PORCELAIN DREAMS (A JACK ROGERS CASE)

PRESENT

Jack racked the action on the nine-millimeter.  In the last forty-eight hours, he had been lied to, robbed, beaten, and framed.  Whatever happened next was going to be on his terms.

48 Hours Ago

Jack gave Francine the afternoon off.   All he wanted to do was nurse his bottle of Old Timer Bourbon in peace and forget about his overdue bills.  Jack downed a shot and poured another when he heard a knock on the door.

She walked in before Jack had a chance to stash the bottle.  Her bright crimson hair and pale ivory skin made Jack think of a matchstick about to strike.

“Jack Rogers?”

“That’s the name on the door.  What can I do for you?”

Her blue eyes shifted to the bottle of bourbon on Jack’s desk.  He gave her a lop-sided grin and said, “It’s been a slow week.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, “as long as you brought enough to share.”

Jack poured her a drink. “My mother raised a son with manners.  Take a seat, Miss - ,”

“Worthy,” she said, and sat down in the offered chair.  “Mary Worthy.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Worthy?  Besides pour you a drink?”

Mary Worthy cringed from the taste of Jack’s preferred liquor.  “It’s cheap, but it gets the job done,” he said.

She set the glass down and began her story.  “I’ve been robbed, Mr. Rogers.  Of a very important family heirloom.”

“Call me Jack, Miss Worthy,” he told her.  “Only the neighbors call me Mr. Rogers.  Have you been to the police?”

“The police can’t help me.”

“Why not?  Robbery’s one of their specialties.  They have a whole department devoted to it”

“Because, Mr. Rogers - ,”

“Jack.”

“Because, Jack.  The man who robbed me is a relative.  An uncle, though not by blood. He leeched onto my family years ago, and we’ve never been able to shake him.  It’s a sensitive situation.  I don’t want to the police involved.” 

She reached a slender hand into her purse and brought out a silver cigarette case. 

“Do you mind?”

Jack shook his head. “Go ahead.”

She lit the cigarette and exhaled like someone who had spent hours practicing the art.  Jack’s eyes watched her painted lips and felt the old nicotine itch as she blew a cloud of smoke through her thin, slightly upturned nose.    

When he was done taking in the scene, he said, “Tell me about this heirloom.”

“A painting that belonged to my mother, who recently passed. It was handed down to her by my grandmother.  Now, this man who calls himself my uncle has laid claim to it.”

“I see.”

 “Unknown to me, the painting was in my uncle’s possession when my mother passed.  Apparently, my mother loaned it to him to add some class to the art gallery he opened in Laguna Beach.  When I went to retrieve the painting, he refused to return it.”

Jack reached for his drink and emptied the contents in one gulp.  “Why would your mother loan it to him in the first place, if it was so special?”

“My mother was a very trusting person, Jack.  A trait I don’t share.  It’s a very valuable painting.  The Seated Lady.  Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Jack lied, “but I’m no expert.”

“Well, needless to say, Jack, it would not be hard for my uncle to find a buyer for it.  It has great sentimental value to me, but to my uncle, its value is only monetary.”

“All right, Miss Worthy,” said Jack, “let’s get down to it.  You’re hiring me to steal this painting from your uncle.  Is that right?”

“It’s not stealing if it belongs to me, Jack,” Mary Worthy said.  A look of agitation fluttered behind the smoky trail left by her cigarette.  “I simply want it returned to me.  It’s possible you could – intimidate – him.  My uncle is not a physically imposing man. I’ll leave that to you.  Should you take the job.”

Mary Worthy crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray.  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her slender, well defined, legs.    

“Well, Miss Worthy, I have to tell you.  Art isn’t my usual line.  I’m more of a photo snoop.  Catching spouses out on the town with someone they shouldn’t be with.  That sort of thing.”

“If you’re not the man for the job, Jack, I’ll go somewhere else.  I inherited a large estate when my mother passed, and I’m willing to do almost anything to get that painting back.”  She took another drink and finished the bourbon. 

Jack leaned back in his chair.  This wasn’t the first time a beautiful woman had walked into his office, tossing out innuendos.  It came with the territory.  “Why does this painting mean so much to you, Miss Worthy?”

Mary Worthy reached into her purse and brought out her phone.  She opened the photo gallery and passed the phone to Jack.  He raised an eyebrow when he saw the painting. 

“Okay,” Jack shrugged.

 “She was my grandmother,” Mary Worthy said.  “Like I said, it’s been in the family for years.”

“I’ll need you to email that to me,” he said, and passed the phone back.

“So,” she said, her painted lips curling into a slight smile, “you’ll take the case?”

“I’m not promising anything,” he said.  “I’ll check into it.  I need your uncle’s name and the name of his gallery.”

“John Mitchem.  The name of the gallery is Porcelain Dreams.  It’s located in Laguna Beach, on the strip.”

“Is that where he lives, your uncle?”

“He has a home there, yes,” she said.  “He also has a home here in Los Angeles and one in Santa Barbara.”

“I’ll need a list of all his addresses.”

“I can provide that.”

“And yours as well, Miss Worthy.  And I’ll need a number where I can reach you.” 

“Of course.”

 “All right,” said Jack, “if I can get the painting, I will.  But I won’t risk jailtime.  My rates are high, but they aren’t that high.”

“Of course.”   Mary Worthy smiled.  Jack could tell she was used to getting what she wanted.

“I need you to sign a contract.”  Jack reached into his drawer and set a printed contract on his desk.  “My rate is two hundred a day, with a five-hundred-dollar deposit.  You cover expenses after I provide an itemized list.  Sound good?”

Mary Worthy smiled. “Sounds good.”

46 HOURS AGO

The whole way down to Laguna Jack thought about Mary Worthy, with her smile and smooth calves.  It was the kind of smile got Jack into trouble.  He planned to check out Uncle John’s gallery and tell Mary Worthy there was no way to get the painting.  Then send her a bill her for the drive.  Maybe take in a nice lunch.

43 HOURS AGO

Jack found the Porcelain Dreams Art Gallery situated between a high-end jewelry store and a fancy clothing boutique in downtown Laguna.   

The gallery appeared empty when Jack stepped inside.  A row of rubber hoses hung down from the ceiling, with papier-mâché tubes rising from the floor to meet them.  Jack found it pretentious, but when he saw the price tag, he considered a change in careers.  The rest of the artwork was collected in cubicles, seemingly arranged by the artists’ names. 

 “Can I help you?”

Jack turned to see a short, stocky man in a white suit and safari hat.  A thin, delicate beard surrounded his apple shaped face.

