Chapter 13: I Concentrate on You    (print this)

MADISON MONROE looked slightly bewildered, staring myopically into the dim interior of the Algiers cocktail lounge, looking for all the world like a timid Baptist conventioneer from some tiny town, now in Vegas for the first time and uncertain as to when and where precisely he would be tempted. No doubt he cultivates just that impression, thought Henry from his booth at the back wall. Henry waved his scotch, and called softly "Mr. Monroe."

Monroe's eyes focused and a professional smile appeared, thin and bloodless, as he stepped quickly and gingerly to Henry's table. In spite of the heat, growing daily as May slipped into June, he still wore an expensive and heavy gray suit.

"Mr. Bethel," he said, without offering his hand. He looked around the darkened lounge, with its vague, North African accents. "Quaint. Do you hold all of your business meetings here?"

"Only those requiring discretion. Hardly anyone comes here anymore except for a few regulars. It's the last small '50s hotel property of its kind on the Strip, and the owners want to tear it down. C'est la Vegas. Please sit."

"I must confess I was surprised to receive your telephone call yesterday. We had quite given up on you." Monroe eased himself into the booth in his quick, birdlike manner, like a cardinal hopping onto a snowy branch.

"Come, Mr. Monroe," said Henry. "How desperate would I have seemed had I leapt at your initial offer? I had to make sure that the whole thing was worth my while."

"And it took you three months to come to that decision, Mr. Bethel? How could you be sure Don Ix would still be interested in your services?" Monroe's smile remained as grimly and falsely affixed as ever.

"Because," said Henry as he waved the waitress over, "I discovered fairly early on that Maude S— would not be moving on from Las Vegas as quickly as she has from other cities."

"Oh?" Monroe eyed him and ordered a vodka tonic. "And how did you come by this intelligence?"

"Why, my natural charm, Mr. Monroe," said Henry, smiling. "It's very simple. You approached me with an offer to try my hand at a little art world espionage, asking me to use my standing as a famed but steadfastly retired art critic to penetrate the mystery surrounding an enigmatic artist. I made a great show of refusing and subsequently avoiding contact with you of any kind. Which was necessary, if I were to get close to the reclusive and guarded Maude S—…" Henry paused and swirled his scotch, "which, incidentally, I have."

"Have you," said Monroe.

"Yes. Very close indeed, Mr. Monroe. A closeness built on three months of a careful nurturing of a friendship with Maude based on everything but my keen interest in her work, both the seen… and the unseen."

Monroe's smile faltered slightly. "Are you saying, Mr. Bethel, that you have seen…"

Henry stared at him. "That's precisely what I'm saying. I've her secret works. And, if your employer is still interested—and if not, he should be—I'm ready to write a confidential report on their nature and desirability."

Monroe's smile returned. He leaned back and took a lighting quick swig of his drink, returning it to the table with a clatter. "And you're still here to tell the tale, Mr. Bethel. Very impressive."

Henry snorted. "Those so-called 'disappearances' are so much hugger-mugger, Mr. Monroe. Some of them have even gone underground at the command of Maude S— herself."

"You're joking."

"Certainly not. They've various art world hanger-ons who Maude has paid to lay low. To enhance her image of danger and mystery. You see, Mr. Monroe, these private works that have been so whispered about are in fact for sale… at the right time and right price."

Monroe chuckled. "An elaborate shadow show to drive up their price. Very clever, Mr. Bethel." Monroe stared at him. "She must have paid extremely well for seven people to have dropped off the face of the earth… seven people who haven't contacted even their families."

Henry took another drink. "Not all of them, Mr. Monroe. Some seem to have coincidentally vanished of their own accord."

"And you know this because the artist told you, eh?"

Henry smiled. "She's told me a great deal, yes."

"And how do you know, Mr. Bethel, that she is telling you the truth?"

Now Henry chuckled. "I don't. But that's not my problem. Don Ix wants to know about her 'secret' sculptures. I have seen them and am ready to tell him what he wants to know."

"But if she is merely waiting for the right moment to make these works available for sale, then perhaps Don Ix will merely wait for her charade to end, and judge for himself." Monroe seemed to be enjoying the thought.

Henry shook his head. "No, Mr. Monroe. Because Maude S— already has another buyer in mind. A buyer who, for all of Don Ix's wealth, can easily out bid him."

There was a long pause as the smile hardened. "Who?"

"That information will make quite a climax to my report, don't you think?"

Monroe's face seemed like wax in the darkness, betraying nothing. Then he smiled again, saying, "I see I have underestimated you, Mr. Bethel. Well, I believe our original offer still stands." He took out a leather folio and with two quick strokes wrote down something on a piece of paper. He then folded it and pushed it across the table.

