Terrapin Sky Tango

Chapter 3

3

Once the action starts, Lou’s great at following directions. That’s not enough to join this business, but it’s sure a prerequisite. Lou retreats from the neutral intersection and heads to the bullet-scarred rental car behind me. I hear a click as he pops the trunk, then a huff as he heaves the Grand Duke out.

We’d had to drop the rear seats to get the Duke’s case into the trunk.

Cellos are not small.

And better Lou looks towards the sun than me. My sinuses are so dry they ache, and sunscreen or no, I’m pretty sure this gig is going to scorch my olive skin to red. It’s not only the sun—even the sky is brutal. Lou’s mustache and his big hat would give him more protection than my sunglasses.

Besides, experience has its privileges. Let the new guy get the sunburn.

Stabbity Joe’s still standing back by his van, about thirty feet away, with battered Candy at the halfway point. All nice and proper.

“You know, Joe,” I say loudly, “since we’ve both been around a while, I think I should tell you that this gig hasn’t gone well.”

“Oh?” Stabbity Joe grins. “I’d love to hear about it some time.”

“The thing is, this is the third time I’ve stolen this same cello. Each time it’s been better guarded than the time before.”

“It’s a special one, I hear.”

Lou comes up past me, humping the most ridiculously sturdy cello case I’ve ever seen. It’s nearly as big as he is, the steel trim shining white over black bulletproof polymer. James Bond once rode an open cello case down a mountain, with a girl in his lap and the cello in hers. It’s not an instrument you’d want to try to squeeze through an air duct.

Plus, the protective case is damn heavy.

“Stradivarius’ Grand Duke,” I say. “Commissioned in the summer of 1723 by the Grand Duke of Tuscany, but not completed until 1724 after the Duke was dead. One of his finest instruments.”

Stabbity Joe purses his lips. “You sure read a lot.”

I flashback to Father snatching Surely you’re Joking, Mister Feynman out of my hands and screaming at me to get the goddamn dishes done. I was nine. My throat catches, and a little shudder traverses my spine.

I can’t let any of that leak into my voice—we’re already in enough danger.

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “That first time, I stole it from Colin Baywater. Last night, I stole it from him again.”

Stabbity Joe laughs. “Really? That’s f*****g hilarious.”

“I’m glad you think so. But the number of people who really care about cellos, and who have the wherewithal to hire me, is pretty small. I’m guessing there’s only two.”

Stabbity Joe laughs even louder. “I was wrong. That’s f*****g hilarious. You think our employer had you re-steal it.”

“I’m a contractor. You’re the employee.” The last time someone offered me employment I blew up his home, his boat, and his private prison. “And I don’t know that.”

Lou’s got the black cello case all the way into the intersection, about three feet from Candy. He kneels. Brass latches click, barely audible above the grumble of millions of frustrated commuters on the miles-distant freeway.

I say, “The point is, if you could do me a favor? Tell your boss that if I’m right, the next time he calls me, I’m going to have to tack on a stupidity tax.”

Lou flips the case open.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take the job?” Stabbity Joe says in mock surprise.

Lou reaches into the case and hoists the Grand Duke up for inspection, holding it by the slender curved neck.

The varnished wood gleams brown and red. The steel tuning keys are painfully bright in the sunlight. Lou hasn’t put the end pin in, of course, so the base rests inside the heavy padded case. He spins the front towards Stabbity Joe, displaying the raised frets and the F holes.

“Check it,” Stabbity Joe says.

Candy jumps.

The faded memory of my mom leaping before Father could throw a slap echoes up from the dusty bottom of my mind. My teeth clench.

“Quickly, now!” Stabbity Joe says. He’s not angry, but my memories dance.

Candy takes a couple steps to cross in front of the Grand Duke. Her hands flutter as if she’s going to touch it, but she yanks them back to her sides. She’s been told not to touch the merchandise. She kneels and studies the front.

The Grand Duke has a little notch next to the fret, where Angelo Stucci’s bow slipped during an especially frenetic performance in 1881. And the left-hand F-hole has a strangely curved edge of unknown provenance. Scholars’ best guess is that some ham-fisted carpenter attempted “repairs” sometime between 1821 and 1823.

Candy stands. She offers Stabbity Joe two thumbs up.

“Beaks,” Stabbity Joe says. “Could you ask My Problem there to turn the Duke around for us?”

I told Lou to expect the request. He obliges.

Candy crouches. The X grain should show up near the neck, and there’s three parallel scrapes off to the right-hand side. Old Stucci was rough on his instruments.

This instrument is remarkable. I imagine it sounds glorious.

Not that I listen to classical music. Give me some Savages or Screaming Females and I’m good all day.

Candy hops back up and offers another two thumbs up. Even through the makeup, I can see her face has lost even more color. She’s too afraid to shake.

Her terror is too familiar, and right now it’s too raw. “Miss Candy,” I say.

Stabbity Joe says, “Any instructions you want to give her, you tell me.”

“It’s not an instruction.” I turn my attention back to Candy. “Anything you say, it can leak information. If Joe was going to kill you, he wouldn’t have told you to be silent. Stay calm, follow instructions, and you’ll make it home just fine.”

Candy’s face stills. Have I reassured her?

Or is she now so scared she’s completely shut down?

“Pep talks for my people?” Stabbity Joe says. The light is so harsh, his five-o-clock shadow stands out like black paint on his pallid face.

“I want everyone here to get home alive and with a few extra dollars in their pocket,” I say.

Joe’s eyes stay hard, but his lips flirt with a teasing smile. “The rumors are right. You’re a softy.”

“Incoming,” Deke whispers in my ear. “One west, one north, both at high speed.”

His words give me a warm thrill of satisfaction. We’re running out of time.

I’m at my best when I’m out of time.

My pulse picks up a notch, pushing my headache back. “I believe in punching up. Punching up hard. Satisfied?”

“Oh, yes.”

To Lou I say, “Hand over the cello and grab my bearer bonds.”

Right on schedule, the cello’s neck shatters into a billion pieces.

The sound of the gunshot arrives a quarter-second later.