Jack smiled and said, “I hope so.”

The man’s eyes evaluated Jack.  He gave Jack a friendly smile and said, “If anyone can help you, it would be me.  My name is John Mitchem.  I’m the owner of Porcelain Dreams.”

 There was no confusing Mary Worthy and John Mitchem as blood relatives.  Jack wondered connected them. 

On his brief solo tour, Jack had failed to spot the Seated Lady.  He decided to leap right in and see where he fell.

“Well,” said Jack, “I’m looking for an anniversary gift for my wife.  She’s the art collector.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack.  “And she’s all gaga over a piece called the Seated Lady. She said she saw it here a few months back.”

John Mitchem said, “Your wife has excellent taste in art.”  He gave Jack a pinched frown and shook his head.  “But I’m afraid it’s no longer here.”

“Really,” said Jack.  “That’s too bad.  You didn’t see it, did you?  It would have been the perfect gift.”

Mitchem stroked his bearded chin and continued appraising Jack.

Mitchem said.  “It was displayed here for a few weeks, but only during our abstractionist exhibit.  It belongs in my personal collection.  What is your wife’s name?  It’s possible we know one another.”

“I doubt it,” said Jack, trying to back away before he got tangled up in his lie.  “She was a plus one on the guest list.”  He turned away, and started looking at a large piece inside a cubicle.  “It’s too bad,” he said.  “I had my heart set on it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitchem said, spreading his pudgy hands out, “but I’ve moved that piece to my home for security reasons.  I’m sure you understand.”

“So, it’s not for sale?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mitchem smiled.  “Everything has its price, after all.  But the price is quite high, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing’s too expensive for baby,” said Jack. 

“If you’re serious, Mr – “

“Johnson.”

“Mr. Johnson,” Mitchem widened his smile.  “Then perhaps you would like to come see it for yourself.  As I said, my asking price is quite high, but if nothing is too expensive for baby, perhaps we can make a deal.”

“That’d be great,” said Jack.

“Come to my home this evening.  Say, eight o’clock?”  Mitchem reached into his sports coat and handed Jack a card.  “Here is my address.”

“Excellent,” said Jack.  “I’ll be there.”

40 Hours Ago

Jack had time to kill.  He went across the street to a sidewalk café and ordered a liquid lunch.  He’d have a look at the Seated Lady, see there was no way to get his hands on it, and bill Mary Worthy for the ten-dollar drinks. 

He sat at table with a view of the Porcelain Dreams Art Gallery.  He kept an eye on the place and gave Mary Worthy a call.

“You have it already?” Mary Worthy said when she answered.

“Not yet, Miss Worthy.  I met your uncle.  I fed him a story about wanting it for my wife and he invited me up to his house to have a looksee.”

“You have a wife?”

“No, but he doesn’t know that.”

There was a pause on the line.  Jack sipped his beer, and tried to think of something witty to say.  He came up short.  Mary Worthy said, “Be careful, Jack.  My uncle isn’t as foolish as he may appear.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart.  This’ll give me a chance to get inside, and see what’s what.  I’m still not making any promises, mind you.  I’ll only get it if I can get away with it.”

“Of course,” Mary Worthy said.  “What time are you going to his house?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Call me after you leave, won’t you?  To make sure you’re okay?”

Jack smiled.  “Don’t worry.  Your uncle has a few pounds on me, but I think I can take him.”

“Just be careful, Jack.”

“Sure thing.”

“And Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, call me Mary.”

“All right, Mary,” said Jack.  He liked the way her name sounded on his tongue. Smooth, yet tart. “Talk to you soon.”

Jack hung up and ordered another beer as two men entered the gallery across the street.  They stuck out like wolves in a chicken coup.  They wore dark suits in the late Laguna sun, where the heat lingered like simmering coal.  Jack pegged them as gangsters.  Only, he had never heard of gangsters mixing it up with the art crowd. 

He drank his beer and ordered a shot of bourbon while he waited.  He still had hours to kill before heading over to Uncle Mitchem’s House of Wonders, and the gangsters had pulled his curiosity string. 

Jack finished his beer and was nursing a second shot of bourbon when the gangsters stepped out of the Porcelain Dream, with John Mitchem inside holding the door open.  Jack saw Mitchem’s face through the glass door.  The uncle didn’t look happy.  Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, wishing he could hear what was being said.   

The two gangsters left, walking down the boulevard.  Jack paid his tab.  He couldn’t resist the urge to follow them.  He hated that urge. 

38 HOURS AGO

Jack kept a good distance behind the gangsters.  The salt of the ocean air mixed beautifully with the buzz from his lunch of beer and bourbon, and he was beginning to enjoy his day out of L.A. 

The gangsters cut down an ally, and Jack followed.  He turned and came face to face with them.  His buzz sailed away on the high winds.

One of the gangsters grabbed Jack by the collar and pinned him against the wall.  Jack heard the metal click of a switchblade as the gangster’s partner produced a knife.   With a smile painted on his pasty face, the gangster pressed the switchblade’s point against the tender skin beneath Jack’s jaw.

“What is this?” said Jack

“We’re asking the questions here,” said the gangster with the knife.  “And if we don’t like the answers, you’re getting a new necktie.  Why are you following us?”

“I’m not following you,” Jack lied.  “I had to take a piss.  This seemed like a good place to do it.”

The point of the switchblade pressed into Jack’s skin.  A warm trickle of blood slid down his neck. 

“Don’t lie to me,” said the switchblade wielding gangster.  “I don’t like being lied to, do I Mick?”

“No, sir, Mr. Cowley.” 

Mick was a big man and he helped make Mr. Cowley’s point by lifting Jack off the wall and slamming him against it hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs.

“You a cop?” said Mr. Cowley.

Jack answered, “No, I’m not a cop.”

Big Mick ran a hand over Jack’s pockets and came away with his wallet.

“Here, Mr. Cowley.”  Mick handed his boss Jack’s wallet.  Mr. Cowley opened the billfold and looked through it, all the while pressing the point of his knife into Jack’s throat.

“Looks like we caught us a private dick, Jake,” said Mr. Cowley.  “Jack Rogers, P.I.”

“I told you I wasn’t a cop,” said Jack, a crooked smile playing on his face.

Mick lifted Jack again.  Jack knew it was coming before Mick slammed him against the wall.  Knowing didn’t help.

“All right, Jack Rogers, Private Dick,” said Mr. Cowley.  “Why are you following us?”

“I wasn’t following you.  I just happened to be walking the same way.  It’s a big town.”

