The Vermeer

"Okay?" Funny look in her face.

"On the third day, before I turned my phone on at the parkette, I saw that the cops were there waiting for me."

"I don't understand."

I explained to her how an anonymous pre-paid phone in Canada called an anonymous pre-paid phone in the UK held by a person of interest and they just somehow anticipated the GPS location of the caller? "You've got to admit, Flo, from my perspective, there was a very good possibility that you gave them your phone and they were monitoring your number."

"I didn't."

"Well then I didn't know how they could do that," I said to her, "but let's face it, it was very scary on my part."

"I didn't cooperate with them, Ben. Oh, you were right though, they put a lot of pressure on, threatening to have me disbarred, not giving me the immunity letter, but as I told you, once I made the deal with Jill, she honoured it. I actually enjoyed working with her, except for our little screaming match. I loved the whole experience. Thank you for bringing me into all this, it was so much fun."

"And thank you for having sex with me. You're so beautiful."

Excitedly she said, "That was the best, it was so unexpected. What a treat! My erotic dreams come true." Her hand reached out and slipped under my shirt.

"We're here for two or three weeks, Flo, you can play with my chest hair all you want."

She giggled as she smiled, "Yes I need a holiday; this is a perfect treat, too."

"Tell me, how did it go in the bank?"

"Mmmnnn... exactly as you set it up." She took a long breath. "The gentleman from the Tate and Anthony, the really good looking, mild mannered American guy with just slightly wavy brown hair..."

I stared at her. She stopped talking.

"You mean the guy from the Gardner museum?"

She cleared her throat, "Yes. We were locked up in the vault viewing room. It's a really nice painting..."

"Yeah, it needs to be in a museum, though."

"Anyway, the Tate guy looked at it, compared it to several photographs that he brought, took a tiny little sample and mixed some little vials together. He rubbed a little swab on a special bit of cardboard paper. It was all fancy chemistry stuff.

"He compared the painting to the proof of life photos." She let go of my hand and picked up a shell from the sand. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Not as pretty as you."

A big smiled washed across her face as her hand tucked back into mine.

"He checked the colour of the vial against a little chart. After about ten minutes said to the sexy American, 'In my view, it's genuine.' That was it. Anthony, in a gentle voice turned to me and said, 'We accept the painting, thank you.'"

I could only grin.

"I put the painting back into the safety deposit box, closed the lid and then lifted the phone and said to the vault receptionist that we were done. They came in and locked away the box and handed me back the key. As soon as we were out of the vault, I texted you and then you texted me back within seconds. I handed Anthony phone #4 with the Isle of Man account number and transit number. He got on his cell phone and made a call." She paused to pull off her glasses. "We all sat in the manager's office; I told him what I wanted to see." She folded her glasses up and hooked them onto the little piece of red fabric between her bikini cups. "Wow it's bright," she pulled the brim of her straw hat down a bit.

She continued as she looked at the shell in her hand, "He pulled up the account activity page and turned his flat screen monitor so that we could both see it. As I said, after about ten minutes, while we made awkward small talk, the account screen updated, five million US was added and instantly withdrawn."

"Beautiful."

"The shell?" she responded.

"I was talking about you."

She grinned back at me, then continued as she put her sun glasses back on, "It was at that point that Jill freaked out."

"Why?"

"She wanted to know where the money went. She went ape-shit." Flo raised her hand with the shell and shook it in the air. Her shawl slipped off on one side. "I told her I didn't know. She then pressed the bank manager and he said 'Sorry, that's confidential information.'"

I was chuckling as Flo fixed her shawl back in place.

"She then said 'I'll get a court order' and he said 'Fine, whatever'."

"I then explained that I wanted Anthony to be added to the safety box registry. They never saw that coming. It took them a few minutes to get the right forms. I think they were just expecting me to walk back into the vault and get the Vermeer." She tossed the shell in the water. "Then they wanted to check my ID again. In the meantime I called Barclay's and was able to determine that my account had a hundred thousand pounds in it more than it normally would!" She leaned over and put her arm over my shoulder and pulled me towards her. She kissed me eagerly. "Thank you."

I broke the kiss, "Plus your proceeds of crime, sorry, share of the reward." She kissed me again.

"Pity about my iPhone, though. I only had it a month or so." She dropped her arm and picked my hand back up.

"Cell phones, eh... they're disposable."

