authenticity.”
“The sculptures are fake?”
“No, everything indicates that they are genuine.”
“Wait—to certify the authenticity of something authentic, does that pay much?”
“It depends on the context.” Ben’s eyes grew clearer.
This was about more than money and perjury. Out of habit, Grip looked over his shoulder. No one was near them.
“First, they must get their hands on them, the Arp sculptures,” said Ben.
“Theft,” said Grip, giving it its proper name. He weighed the word like a tool in his hand.
“A person with a lot of money pays so that someone else, just as wealthy as he, will in turn lose them. In the process, I examine the sculptures and say that they are what they are.”
“Should make a couple of thousand,” murmured Grip.
“Usually something like that,” replied Ben with a shrug.
That’s how it was; Ben earned extra money by appraising stolen goods. And of course it was something Ben never talked about.But now he wanted more. A few thousand dollars at a time, under the circumstances, was like collecting bottle deposits to pay for a space flight. Grip shifted in his chair, uncertain about where they were going. At the same time, he knew that Ben was so drunk he’d drowned any reluctance to say what was on his mind.
“Now they need help, planning a few details for the next bust.” Ben’s hand seemed to lie on the table, but in fact it hovered a few millimeters above. Apologies already prepared, and a thousand phrases that said “Forget it” as soon as he’d laid out what he needed to. But Grip was sitting perfectly still. He understood. Understood perfectly. The idea was to bring him in next time. With him being part of the planning, they could pay off a lot more bills.
“A robbery,” Grip said then. Not even a question. Not even a flinch.
Ben wasn’t sure. “Of the wealthy, they have—”
Grip struck his palm on the table: “Don’t ask!” The girl behind the bar looked up, but couldn’t hear the rest. Grip stopped a second and then said in a low voice: “I’m not a child and I’m not a toy. If we are something, you and I, then we don’t pretend. We talk about how it is. I know what a robbery is, and I know exactly what’s at stake.”
Ben’s hand kept hovering. His splayed fingers trembled. Not even three martinis and two bottles of wine could keep away his fear of death.
They went back to the hotel that Edward Hopper painted. Complete silence between them. Not war, just silence. It was the third and final night in the same room, and what over a weekend had become familiar now seemed completely foreign. Decorations, light, furniture.
It was five o’clock in the morning when Grip woke Ben up, a hand shaking his shoulder.
“What have you told them?”
“Nothing,” replied Ben after a few seconds, coming back to the surface, “only that I know someone.”
“Security police?”
“No.” Ben slowly turned around. “I met them, understood that they need people, I said I knew someone.”
“Is that all?”
“A Swede, I said. You know, Europeans always arouse interest in those types.”
“And the connection between us?”
“They have no idea. I said you could be reached through an intermediary.”
“But Swedish, you said?”
“Your accent, you would meet . . . It was hardly a revelation.”
A car’s headlights shone through the gaps of the blinds. Nothing more was said.
B ack in New York, three days later. Ben stood bony and curved like a bird carcass, coughing his lungs out over the sink. When he sank deeper in exhausted recovery, Grip walked in behind him in the bathroom. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror.
“How much do they pay?” said Grip.
Ben turned his eyes away, panting.
Grip slowly stretched his back against the doorpost. “Be sure to talk with them,” he said, and went out again.
CHAPTER 11
I T WAS DURING A STATE visit with the royal couple in Hungary that Grip got an e-mail from Ben, saying a
“The sculptures are fake?”
“No, everything indicates that they are genuine.”
“Wait—to certify the authenticity of something authentic, does that pay much?”
“It depends on the context.” Ben’s eyes grew clearer.
This was about more than money and perjury. Out of habit, Grip looked over his shoulder. No one was near them.
“First, they must get their hands on them, the Arp sculptures,” said Ben.
“Theft,” said Grip, giving it its proper name. He weighed the word like a tool in his hand.
“A person with a lot of money pays so that someone else, just as wealthy as he, will in turn lose them. In the process, I examine the sculptures and say that they are what they are.”
“Should make a couple of thousand,” murmured Grip.
“Usually something like that,” replied Ben with a shrug.
That’s how it was; Ben earned extra money by appraising stolen goods. And of course it was something Ben never talked about.But now he wanted more. A few thousand dollars at a time, under the circumstances, was like collecting bottle deposits to pay for a space flight. Grip shifted in his chair, uncertain about where they were going. At the same time, he knew that Ben was so drunk he’d drowned any reluctance to say what was on his mind.
“Now they need help, planning a few details for the next bust.” Ben’s hand seemed to lie on the table, but in fact it hovered a few millimeters above. Apologies already prepared, and a thousand phrases that said “Forget it” as soon as he’d laid out what he needed to. But Grip was sitting perfectly still. He understood. Understood perfectly. The idea was to bring him in next time. With him being part of the planning, they could pay off a lot more bills.
“A robbery,” Grip said then. Not even a question. Not even a flinch.
Ben wasn’t sure. “Of the wealthy, they have—”
Grip struck his palm on the table: “Don’t ask!” The girl behind the bar looked up, but couldn’t hear the rest. Grip stopped a second and then said in a low voice: “I’m not a child and I’m not a toy. If we are something, you and I, then we don’t pretend. We talk about how it is. I know what a robbery is, and I know exactly what’s at stake.”
Ben’s hand kept hovering. His splayed fingers trembled. Not even three martinis and two bottles of wine could keep away his fear of death.
They went back to the hotel that Edward Hopper painted. Complete silence between them. Not war, just silence. It was the third and final night in the same room, and what over a weekend had become familiar now seemed completely foreign. Decorations, light, furniture.
It was five o’clock in the morning when Grip woke Ben up, a hand shaking his shoulder.
“What have you told them?”
“Nothing,” replied Ben after a few seconds, coming back to the surface, “only that I know someone.”
“Security police?”
“No.” Ben slowly turned around. “I met them, understood that they need people, I said I knew someone.”
“Is that all?”
“A Swede, I said. You know, Europeans always arouse interest in those types.”
“And the connection between us?”
“They have no idea. I said you could be reached through an intermediary.”
“But Swedish, you said?”
“Your accent, you would meet . . . It was hardly a revelation.”
A car’s headlights shone through the gaps of the blinds. Nothing more was said.
B ack in New York, three days later. Ben stood bony and curved like a bird carcass, coughing his lungs out over the sink. When he sank deeper in exhausted recovery, Grip walked in behind him in the bathroom. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror.
“How much do they pay?” said Grip.
Ben turned his eyes away, panting.
Grip slowly stretched his back against the doorpost. “Be sure to talk with them,” he said, and went out again.
CHAPTER 11
I T WAS DURING A STATE visit with the royal couple in Hungary that Grip got an e-mail from Ben, saying a
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