“I don’t like your answers, Private Dick,” Cowley said.  He gave a nod to his partner.

Mick rammed a fist into Jack’s gut.  The beer and bourbon came up in a hot rush and splattered Big Mick’s black suit in alcohol scented bile.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Mick said with disgust.

Jack didn’t answer.  He was busy trying to breathe.

“All right, Mr. P.I.,” said Cowley, “I don’t like being followed, see?  If I see you around again, I’m going to make sure your following days are over.  Your I.D. says Los Angeles.  I suggest you hightail it back there.  Tell whoever hired you, you quit.  Got it?”

“I told you, I wasn’t following you.”

With the skill of a practiced surgeon Mr. Cowley sliced Jack’s cheek open.  Pain erupted down the side of Jack’s face and blood spilled down his cheek.

“Next time it’ll be your throat,” said Mr. Cowley.  He held Jack’s wallet up. “I’m keeping this for a souvenir.”  Cowley looked out of the ally and back again.  “Let’s go, Mick.”

Mick’s mouth opened into a wide broken toothed smile.  The big gangster rammed his head against Jack’s face.  Jack’s vision went black.

35 HOURS AGO

Jack spent three hours in the emergency room waiting to get his face stitched up.  When it was done, he pulled the bandage away and looked in his car’s rearview mirror.  He was going to have a nasty scar. 

He tried calling Mary Worthy, to let her know the hospital bill was going in his expense report, but she didn’t answer.  That bothered him.

“Where are you, Jack?” said Francine, Jack’s assistant, when she answered his call.  “I stopped by the office, but you weren’t there.”

“I’m down in Laguna working a case,” Jack said with a slur in his voice.  The doctor had given Jack a bottle of painkillers. He’d eaten five of the little white pills to numb the pain. 

“Laguna?”

“I need you to do some research, Franny,” Jack said, not bothering to explain.  “Call Dan Moon at the station if you have too, but get me anything you can on a Mr. Cowley.”

“You got a first name?” asked Francine.

“Just Mr. Cowley.  He has an associate named Mick, if that helps.  Big fella.  Get what you can on him, too.”

“So, no first name on Mr. Cowley, and no last name on Mick something.  You’re not giving me much to go on here, Jack.”

“Consider this part of your training, Franny,” said Jack.  “Work your magic.”

Francine said, “I’ll get what I can and call you back.”

“Wonderful,” said Jack.  “You’re a peach, Franny.”

“I know,” said Francine, “and you’re a worm.  Be careful, Jack.  You don’t sound so good.”

“Careful is my middle name, Franny.”

“Last week you said it was Justice.”

32 HOURS AGO

                        A soft breeze blew as Jack climbed out of his Buick and stood on John Mitchem’s circular driveway.  The pills had numbed his body, but the stitches and bandage pulled at the skin on his face.

            It struck him how quiet the place was.  Even up here in the mountains, he thought, there should be something going on.  Jack approached the door, gave it a solid knock, and waited.  No one answered, so he knocked again, hammering on the thick wooden door with the side of his fist.

            Still, no answer.  He tried the knob, and the door opened.  Jack poked his head inside, and said, “Mr. Mitchem?”

            Only the echo of his own voice answered his call.  Jack pushed the door open, and looked inside the darkened hall.  The flat souls of his shoes clicked against marble tile.  A wide staircase led to the second floor, and softly lit hallways went off to either side of it.

            “Mr. Mitchem,” Jack called again.  “It’s Johnson, from the gallery.”

            The house was quiet.  Jack wasn’t sure where to begin, so he followed a light to the end of the hall, and found a large study.  Bookshelves lined the walls. Paintings hung between the shelves.  In the center of the study was a large fireplace with a mantle.  A perfect spot for a painting, but it was empty. 

Curiosity pulled Jack forward.  That urge he hated but could never ignore.  He stepped passed a sofa and found John Mitchem lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

            Distant police sirens broke the silence.  Jack’s world spun, as he looked from John Mitchem’s body to the empty space above the mantle.  His eyes flicked to the doorway.  He had to get out.  He took a step forward and stumbled.  The painkillers made everything harder.  The sirens grew louder.  Jack sprinted from the study, into the hall, and through the front door of the house.

            Police cruisers were coming up the long driveway, their lights flashing red and blue.  Jack was trapped, and he knew it.  He had been set-up.  The cops climbed out, their pistols ready.

            Jack put his hands in the air and said, “Don’t shoot!”

26 HOURS AGO

            Jack was released after Francine came down with a letter from his friend in the L.A.P.D., Dan Moon.  The Laguna detective, Frank Morris, looked at the letter, read it, and gave Jack a skeptical look.

            “All right,” said the detective, “so you’re a P.I.  That doesn’t mean the rest of your story checks out.”

            The story Jack gave the detective was he was down in Laguna checking up on Mary Worthy’s uncle.  It wasn’t a total lie.  Just a bend in the truth.  Jack didn’t feel the need to mention the painting, or the goons who had roughed him up.

            “What about your face?” Detective Morris wanted to know.

            “Cut myself shaving,” said Jack.

            He walked out of the police station with Francine by his side and Detective Morris watching his back.

            “Don’t go too far, Rogers,” the detective told him.  “We’ll have more questions for you.”

            They climbed into Francine’s Volkswagen Bug.  The cops had impounded Jack’s Buick to search for evidence.

            “Are you going to tell me the truth?” Francine said, as she started the car.  Jack hated Francine’s choice in transportation.  He felt like he was climbing into a clown car.  “Or are you going to stick to the line of crap you fed the detective?”

            Jack looked at Franny.  She had a pretty round face that reeked of innocence.  Jack never would have hired her, except she worked cheap.    

            “It was pretty much the truth,” he said.  He opened his bottle of painkillers and popped a couple. The wound on his face throbbed.  “Except the part about my face.  You get anything on Cowley and his pal Mick?”

            “Yeah.  Dan Moon sent me a file on Ted Cowley.  That’s his name, by the way.”  Francine reached behind her seat and pulled out a manila envelope as thick as Jack’s thumb and handed it to him.  “One of his known associates is named Mick Holliday.  His sheet’s in there, too.”

            Jack opened the file and saw Ted Cowley’s mugshot on the first page.  “That’s him, all right,” he said, scanning through the file.

            “Dan said you shouldn’t be getting mixed up in anything this guy has his hands in, Jack.” Concern showed in Francine’s big eyes.  “He’s bad news and nothing sticks to him.”

            “Uh-huh,” Jack hummed, still scanning. 