"Anyway, once he was signed in, I handed him the key and bid them all farewell. You were correct. They were asking to see his ID as I walked out."

"That's just fantastic."

"It was. It was so much fun."

"Tell me, Ben, what's our next adventure?"

"Ah, let's see I'm thinking Lobster Thermidor back at the villa, with maybe some Champagne. How does that sound?"

"It sounds brilliant!" She was smiling ecstatically.

A thought suddenly struck me. "Which bedroom did you put your stuff into yesterday?"

"The big one of course."

"Okay, we'll have to move. That's my parent's bedroom. Mine is the smaller one up in the loft."

"Do you live here?"

"Sometimes."

"Who sleeps in the room with two beds?"

"My daughters, although they're getting a bit big for the beds."

"Are you married?"

"I told you, effectively divorced, but technically yes. How about you?"

"Single and looking for a good man that has a few chest hairs," she reached up under my shirt with her left hand and dug her nails into my chest. "Who has a big beautiful cock," she reached and grabbed my crotch with her right hand. "Who will give me lots of diamonds and jewelry." She was fluttering her eyes looking up at me. "Who has a rich Mom and Dad who own a fabulous place in the Caribbean." Her arms lifted off me high in the air on the word fabulous. "Is tall, dark and handsome." She twisted back towards me and placed both her hands on my shoulders and then gave my neck a little nibble. "Is mysterious." Her left hand slipped under my shirt again as she whispered. "And can make me cum... ohh god... can he ever make me cum..." She scratched at my chest hairs again.

"Oh, what a great actress you are."

"Thank you," she whispered. Her brown eyes were wide and sparkling as they gazed into mine.

"Thank you." I kissed her softly again and then looked into her brown eyes, "Flo, the world is just a tiny bit better, because of what you did. A Dutch masterpiece painting that has been hidden from sight for more than twenty-five years will get to shine upon humanity once again. Because of you. I'm so proud of you."

I kissed her again. Her lips were hot.

Her eyes, big brown eyes, were wide open and staring at me.

Her hand slipped back into mine and we continued walking along the beach, "So tell me, Ben. Are you in the mafia? Your parents are in Italy."

"I'm of Sicilian heritage, but I wouldn't say that I'm in the mafia. I do know a bunch of mobsters, though."

"So what do you do and how did you land up with the Vermeer?" She looked up to my eyes, "if you don't mind me asking."

I took a deep breath, understanding that I would be dragging her deeper into the danger zone.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

She paused for too long a time before she answered, "Yes."

She understood.

I took another deep breath, "Basically, I'm a drug runner and money launderer. Contraband one way, money in the opposite direction."

"Do you smuggle stolen art, too?"

"Well, not usually, but I did move that painting over to Europe. I try not to get involved with guns, that's a whole other business. It's usually just drugs that we..." I paused, "...transport."

"Really? Wow."

"So you smuggled the Vermeer?"

"Yeah but it wasn't mine. Mallory, the guy who died from the bee sting, left me the Vermeer as an IOU. It was his."

"Was Mallory a drug dealer, too?"

"He was a drug runner, not a drug dealer. There's a difference."

She seemed a little taken back.

"A competitor?"

"No, a colleague."

"So did he steal the painting? I read about the theft on Wikipedia. Two guys dressed as policemen tied up the night watchman or something."

"Yeah, only I heard they were dressed as security guards," I flipped my hand in the air. "I don't know, it doesn't matter."

"So your guy, did you say Mallory? Stole the paintings?"

"Yes and no."

"Huh?"

"Mallory did not steal the Vermeer."

"So how did he get it?"

"Originally, it was Mallory's cousin's, a guy named Dave who lived in Boston. Now, I believe he's in south Florida. Anyway, years ago, Mallory arranged through me to smuggle a big box of doggy sniff-free contraband from the US to Corsica. It was an easy job even though it was awkwardly sized stuff. I did have a chance to find out what was up with it all."

"You mean the Vermeer?"

"Yes."

"Doggy sniff-free?"

"Dogs are trained to sniff for all kinds of drugs, explosives, gun powder, people, even large quantities of cash, believe it or not, but not art. It makes my job much easier."

"Okay, Now I'm intrigued. You know who stole it? Pulled of the heist? Was it Mallory's cousin?"

"No. Not exactly, but I have a pretty good understanding of what happened."

Hand in hand we walked down the beach.

After a few moments she said, "And, I guess you're not going to share it with me?" she looked up to me.

