Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [9]
I was massaging my ruined fingers, remembering … One of the first jobs I did, driver for a post office stunt. I was younger, and dare I say … greener?
The outfit were northeners, had lost their driver at the last minute. How I got drafted.
They came out of the post office in Malahide, more a suburb of Dublin now, guns above their heads, screaming like banshees, piled into the back. The motor stalled. Only two minutes, but it was a long 120 seconds. By the Grand Canal, the effluent from the Liffey smelling to high heaven. Changing cars, they held me down, crushed my fingers, using the butt of a shotgun, the Belfast guy going, “Two minutes you lost, two fingers you blow.”
I stared at Bow, asked, “You have something in mind?”
The Zippo was flat on the table, I could see a logo: Focus.
He indicated it, said, “That’s the key. I’m thinking you could do with a wedge, a healthy slab of tax-free euros.”
Jeez, he was some pain in the arse, but I stayed … focused? … below radar, asked, “Who doesn’t?”
Looked like he might applaud, then, “I’m taking a shot here, but I’m figuring you know zilch about art.”
I stayed in role, asked, “Art who?”
Didn’t like it, I noticed. When he was bothered as he was now, the accent dipped. I smiled, thinking, Not so focused now, and certainly not American.
He gritted his teeth, grunted, “Art is … everything. All the rest is … a support system.”
I leaned on the needle, said, “You like art, yeah?”
Thought he might come across the table, but he reined in, took a breath, a drink, said in a patient clipped tone, “Lesson one, you don’t like art, you appreciate it.”
I kept my eyes dull, and that’s an art.
He snapped, “You want to pay attention, fella, maybe you can learn something. I’m going to tell you about one of the very finest, Whistler.”
I resisted the impulse to put my lips together and like … blow.
He began: “There is a portrait by him, a ‘painted tribute to a gentle old lady.’ The lady looks old, but that’s because he was old when he did it. A time, 1871, when the railroads were about to replace the covered wagons. You see a white light wall, then …
“Straight curtain …
“Straight baseboard …
“Chair, footrest … straight …
“Everything is straightened out, the only roundness is her face. He titled it, Arrangement in Gray and Black. Moving along, you’ll see a silk curtain, in Japanese style, with a butterfly as decoration—his tribute to a country he admired. There’s a picture on the wall, and this is significant, as it’s the brightest white spot in the painting. The woman’s hands are white, her handkerchief is white, contrasting the black dress. Her bonnet has different shades to make her face benign, kindly. The entire ensemble is an homage to this lady, his mother, whom he adored.”
He waffled on for maybe another ten minutes, then finally stopped. Looked at me. I was going to go, I’m straight, but instead asked, “I need to know this … why?”
Now he smiled, said, “Because you and me, buddy, we’re going to steal it.”
The Musée d’Orsay had loaned it to the city of Dublin for six months. Had been on display for three now … in Merrion Square, the posh area of the city—a detail of Army and Gardaí were keeping tabs. Once the initial flush of interest and fanfare died down, the crowds dropped off. More important events like the hurling final, race meetings, took precedence. Security, though in evidence, was more for show than intent. An indication of the public losing interest, the picture had been moved to Parnell Square, the other side of the Liffey, damnation in itself.
Bow said, “Lazy fuckers, last week they didn’t even bother to load the CCTV.”
“How do you know?” I asked. And got the frost smile, superior and not a mile from aggressive.
He used his index finger to tap his nose, said, “A guy on the museum staff? He’s got himself a little problem.”
Did he mean cocaine or curiosity?
He continued: “I’ve helped him … get connected … and he’s grateful … and now he’s vulnerable. In ten days there will be a window in the security—the patrol is to be