            Francine was right.  Ted Cowley had all kinds of charges filed against him, from assault and battery to extortion.  And nothing stuck.  His partner, Mick Holliday, had done time in the penitentiary for assault and attempted murder. 

            How were they connected to Mitchem?  And what tied Mary Worthy to this?  If she was tied to it.  Jack had a feeling she was.

            Jack closed the file.  “I need some sleep,” he said.  “Let’s head to a hotel.  Make it a nice one.  It’s going on the expense account.”

            Jack had to commend Francine’s taste.  She picked a hotel near the ocean with a room overlooking the ocean.

            “Don’t worry,” she said, leading Jack up to the room, “it has two beds.  I thought one room would make it easier for us to talk over the case.”

            Jack nodded.  Francine had an aptitude for private investigation, but he couldn’t let himself to approve.

            They settled in and Jack took a small bottle of bourbon from the hotel refrigerator.

            “Expense account,” he said when Francine shot him a look.  “Help yourself.  I need to make a call.”

            He wasn’t looking forward to calling Mary Worthy.  He hated giving bad news.  She answered on the first ring.

            “Jack?  Do you have the painting?”

            “No,” he said.  His head swam for the liquor and painkiller concoction.  “I have some bad news about your uncle, though.”

            “What is it?”

            Jack said, “He’s been murdered.”  He wished he could see Mary Worthy’s reaction.

            “And the painting?”

            “It’s in the air.”

            There was a pause on her end.  Jack thought he heard other voices in the background.

            “Where are you?” she asked.  Her voice was urgent.  None of that lingering sultriness she had used in his office.

            “I’m at the Hyatt in Laguna.  The cops want me to stick around for questioning.”

            “Questioning?” Softer now, the edge evaporated.  “Why are they questioning you, Jack?”

            “They think I murdered your uncle.”

            She paused again.  There were no voices in the background this time.  Jack pictured her moving into an empty room, alone.  She said, “And the painting?  They think you stole the painting?”

            “It hasn’t come up yet,” Jack said.  Her attitude irritated him.  The way she careened from concern about him, to concern for the painting.  Or maybe it was something else.  “We should talk in person,” he said.  “A consultation.” 

            Jack turned to Francine.  She sat on the bed with her legs crossed, watching him, as if she could hear Mary Worthy’s sporadic concern. 

            “It’s a long drive from L.A., Jack.”

            “That’s all right,” said Jack.  “This time of night it won’t take more than a couple of hours.”

            Another pause.  This one longer.  Jack encouraged her by saying, “You might as well come down and enjoy the hotel.  You’re paying for it, Miss Worthy.”

            “Okay,” she said.  “I’ll call you when I get there.”

            “See you then,” said Jack, and hung up.  He turned to Francine.  “What do you think?”

            “About?”

            “Mary Worthy.”  He tossed his cellphone on the empty bed and sat down at the edge of Francine’s.  “You think she’s on the up and up?”

            “Is anyone in this business ever on the up and up?”

            Jack gave her an appalled look.  “Francine Whitney, have you finally learned something about being a P.I.?”

            “I’ve learned a couple of things working for you, Jack.”

            “Yeah?”

            “For one thing,” she said, stretching her legs out in front of her and leaning back on her arms, “there’s not enough money in it.”  

            “And what’s another?”

            “Never trust anybody.  Even the person that hires you.”

            “Especially the person that hires you, Franny.”

            “So, what are you going to do?”

            “First,” he said, “I’m going to track down Ted Cowley and his associate Mick Holliday.”  He stood up on legs that felt like rubber.  His hand went to his pocket where the bottle of painkillers bulged out.  “Then I’m going to get my wallet back.”

            “Don’t you think you should get some sleep first?” 

Jack turned to see Francine laying down, resting her head on her hand.  Her crown of brown hair ended at a slender neck that accentuated the roundness of her face. 

            “I don’t need sleep,” he said.  “I need to borrow your car.”

            “Where are you going?”

            “The file on Ted Cowley listed a girlfriend’s address here in Laguna.”

            Francine sat up and picked up her shoes.

            “What are you doing?”

            “I’m going with you.”

            Jack shook his head.  “No, you’re not.”

            “You’re on a bunch of painkillers and God knows how much booze.  You’re not driving my car.”

            “Fine,” said Jack.  “But that’s all you’re doing, Francine.  Driving.”

            “Sure,” she said, flashing a mischievous smile that made her look younger than her twenty-two years.

            24 HOURS AGO

            “Wake up, Jack.”

            Jack tried to shake the sluggishness out of his head and mumbled, “Where are we?”

            “Outside the girlfriend’s apartment.”

            Jack widened his eyes and looked out the window to a two-story apartment building.  It was an old motel converted into cheap living spaces. 

            “Seen anyone, yet?”

            Francine settled into her seat.  She opened a bag of chips she had brought from the hotel and tossed one in her mouth.

            “Just us chickens,” she said.

            Jack reached for Ted Cowley’s file and flipped to the page listing his known associates.  There was no picture of Anita Warring.  Just the address that had led them here.  He tossed the folder on the backseat.

            “You wait here,” he said.  “I want to have a talk with Miss Warring.”

            “Wait, Jack,” said Francine.  “What if Cowley and Holliday are in there?  You think you’re in shape to handle them?”

            Francine had a point.  Jack’s eyelids were as heavy as a two-ton safe and his body moved like a slug on dope. 

            Francine went on, “You always say ninety-percent of P.I. work is waiting and watching.”

            “This is different, Franny,” protested Jack.  “They made it personal.  Time for the other ten percent.”

            “Just wait, Jack,” said Francine, popping a chip in her mouth.  “Let’s see what happens.”

            “I’m the boss, Franny.  You’re not supposed to use my words against me.”

            “I wouldn’t,” she said, tossing the bag of chips on the dashboard and straightening herself in the seat, “except here they come.”

            Jack turned to see three people exiting an apartment.  Two of them in dark suits. 

            “That’s Cowley and Holliday,” said Jack.  The group descended the second-story stairs.

            “That must be the girlfriend,” said Francine nodding to the woman wearing a sharp overcoat and dark hair that spilled out from beneath a wide hat.  “Anita Warring.”

            “Must be,” Jack agreed.  “Start the car.”

            The gangsters and the girl climbed into a black SUV and pulled out of the parking lot.

            “Don’t get to close,” Jack warned as Francine pulled out to follow them.  “These guys are good at spotting tails.” 

            “Don’t worry,” said Francine.  “I learned it from you.”

            “That’s what worries me,” said Jack, stroking his bandaged cheek.

