the room leaned up against a wall and gave me the alpha-male stare.
“I’ve always wondered,” I said, “how you get those muscles on the tops of your shoulders and the sides of the neck. You know, the ones that make your head look so small.”
“Picking up guys like you and throwing them through windows,” he said.
“I guess I’ll eliminate that from my workout,” I said.
I heard some fast click-clack, and two young ladies appeared in the archway that led, presumably, to wherever Whelan was. On second glance, they weren’t so young, although they were fearsomely toned and buffed, if the eighty percent of their bodies that was on display was any indication. They wore tight tops and micro-skirts that were no thicker than their makeup, and the click-clack was the sound of their four-inch heels on the stone floor. They gave me a professional glance, saw directly through me to my wallet, and kept right on going, heading for the front door.
“How come they don’t have to take
“ ’Cause I like them,” Jake Whelan said, coming into the room. He was wearing cream-colored silk from head to foot, the slacks in a subtle herringbone that caught the light. He’d tanned his face to the color of a cigar. “The shoes. I like those shoes.” His voice was a rasp, like a striking match. “The girls are okay, too, of course.” He held out a hand and gave me a smile. “I’m Jake Whelan.”
When Whelan smiled, he showed you both rows of teeth, top and bottom, and with good reason. They were the most expensive teeth I’d ever seen in my life. I knew people who lived in houses that cost less than Jake Whelan’s teeth. If there were an aftermarket in teeth, there would be a line of burglars standing patiently in line, all the way around Jake Whelan’s head.
I gave him my hand and as little in the way of teeth as I could manage. His own were enough for both of us.
“So, so, so,” he said, folding himself into the yellow chair. “Mr. Klee, in the surprising flesh.” He’d crossed his leg and one foot bounced up and down in its white calfskin slipper, a telltale cocaine jitter. “You look pretty good for someone who died in 1940.”
“I keep active,” I said. “You know, travel, play shuffleboard, try to learn something new every day.”
“And what brings you to me?”
“Good things come in twos,” I said. “I thought you might have something new that would like company.”
He cocked his head to one side, the smile still in place. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Actually, nobody, and that’s good for you.”
“Then you haven’t got a name, and I’m afraid that means I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about a Paul Klee painting, one of the geometric ones, blue background, one point seven-five million to Wattles’s offshore bank.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said. The foot jumped around some more. “And what’s your relationship to that transaction, if it ever took place?”
“If it had,” I said, “I’d be the guy who went and got the painting for Wattles to sell to you.”
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Stand up and spread your arms. I want Wally here to perform a basic security maneuver.”
“Fine,” I said, getting up. “Wally should know I’ve got an automatic in a shoulder holster under my jacket.”
“He’ll relieve you of that, temporarily, although it’s not really firearms I’m thinking about.” He looked past me. “Wally?”
Wally patted me down, helped me out of my jacket, lifted the automatic, and generally made sure I wasn’t wired. “Seems okay,” he said.
“Please,” Whelan said. “Sit. And forgive the rudeness. I didn’t get old by being careless.”
I didn’t sit. “I’d like you to look at something,” I said. “I think it would be best if I stepped back a bit before I show it to you. I’m telling you this so old Wally doesn’t think I’m embarking on some obscure martial arts move.”
“Fine, fine. Back away.”
I picked up the picture, backed up five or six feet, and unveiled it by removing my Dodgers jacket from the frame.
Whelan was good. His expression didn’t change at all. The only telltale was the pulse that was suddenly visible at the side of his neck.
After a minute or so, he said, “Quite nice.”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s better than the one you just bought.”
“If I bought it,” Whelan said.
“Sure, if.”
“And you’re showing this to me because, I assume, you think I’d be interested in acquiring it.”
“I know you would,” I said. “Especially at the price I’m asking.”
“And what would that be?”
“A little less than a third of what you paid Wattles.”
“Three, four hundred?” Whelan said.
“Nice try.”
“Okay, five or six?” Whelan said.
“Right in there.”
“Bring it here.”
I carried it to him, and he took it as reverently as if it had the head of John the Baptist on it. He turned it this way and that, looking at the play of light on the painted surface. He held it level in front of him, parallel to the floor, and examined the brush strokes. He turned it over and checked the back of the canvas. Then he lowered it, very carefully, to his lap and looked at me.
“Why?” he said.
“Why so cheap? Well, for one thing, there’s no middle man. This is more money than I made off the last one.”
“You said for one thing. What’s the other thing?”
“It’s going to require a little effort on your part.”
“What kind of effort?”
“A couple of minutes’ thought and two phone calls.”
“Thought I can handle. Tell me about the phone calls.”
I turned to Wally. “I changed my mind. I would like a cup of coffee.”
Wally’s eyes went to Whelan, and Whelan gave him a tiny nod. Wally left.
“Let’s start with the thought,” I said. “I need you to come up with the name of a director or producer who owes you a favor and has a film working right now, a film with a good small part for a woman in her early twenties. I’m not talking about a lead, just a few days’ worth of work, some dialog, and a few minutes onscreen.”
Whelan shook his head. “I can tell you right now, whoever it is, she’ll take the part and forget about you. You’ll never see her again. She’ll be schtupping the cameraman. I can’t tell you how many chicks I’ve given parts to-”
“I don’t care,” I said. “There’s no romantic relationship.”
“Really. In Hollywood? That’s almost as big a surprise as the painting. What type is she?”
“Think Thistle Downing,” I said.
“Oh-
“You’re right,” I said. “Thistle isn’t going to do that movie. She’s going to do the one you get for her.”
He shook his head. “Nobody will work with her.”
“They will if you ask them to. And if you guarantee to cover the expenses if she screws up.”
“Are you crazy? That could be a couple hundred K.”
“That’s pretty much what I figured,” I said. “And I’m donating it, so to speak, out of the cost of the painting. So you offer whoever it is that sum of money in advance, in case Thistle screws up. If she does, they’re covered. If