"On the contrary, I know you can be trusted. Besides, I know very little." I smiled back at her.

"Okay, how then did you come into the possession of a Vermeer stolen from Boston?"

We walked a few paces along the smooth beach and then I took a deep breath. "I can only relate what Mallory's cousin said, who was probably twenty years older than Mallory, and if memory serves me correctly, I believe they were first cousins. He's a really nice guy. Mallory was Dublin Irish, cousin Dave had a thick 'Bwosten' accent. If I remember there was something wrong with his right hand. I recall going to shake his hand when I first met him and he returned his left hand upside down to meet my right hand. Kinda strange, the things that stick with you, but nevertheless, he was a really nice guy. Hard line Democrat. Anyway, all I can tell you is what Dave told to me, us, when we were coordinating the passage of the Gardner works from the US to Corsica. Well, some of the works," I corrected myself. "We were having dinner in Philadelphia."

"Okay."

"There was a gangland war going on in Boston at the time of the theft. I'm talking late eighties, early nineties. Mob vs. mob. It was straight out of The Godfather stuff. It had nothing to do with me or my dad. Although we're Sicilian and have certain... affiliations... we've never been crazy, swear on the Virgin Mary, prick-your-finger for blood, omerta type mobsters. It's never been our style. We're just small potatoes contractors. We don't even carry guns."

"Okay. So Mallory's cousin was in the mob?"

"No, as I said, he was Boston-Irish, an antiques dealer without a criminal record. Anyway, at the time, in Boston, as I said, there was this mob war going on. What was a bit unusual was that if you were a mobster and got caught doing mobster stuff, there was a precedent at that time that if you were able to return some stolen art works... you could negotiate a reduction of your prison sentence."

"Really?" There was almost shock in her face.

"Apparently. So artwork took on a whole new value for those gangsters. Basically, art became get out of jail free cards. The more valuable the artwork, the better your negotiating position would be."

"Crazy world you live in, Sam, sorry, Ben."

"No, I'm not part of that world. I've just got a little courier business going."

"Is it still true today?" She asked.

"Is what true?"

"That you can bargain your prison sentence with stolen art?"

"I wouldn't think so. That attitude put every museum and every art collection in the north eastern US in dire jeopardy."

She stared at me with astonishment on her face.

"So, from what I recall Dave telling me, the initial impetus for the heist was simply to secure three or four Rembrandts to be able to use as leverage to spring one of the mob bosses from jail. That was, as I came to understand the story, basically a desperate measure by the thieves to save their own skins, given the turf war that was going on."

"But how did you figure in on it?"

"Not so fast, lady." I took a deep breath.

"These guys were so stupid, they were focused only on the Rembrandts, even though there were more valuable paintings in the museum, including the Vermeer."

"But they stole the Vermeer."

"Yes, even though they took only three of the four Rembrandts."

"What? I don't understand."

"One of the target Rembrandts was pulled off the wall, but never stolen. Maybe they determined it wouldn't fit into their car. I don't know."

"I'm missing something, weren't there twelve items stolen?"

"Thirteen."

"Okay."

"According to Dave, the perps had calculated that if they're going to be in the Museum stealing Rembrandts, that is their get-out-of-jail tickets for their boss, they might as well come away with additional goods that they could easily sell on the black market for cash. But they didn't have any clue which items could be easily sold or how to go about selling them."

She just stared at me.

"Enter Dave. Mallory's cousin."

She kept on staring without saying a word.

"He was, from the mobster's perspective, clean, and no one would tie him to the mob. His face wasn't on any poster plastered in every police precinct in the Boston area. He was a clean outsider."

A pair of gulls skittered past us.

"He was asked to case the joint, to use the vernacular. He provided the actual robbers with detailed instructions of where the four Rembrandts were displayed, together with instructions to another ten items which Dave determined would be fairly easily converted to cash and shared equally by the crew. The ten items were to be personal money for the robbers, including Dave."

"Why Dave?"

"Hmmm. Dave was a small time fence. You have to understand, at that time, in that part of Boston, an 'antiques' dealer was also a second hand shop, which was also, basically a fence for stolen goods."

Her eyes brightened. "So, he was in on the robbery?"