20 HOURS AGO

Jack woke up from a deep slumber.  His neck and legs were sore from being cramped up inside Francine’s Bug for so long and his cheek pulsated with pain.  He reached into his pocket and found his bottle of painkillers.  He was down to the last two.  He swallowed them dry.

            “Where are we?” he said, looking around.  It was still dark.  The lights of the parking lot illuminated the grimy pavement and a thin fog filtered the air like the dirty lens of a camera. 

            “San Diego,” said Francine.  She had settled into the driver seat, fatigue gluing her to the vinyl upholstery.  She pointed to a wall across the lot.  “There’s Mexico, right there.”

            Jack sat up, blinking.  “Jesus,” he said.  “How long have I been out?”

            “You conked out when we got on the interstate.  Couple of hours I guess.”

            Jack spotted the SUV.  It was empty.

            “Where’d they go?”

            “In there.”  Francine pointed to a convenience store. Yellow lights bled through windows plastered with beer and cigarette advertisements.  “They went in and haven’t come out yet.”

            “You sure?”

            “I’m not the one who’s been in a coma for the last three hours,” said Francine.  “I’m sure.”

            Jack cracked the car door.  “I’m going to have a look in the SUV.”

            Francine sat up.  “What do you want me to do?”

            “Stay here,” he said.  “Start the car and keep the engine running.”

            Francine turned the key and the Bug’s engine came to life.  In the quiet of the late hour, the Bug sounded like a Mack truck.

            Jack got out and walked towards the SUV and peered into the rear window.  With the dark tint, he could just make out something in the back covered with a tarp.  From the size and shape, he pegged it as John Mitchem’s missing painting. 

            If Jack’s instincts were right, Cowley and Holliday murdered John Mitchem and took off with the Seated Lady.  Maybe it was a stretch for the two thugs to get mixed up in the art world, but stranger things had happened.   

            Jack tried the car door and found it locked.  He looked around the parking lot for something to bust out the window.  Franny’s headlights blinked.  Through his drug and alcohol muddled mind, Jack understood the warning.  He peaked his head around the SUV at the convenience store.  Cowley, Holliday, and the woman were heading towards him.

            Jack froze, his brain trying to come up with a way out of the situation.  The Bug’s engine roared to life and Francine sped across the parking lot. 

            “Damn it, Franny, what are you doing?”

            Jack’s answer came when Francine stopped the Bug between the gangsters and the SUV.  He heard Franny say, “Which way to Mexico?” and knew he didn’t have much time.  If he was going to get the painting, he had to act now.

            Jack slipped off his belt and wrapped it tight around his fist, with the buckle out.

            “Mexico’s right over there, honey,” said a voice that could have been Cowley.

            Jack reared back with his fist and launched it at the window.  Pain shot up his arm.  He moaned and fell back, cradling a hand that felt broken.

            He heard footsteps sprinting his way.  He put his back against the SUV, took out his cellphone and waited.  The footsteps closed in and Jack sprung out from behind the SUV, cellphone held out like a pistol. 

            It was a gamble, but Jack had played worse odds. 

            “Put up your hands.”

            Cowley and Holliday stood still, surprise showing on their faces.  The woman had stayed back, still standing next to Francine’s Bug.

            “I said reach for the sky!” Jack barked. 

            He rushed forward, keeping the cellphone in motion, hoping the darkness of the parking lot would conceal his bluff.  He suppressed a smile as the gangsters raised their arms.

            Cowley sneered like a mad dog.  “You’re making a big mistake, Rogers.”   

            Jack clocked him on the chin with his belt covered fist.  He held back a groan, as nausea and pain shot up his arm and cut through his pill and booze cocktail.  Cowley fell to the pavement.  Holliday made a move.

            “Uh-uh, big boy,” said Jack.  He shoved the cell phone into Holliday’s ribs and the gangster froze.  Jack slipped his bruised hand under Holliday’s jacket and came away with a nine-millimeter.  He couldn’t resist letting Holliday see the cellphone before leveling Holliday’s own pistol at the gangster.

            “That’s right,” Jack smiled.  “I got you.” 

            Cowley stirred on the pavement and began to get up.  Jack whacked him on the head with the nine-millimeter.

            He said, “Not so fast, buck-a-roo.  You stay where you are.”

            Jack knelt over Cowley and gave him the pat down, turning the gun on Holliday.  He came away with another nine-millimeter and his own wallet.

            “You’re going to regret getting mixed up in this, Rogers,” Cowley said.  “You should have just stayed put at the hotel.”

            “My life is full of regrets,” Jack said.  “This won’t even make the top ten.”

            “Keep thinking that, big shot,” Holliday chimed in.

            “Get up,” Jack ordered Cowley.

            The gangster stood up and straightened out his suit.  Jack looked over to Francine.  She was sitting in the Bug with woman standing beside it.  He figured neither one of them knew what to do.

            “Where’s the car keys,” Jack asked.

            The gangsters exchanged looks, then turned their stone-cold eyes on Jack, like they were staring at a dead man.

            “Fine,” said Jack. 

            He shifted his aim with the pistol at the back window of the SUV and fired two shots.  The window exploded in a shower of glass.  The Bug’s engine roared to life again as Francine drove towards him.

            Jack cleared the remnants of glass with the barrel of the pistol and stuck his arm inside to pull the tarp away.  Underneath, as he suspected, was the Seated Lady.

            “This is your last chance,” said Cowley.  “You can still walk away.”

            Jack turned to the gangster as Francine pulled up next to him.  He smiled at Cowley, a hard thing to do with the pain and nausea coursing through his body.

            “That’s what your mother said,” said Jack, and turned toward Francine.  “Give me a hand with this.”

            Francine climbed out of the Bug and Holliday said, “You don’t want to do that, Honey.  Get back in your little car and drive away.”

            Francine looked at Holliday and Cowley, but didn’t respond.  It was the first time Jack had seen her look nervous.  He didn’t blame her.  Jack was counting his heartbeats, waiting for the border patrol and cops to show up.

            “Reach in there and grab the painting,” he told her.

            Francine leaned through the SUV’s back window, and came out with the painting, holding it awkwardly with both hands.

            “It’s not going to fit in my car, Jack” she said.

            “I know, sweetheart.  Set it on the roof.  We’ll figure it out.”

            Francine walked past the gangsters and tried not to look at them.

            “This is your last chance, sweetheart,” Cowley said, using Jack’s name for her.

            Francine set the painting on the roof of the car, and Jack made his way towards her, keeping the gangsters covered.  Cowley’s dark-haired girlfriend stood in the distance.  Jack figured she didn’t want any part of this.

