. “Okay, guys, are we telling Marino?”
“If this painting is as popular amongst criminals as we’ve found, then he already knows about it,” Upper said.
Of course he had no reason to tell me even if he knew. “I’ll go now; see you guys soon.”
I hung up, making my way back into the building. I walked towards our booth, almost doubling over when I saw the food on the table.
Spaghetti with oil and garlic—aglio e olio—sauced meat in a full bowl, spicy vegetables that smelled divine, three pieces of tomatoes and onion-sauced chicken, and yummy-looking French fries to go with it. I was practically drooling at the sight, wishing I had a phone to take pictures and send to Dog so he’d cry.
I slipped into the booth, rubbing my hands together as I looked over at the man opposite me, whose gaze was trained on the window beside him, arms crossed against his chest, lost in his world. He didn’t even look over when I arrived.
I dug into the food immediately, diving straight for the water before picking up the fork, rolling the delicious pasta onto it, shoving it into my mouth, and moaning at the taste. “God, fuck yes, this is so good.”
When he didn’t turn my way, I lightly hit his leg from underneath the table, and he turned to me, raising a brow of inquiry.
“You’ve got to try this; it’s heavenly. Why didn’t you order?”
“I’m not in the mood to eat.”
I scrunched my nose. “Do people have to be in a mood before eating?”