Henry opened it, and nodded. "Yes, that will do very nicely."

"For all of your time invested, as well as for the report," replied Monroe. "How soon can I receive this document? Remember, Don Ix has been waiting for some time now."

"Oh, it shouldn't take more than a week," said Henry, nonchalantly. "Next Friday?"

"That will be fine." Monroe stood up and made a little bow. The smile struck Henry as a little less professional, a little more… conspiratorial?
"I'm pleased this matter has worked out after all."

"Faith, Mr. Monroe," said Henry. "One has to have faith that things turn out well somehow."

Monroe laughed—a cruel, short bark of a laugh—turned on his hell and glided out of the bar. Henry stared at the doorway for a long time, not moving, as if he was trying to fix the image of Monroe on his mind's eye. Then, after three minutes, he let out a heavy sigh, wiping his brow as he finished off his drink. His eye began to twitch a little.

Well, that was almost too easy, thought Henry. The question is, did he buy it? He seemed to. But it was hard to tell. Hard to know whether Monroe spent the last three months occupied with other things, or if he's been watching things develop all along. But Henry had taken surveillance for granted. They had been very careful, meeting in such a way as to make the whole thing entirely credible. There was no way for them to penetrate Maude's security at the house and studio. He'd seen that system and had to admit it would take James Bond to crack it without detection. But who knows the resources and connections Ix might have? On the other hand, Ix might just be a rich flake after all. It was hard to know. Henry's research into Ix showed him to be just as mysterious as Maude, if not more. A few whispers here about this or that shadowy deal in his accumulation of wealth, but that had been all. Everything else was standard Fortune 500 boilerplate, with a little Latin exotica mixed in. If they buy it, thought Henry, wiping his brow again, it won't be for long. But long enough for their plan. If only there wasn't Mangopoulos somewhere in the mix. He had to be watching as well these past months, but not a sign. He needed to gently press Maude on the matter again tonight. Maude… Henry sat there, gazing into space, his thoughts suddenly pleasurable.

The reverie was broken by a hulking figure in the doorway. Claude Griffith walked over and sat down, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"Did you get him?" asked Henry.

"I got him. Odd looking duck, huh?" Claude lit and the cigarette and exhaled. "He looks like some weird bureaucrat they keep in the back of the office in a birdcage."

"I suspect no cage would hold him," said Henry. "Thank you."

Claude shrugged. "No problem. I love doing covert stuff. I'll have it developed tomorrow. What's this about?"

"Shhhhh," said Henry. "I can't tell you. I just need to dig up some more information, and the photo will come in handy."

"He's not selling Frank bootlegs on the black market?" cracked Claude.

"No, this is something else. Art stuff."

Claude nodded as Henry stood up. "I have to run," said Henry. "Can you call me as soon as you have them?"

"Sure," said Claude. He paused, looking up at Henry, his eyes wary behind his thick glasses. "Hey. Listen. Does this have anything to do with that artist?"

"Artist?" said Henry.

"You know. I took pictures of her work for you, the big Tarot sculptures."

"Ah." Henry paused. "Actually, yes, but keep that to yourself."

"Henry." Claude looked seriously at him.

"What? What is it?"

"Do you remember that graduate student I went out with, Amanda Welk?"

Henry thought back. "Mmm, yes, vaguely. Short, cute brunette? Photographer?"

Claude nodded. "Well, look. She moved to Austin last year, but we stayed in touch all the time. For what it's worth, the last email I got from her was gushing about how she had managed to hook into this very exclusive thing, this viewing."

Henry nodded, his heart swelling up uncomfortably in his chest.

"Well… the artist who she was going to see was a reclusive, female sculptor. But I never heard how it went, because the next thing I knew her roommate was emailing me that she had gone missing." Claude paused and took a drag. "For what it's worth."

Henry just looked at his friend for a moment. "Okay. Thanks." And then he was out the door, rubbing his twitching eye. He thought of Maude, and what had happened these past months, and he felt the same unease that had stolen over him, even in moments where it didn't belong. Because of all the glittering lies he'd fed Monroe, the stuff about the disappearances of people who had come into contact with Maude S— being hugger mugger was hugger mugger itself. In truth, Henry had yet to bring it up to Maude, even once, in all these nights, all their talk.

And now he wasn't sure if he could. Or even if he wanted to.

Henry got into his car. Maude, he thought to himself. He pictured her in his mind, looking at him, amused, smiling. Trusting. He saw her brightly melancholy eyes and the ringlets of hair he had never touched. He kept it in his mind, his eyes closed, his hands on the wheel, trying not to feel lost in something he couldn't understand, something dangerous. He didn't want to understand. Not yet.

Not yet.