“I’m driving,” he said.

            For once, Francine didn’t argue.  She climbed into the passenger seat and Jack got behind the wheel.  He leveled the pistol and squeezed off a round, blowing a hole in the rear tire of the SUV. 

            “In case you boys felt like giving chase.”

            “Oh, we’ll get you,” Cowley said.  “Don’t worry about that, Jack Rogers, Private Dick.”

            Jack said, “That’s an old one, Cowley.  Find some new material.”

            Cowley gave Jack a violent smile.  “I’ll have something new for you, Rogers.  Don’t worry.”  Cowley slouched to get a better view of Francine. He gave her a wave of his hand.  “We’ll be seeing you, too, sweetheart.  I got something special for you.” 

            “Hold on to the painting, Franny,” Jack told her.  “Hold tight.”

            Jack put the Bug in gear and gave it some gas.  He tossed the pistols out the car window as they exited the parking lot, and used his free hand to hold his side of the painting.

            “What’d you do that for?” Francine asked.

            Several squad cars sped past them, heading towards the parking lot they just left.

            “Don’t want to get caught with those guys’ guns,” Jack explained.  “No telling how many murders are on them.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “L.A.,” said Jack.

14 HOURS AGO

            They drove back to L.A., stopping only once to fill up on gas and buy a rope to tie the painting down to the top of the car.

            Jack called Mary Worthy.  There was a quiver in her voice when she answered, “Jack?”

            “Change of plans, Mary,” he said.  “Meet me in at my office in L.A. I’m on my way there now.”

            “But, Jack,” she said, “I’m already in Laguna.  I’m standing in the hotel lobby.”

            “Turn around,” he said.  “I’m on the 410 coming into L.A. now.  We have the painting.”

“Okay,” she said.  “I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours.”

Jack pulled Francine’s Bug off the interstate, closing in on his office off Santa Monica Boulevard.  The sun was just coming up over the high-rises of Downtown L.A. wearing the morning smog like an old lady wears a shawl.

“How’s your hand, Jack?” Francine asked.

Jack looked at it and looked away.  It was blue, swollen, and throbbing with pain.  He cursed himself for gobbling up all his painkillers.

“It’ll be fine.”

“What were you thinking, punching that window?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Franny.  Sometimes in this job you have to act on instinct.”

“And sometimes instinct leads you the wrong way,” she said.

“Yep,” Jack agreed.

They pulled into the office parking lot.  “You should take off,” Jack said.  “Who knows when Mary Worthy will get here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.  I’m going to hit the rest of that bourbon I have in my drawer and take a nap.  I’ll call you in the morning.”

“All right.”

Francine gave Jack one of her hugs. Her hugs were all warmth and tightness, as if she might never see you again.  Jack got out of the Bug, untied the painting, and carried it up to his second story office.  He turned on the balcony and waved goodbye to Francine.  He unlocked the door, set the painting down inside, and found his bottle of bourbon. 

10 HOURS AGO

A knock on the office door woke Jack from a deep sleep.  The painkillers and booze had given him a hangover he couldn’t ignore.  He sat up in his chair and tried to put the pieces of the present back together.  He was aware of the knocking but for some reason couldn’t find a reason to care. 

His eyes drifted to the Seated Lady.  The strange composition of the painting fit perfectly into his drunken stupor.  He leaned over the small waste basket next to his desk and vomited up what little food there was in his stomach.

The pounding on the door came again, followed by, “It’s Mary Worthy, Jack.”

Jack wiped the bile from the corners of his mouth and pulled himself together.  It felt like a knife was stabbing him in the brain.  And face.  And hand.

“Jack,” Mary Worthy called again.

Jack used the edge of his desk for support and stood up from his chair.  He looked at the Seated Lady.  “This is your fault,” he said.

He stumbled to the door and opened it.  Sunlight and the Los Angeles heat blasted inside, blinding him.  Mary Worthy pushed past him. 

“You got it,” she said, standing in front of the Seated Lady.  She looked at it the way a child looks at candy.

“Yeah, I got it,” said Jack.  “I got a murder charge, too,” he said.  “And this,” he added, and rubbed his bandaged cheek.  “Thanks for noticing, by the way.”

Mary Worthy turned to him, as if seeing him for the first time.  The paleness of her skin made Jack think of a ghost.  Her red hair was covered with a floppy hat, the kind society women wear in the movies when they visit their country clubs and have soirees.

“Tell me something, Anita,” Jack said.  “Do you work for them, or do they work for you?  I haven’t figured that part out, yet.”

A cloud passed over Mary Worthy’s face and suddenly she was a different person.  Anita Warring. 

“You figured it out,” said Anita Warring.  Her voice was hard as steel.   

“Yeah,” said Jack, ignoring the stabbing, nauseous pain in his head, “Except for who works for who.” 

Anita Warring reached a hand into her purse.

“Unless you’re going for a cigarette,” Jack said, “don’t do it.”  He moved towards the chair behind his desk.  Anita Warring followed him with her delicately drawn eyes.  “If it’s a cigarette, I could go for a Camel.  My head is killing me.”

Her hand came out of her bag with her silver cigarette case.  She gave Jack a silky smile and opened the case.

“How did you know?” she said.  She passed Jack a cigarette, and slipped her own between her perfectly painted lips.

“I didn’t,” Jack said, “until just now.  I recognize the hat.  But tell me,” he said, squinting his eyes, pain wracking his brain, “which is the real one.  Redhead Mary Worthy, or brunette Anita Warring.”

She reached into her purse again.  Jack watched close as she pulled her fancy lighter out.

“The brunette,” she said.  Anita Warring lit her own cigarette first, then leaned across the desk and offered the flame to Jack.  “Tom likes me as a redhead, though.”

Jack took the flame and dragged on the smoke.  He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let smoke pour from his lungs.  “So, you work for him.”

“No,” Anita Warring said.  “We’re partners.”

Jack opened his eyes and saw small pistol aimed at him.  He shook his head.

“Men like Tom Cowley don’t have partners, sweetheart.  They use people and throw them away.  You’ll find out.”

“Be that as it may, Jack.  I’m walking out of here with that painting.  It’s too bad things worked out the way they did.”

“You think so?  Wasn’t this your plan all along?”

Anita Warring smiled, holding the pistol in one hand and her cigarette in the other. 

“We could have had some fun first,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” said Jack.  “I prefer blonds.”

“I could change that.”

“And I like my women honest.  In this profession, it’s a rare and beautiful thing.”