"He was asked to case the museum to come up with items that he could sell. He did. Over several weeks, he surreptitiously visited the museum and photographed works, all the while surveying their security measures. They were woefully deficient, as every mobster in Boston understood. Dave even checked the place the night before to make sure that, as he put it, the 'dumb hippie' was working the night shift as guard." I paused for a moment and added, "Shall we turn around?"

Flo took her sunglasses off and hooked them on the strap between her boobs as soon as we turned around. The sun was on our backs. I made sure her shawl was draped properly.

"From what Dave told me, it was a small operation. Only the two thieves, a get-away car driver guy, who was basically a complete drug addict and Dave, were in on it and no one else. At least as far as he knew. Remember, this was all in the middle of mob-land turf wars. No one talked. And it seems the heist was pulled off without it being sanctioned by higher up mobsters. It was a daring, one-off job by basically underling gangsters. Plus Dave."

"Let me get this straight. You know who pulled off the biggest art theft in history?"

"No. Not exactly."

"You seem fairly specific."

"Well, I'm not. I don't know the other people by name. What I do know is only what Dave told me as we were having dinner in Philly. The two robbers tied up the guards and left them in the basement and then left with three of the four Rembrandts. From their perspective, those were the goods that they needed to spring the mob boss out of jail, everything else was an afterthought. Dave had to go back into the museum himself later that night, twice, to collect the other ten items, which they left for him by the unlocked side door. He even had to smash one of the frames himself to get the painting out."

She stared at me incredulously, "So, he was one of the thieves."

"Well, yeah kind of, but on the outside. The mobsters had tasked him with selecting the ten items, which he then had to collect, hide, store and sell for cash on the black market. He came up with the list and the directions and details to them. He added the Vermeer to the target list. They didn't know any difference. It seems the mobsters knew the name Rembrandt, but had no idea about the value of the Vermeer, or for that matter, a Michelangelo which was also in the museum, but not taken."

"So Mallory's cousin got the Vermeer?"

"Yes, that and the other nine, 'for sale' items."

"So then what happened?"

"The mob war continued and the two thieves plus the getaway driver and everyone else, it seems, who had any knowledge of the heist died. Either of bullets or, in the case of the get-away driver, a needle. Anyway, all gone. Except for Dave, who was smart enough to lay low and shut the fuck up."

"What about the three Rembrandts?"

"No idea. Somewhere in mobster hands I would imagine."

"So, then what happened?"

"Dave was understandably frightened. Especially when the entire Boston underworld was trying to find out who did it and wanted to get a hold of the goods, if only to get a piece of the five mil reward money that the Gardner had all-too-quickly pledged. Plus, the FBI was swarming all over the place. It all became extremely political. All of a sudden, Boston had a bad image and needed to get cleaned up."

"Wow."

"You've got to understand. That five mil became a price on Dave's head. He needed to be rid of all traces of the ten remaining pieces."

"I see."

"Do you really?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's a price on my head," I pointed to her face, "and now it's on your head, too."

I could see the colour drain from her face. "But the five million is gone."

"The rest of the works are still worth hundreds of millions."

She stared straight ahead as we walked hand in hand.

"As I said, Flo, people will act irrationally. You are now firmly and most visibly tied to all of this. Welcome to my world."

Flo blinked and took a deep breath. She understood.

"Anyway, fairly soon afterwards, the FBI did act on a tip or a theory that they apparently had been stewing on for a while, that a local antiques dealer was involved in the heist. Dave and every other Boston area antiques dealer were being watched, but the FBI it seems, mistakenly focused in on and then raided another guy, one of his 'antiques' competitors. That guy turned around and started playing along with the FBI, hoping to somehow hone in on the reward money himself."

She looked up at me seemingly incredulous of what I was telling her.

"You've got to understand, Flo, the FBI and the surviving members of Boston's underworld were all like a pack of dogs running around in circles sniffing each other's butts. Dave, in the meantime, just lay low. For years."

"But you landed up with the Vermeer."

"Yes. Eventually Mallory put together a deal for his cousin Dave with a bunch of Corsican drug runners. Heroin for nine pieces of stolen art. They were especially interested in a gold plated Napoleonic finial, shaped like an eagle that was perched at the top of a flagpole banner at the museum. I guess it's a Corsican pride thing. The Vermeer, Mallory kept for himself. Dave, on the other hand, received a big bag of pure Golden Triangle heroin, delivered by me to his home in Boston. That was the last time I handled GT heroin. It's all now been replaced with Afghani product, some Mexican, too, and that Chinese Fentanyl shit."