“I’m sure.”

Anita Warring crushed her cigarette out on Jack’s desk.

“Tell me something else,” said Jack.  “Why hire me?  Your boys got to Mitchem before I did.  You didn’t need me.”

She smiled again. 

“It’s always good to have a patsy, Jack.  Someone for the cops to look at while we reap the rewards.”

“I guess I’m getting screwed on the expense account.”

“Don’t take it so personal.  It could have been anybody.  I just picked your name off the internet.”

“But it wasn’t anybody.  It was me.  That makes it personal.”

Anita Warring backed up towards the Seated Lady and picked the painting up with one hand, keeping the pistol trained on Jack.

“Oh,” she said. “One other thing, Jack.  Don’t try anything.  We have your little girlfriend.  If you follow us, or call the cops, or do anything at all, she’s dead.”

Jack’s heart stopped and the throbbing in his brain doubled. 

Anita Warring went to the door, set the painting down to open it, then picked up the painting again.

“She’s a bit young for you, isn’t she Jack?”

“She’s just my assistant.”

“Well,” said Anita Warring as she stepped out onto the landing, “if she means anything at all to you, you’ll do what I say.  Every word of it.  If we catch wind of any cops, or the scent of your rancid breath, your pretty assistant is dead.  Understand?”

“Yeah,” said Jack.

“Say it.  Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”  Anita Warring smiled.  She turned her head for a moment to look down into the parking lot.  Jack figured she had Cowley or Holliday waiting.  Anita Warring turned to Jack and said, “If you’re a good little boy, Jack, and do what I tell you, she’ll be fine.  Keep your cellphone handy.  When we’re safely away, we’ll call you and tell you where you can find her.”

Mary Worthy turned and disappeared from the doorway.  Jack stood up and went to the landing.  He watched Mary Worthy carry the Seated Lady down the stairs and into the same SUV he shot the back window out of.  He watched as she set the painting in the back and opened the passenger door. 

Mary Worthy looked up at him before climbing into the passenger seat.  She waved her hand, smiled, and got in.  The SUV peeled out onto Santa Monica Boulevard. 

Jack leaned over the railing and vomited.

FOUR HOURS AGO

Jack sat in a chair across from Dan Moon in the lieutenant’s office.  The detective had the door shut and looked at Jack from the top of his computer monitor.

“You stepped in it this time, Jack,” Dan Moon said.  “And you had to drag Franny in it with you.”

“I know,” said Jack.  “That’s why I’m here, Dan.”

“Yeah.  You always come to me when you’re in it.”

Dan Moon leaned back in his chair.  “This time you come in as a murder suspect, with grand larceny and kidnapping stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Want to tell me why I don’t just turn you over to the Laguna P.D. and have done with it?”

“Because you’re my friend, Dan,” said Jack.  “You know I’m not a killer or a thief.”  Jack let that settle in the mix.  “If that’s not enough for you, think about Franny.  The thugs that took her are cold killers.  Look at my face.  That’s what they did to me.  Think what they’ll do to Franny.”

“You should have thought about that before you let her get mixed up in this.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Dan Moon said, “What do you expect me to do, Jack?  I put out an A.P.B. for them.  All we can do is wait.”

Jack slumped in his chair.  He had never felt so worn out and useless.  “I can’t do that, Dan,” he said. 

“What else is there to do, Jack?  Like you said, they have Franny and the painting.”

Jack stood up, forcing his rubber legs to work. 

“Where are you going?”

“They’re not going to let Franny walk out of this.  I think I know where their hideout is.  Near the border down in San Diego.  I’m going to take a drive down there.  If you’re arresting me, then do it.  I don’t have time for a lecture.”

Dan Moon stood up.

“If you going to do something stupid,” Dan Moon said, “I’m going with you.  Franny’s my friend too, you know.  I don’t want to see her shot because of some fool hardy rescue attempt by an ex-cop cowboy.”

“Fine,” said Jack.  “We can take your car.”

Before they went out the door, Jack said, “I’m driving.”

            FIVE MINUTES AGO

Jack pulled Dan Moon’s unmarked cruiser into the parking lot. 

“That’s the SUV,” he said, and parked beside it, using the SUV to shield them from the convenience store.  “They were in that store over there when we found them.”

Dan Moon looked at Jack.  “Listen, Jack,” he said.  “If they aren’t in there, or if we’re too late - ,”

Jack didn’t want to hear it.  “Give me your backup,” he said, cutting off Dan’s warning.

“I don’t like this, Jack.”

“I don’t either, Dan.  I know you’re going to call for backup, but let me go in there first.  Give me five minutes.”

A look of indecision pulled at Dan Moon’s face.  Jack didn’t blame him.  He was asking a lot from a man who had a pension and a family to think about. 

“I’m just asking for five minutes, Dan.  You owe me that much.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Jack.  Not with all the favors you’ve called in.”

Dan Moon reached down to his ankle holster and handed Jack his backup piece.  Jack took the pistol, racked a load into the chamber, and opened the door.

PRESENT

“Five minutes, Jack.  Then I’m calling it in.”

Jack nodded and got out of the car.  He shoved the pistol into the back of his pants and scanned the street on his way to the convenience store.  He peered inside the glass door, through the plastered advertisements for cigarettes and beer.  The place looked empty except for a man at the register.  He opened the door and went inside.

The man behind the register looked up as Jack came towards him.  Jack pulled the pistol from behind his pants and pushed the barrel into the man’s face.

“Get your hands where I can see them,” said Jack.

The man raised his hands.  He had a hard, brown face that turned to stone at the sight of Jack’s pistol.  He looked past the pistol into Jack’s face.

“You make a mistake, gringo,” the man said.  “You know who owns this place?”

Jack backhanded the man with the pistol and came over the counter with a leap.  The man fell against a wall of condoms and over the counter speed tablets.  Jack took the man by the collar and put the pistol barrel against his cheek.  The man answered with a smile.

“I’m looking for a girl,” said Jack.  “Tell me where she is, or I’ll blow a hole in your face you can drive a truck through.”

“You looking for a girl, try over the border.”

Jack shifted the pistol and fired in front of the man’s face.  The sound was deafening.  

“Try again,” said Jack.  “If you can’t do better than that, I don’t need you.”

“You a fool, gringo,” said the man.  His smile had vanished, replaced with anger.  “They downstairs.  They hear that shot.  Your girl dead, now.”

Jack lifted the man to his feet by the collar and pushed him out front.  “Lead the way.”

The man led Jack to a thick steel door.  He turned to Jack.

“You go first, gringo.”  The man had become nervous.

Jack shook his head.  “Uh-uh.”

The man opened the door to a dark staircase that led down.  He took a slow step. The stair creaked.  A sub-machine gun erupted with a hail of bullets that lit up the hallway with staccato flashes.  The man crumpled and fell in front of Jack.  His body slid down the metal stairs like a broken ragdoll.  Jack fired two shots and ducked out of the doorway.

“Give it up,” Jack shouted.  “You’re surrounded.”

A garbled voice came back, “Go to hell.”

He recognized the voice.   It was Holliday, and it sounded like Jack’s shots had struck home.  Jack pushed aside the door and crept down the darkened staircase. 

A pale light at the bottom illuminated the dead man’s crumpled body.  The body had fallen in front of Mick Holliday.  Holliday was on the ground, blood streaks along the wall behind him.  The gangster sneered up at Jack.

“You.”

“That’s right,” said Jack.  “Where’s the girl?”

Holliday raised the sub-machine gun and squeezed the trigger.  Jack flinched at the dry metallic sound of an empty chamber.  He reached down, took the sub-machine gun from Holliday’s dying grip, and tossed the weapon.  

“Should have killed you,” said Holliday.

“Should have,” said Jack, “but you didn’t.  You missed your chance.”

“Jack!” Francine cried out from deeper inside the basement.  

Jack turned to a door leading into the deeper recesses of the hideout. 

“You won’t get out of here alive,” Holliday taunted.  “Neither will she.”

Jack turned to the dying gangster.  “We have a better chance than you do.”

“Go to hell,” Holliday said to Jack’s back.

“You first.”

“He’s coming, Cowley!” Holliday screeched, coughing bloody phlegm onto his cheap suit.

“That’s right, Cowley!” Jack said to the half-open door.  “I killed Holliday, and you’re next unless you release the girl!”

Shots exploded from the room.  Bullets tore into the door, sending splinters Jack’s way.  He put his back against the wall and shouted into the room.

“You can have the painting and walk out of here a rich man, Cowley!  Think about it before you end up like Holliday.”

“Don’t listen to him, Tom.”

It was Anita Warring.

“Jack!”  Francine screamed.

“That’s right, sweetheart.  Jack’s here and the police are on the way.”

A pistol popped off two rounds.  Jack placed it as the cute little pistol Anita Warring aimed at him earlier that day.

“Any closer and she’s dead,” Anita Warring called out.

“There’s no way out of here, Cowley,” Jack yelled into the room.  “Don’t let her drag you down on a sinking ship.  Give it up and walk out.”

“All right, Rogers,” Cowley said from the room.  “I’m coming out.”

Jack peered around the door.  Inside the room he saw Francine tied to a chair beneath a single light.  Anita Warring stood behind her with her little pistol.  Tom Cowley was out front, his forty-five held out to his side.  Behind them all, leaned against the wall, was the Seated Lady.

“Drop the piece, Cowley,” said Jack. 

Cowley stepped towards the door, his arms stretched out.

“Let’s talk about this, Rogers,” Cowley said.  “We got a buyer on the way.  Fifteen million bucks for that painting, Rogers.  Get us out of here and we cut you in.”

“Damn, you, Tom,” said Anita Warring.

“Shut up,” Cowley snapped.  He kept his eyes narrowed on the sliver of Jack he could see at the door’s edge.  “How ‘bout it, Rogers?”

Jack moved slowly into the doorway, his pistol ready for anything.  “Let the girl go, and we can talk.  I’m a reasonable man.”

Cowley grinned.  “I thought so.”

Anita Warring’s pistol popped, and Tom Cowley’s smile melted like burning plastic.  He turned to Mary Worthy and tried to raise his forty-five.  Anita Warring fired again. Tom Cowley sank to the ground.

Jack heard the muffled sounds of police sirens.  Five minutes had seemed an eternity. 

Anita Warring shifted her aim to Francine.  “Come another step,” she said, “and I’ll kill her.”

“It’s over, Anita,” said Jack.  “Give it up.” 

Francine looked up, her eyes smudged with mascara.  “Shoot her, Jack.”

“Shut up,” said Anita Warring.

“Put the pistol down,” said Jack.  “You can still walk out of here alive.”

“Yeah,” Anita Warring said.  “And spend the rest of my life in prison.  I don’t think so, Jack.”

Anita Warring raised the pistol.  Jack hesitated.  He didn’t have a clear shot with Francine in the way. 

“Don’t do it,” he said.

Francine sprang from the chair, the binds at her wrists fallen away.  She struck at the pistol in Anita Warring’s hands.  There was a pop and Jack felt a sting in his shoulder.  A wave of dizziness came over him and he fell to his knees as Francine and Mary struggled for control of the pistol. 

Anita Warring was no match for the pent-up fury Francine unleashed upon her.  Anita clawed at Francine’s hair and clothes.  Francine put a fist in Anita Warring’s face.  Anita Warring stumbled back and raised her pistol.   

Bam! Bam!

The shots came from behind Jack.  Anita Warring fell.

Francine turned to Jack.  Her eyes shifted past him, to the doorway.  Jack turned.  Dan Moon stood there with uniformed officers behind him.   Smoke drifted from of the barrel of his forty-five.

TEN MINUTES LATER

Jack and Francine sat outside an ambulance as the bodies were being carted out of the convenience store basement.

“How’s your arm, Jack?” asked Francine.  The paramedics had given her a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, but other than the shock of being kidnapped, she was fine.

“Matches my face,” said Jack. 

“I want to thank you for what you did,” she said.  In the flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars, her face once again had the youthful appearance of her twenty-two years. 

“Don’t thank me, kid,” said Jack.  “It was my fault you got tangled up in all this.  Besides, you got yourself free, remember?  I was just a distraction.”

“Well,” said Francine, “I want to thank you anyway.”

She leaned towards Jack and kissed his forehead.  He smiled at her and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.  “Still think the P.I. business if for you?”

She smiled. “Definitely.”

They turned to watch as two police officers carried out the object that was the cause of four deaths.  Jack still didn’t see the appeal of the Seated Lady.  Fifteen million dollars and four lives for a canvas and dried paint didn’t add up to him.

“You find the buyer?” Jack asked Dan Moon when the lieutenant approached.

Dan shook his head.  “No, and I don’t expect we ever will.  Say what you want about Anita Warring and those thugs, but none of this would have happened if someone didn’t want to decorate their walls with that thing.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed.  “When you find them, let me know.  I’m going to send them the bill for my expense account.”

                                                The End