Page 38 of A Long Con

Oyster’s eyes lit up. “The Samoan Slammer? You beat the fuck out of The Viper at WrestleMania 33!”

“You really hammered him!” declared the blond guy.

Again, Oyster seemed irritated by the blond. “Dennis O’Bell is friends with many people. We will pay our respects to his family and take care of them. In the meantime, Mr. O’Bell was coming to bring us some artwork. Some, ah . . . “

“A painting!” I cried. “Yes, it belongs to us. Dennis was on his way here to give it to us when he, ah, ate something bad.”

“No!” shouted Oyster. “It belongs to me. I paid for it.”

Royal asked, “Are you Rodriguez Jimenez?”

Instead of answering, Oyster waved his two henchmen through our hotel room door. They started tearing up everything, tossing aside dirty food plates, and even going through O’Bell’s already-rifled suitcase. We’d put our own duffel bags into our saddlebags, our bikes parked around back.

“Hey, hey!” Royal protested. When he turned to face the room, the piece stuck in his pants would’ve been obvious to Oyster. But the pieces stuck into the henchmen’s underwear were just as obvious to us. It was a matter of numbers. Oyster had better numbers than us.

Royal said, “I can guarantee you it’s not in this room. We’ve searched every crack. We were going to ask you if you could think of anywhere O’Bell might’ve already handed off the painting. He obviously gave it to someone before we even went to the sushi place.”

Oyster said, “It’s impossible that O’Bell would give it to anyone other than me.”

The blond called out, “He would’ve sold it to a higher bidder and left town.”

“Cállate, Barbie!” yelled Oyster. “Why would he have hung around these cabróns eating sushi if he’d just sold it to someone else?”

Royal and I looked darkly at each other. That was true. But O’Bell did have to complete his hunt club harvest. And the painting did go somewhere.

Royal said, “We were thinking more along the lines of he handed it off to someone else to courier to you.”

For some reason, this spurred Oyster to whip his piece from his ass. He leveled it on us with the sideways gangster grip. Stupidly yet instinctively, I took a sideways step closer to Royal, and he lifted his arm in an arc for me. Oyster snarled, “Then go and die in a sushi place? How do I know you didn’t take the painting and then kill him?”

I said, “Because we’re standing right here?”

“Yeah,” said Royal with authority. Tension seeped from his pores. “If we had the damned painting we’d be long gone by now.”

We stood together as one solid duo, but only for a split second. Oyster took another couple steps toward us, the barrel now aimed at my head. He’d figured me as the weaker of the two, and he was right. Royal made a motion to step in front of me, and Oyster moved the barrel to Royal’s head. So I made a motion to step in front of Royal. We wound up shoving each other like little kids.

I yelled, “If we knew where to find the painting, we’d give you back your bearer bond! You paid too much for it, anyway! It’s a fucking fake. I should know, because I painted it!”

Oyster made a huge double-take with mouth stuck wide open. It would’ve been funny if he hadn’t kept the weapon aimed at us. “Are you focking kidding me? You faked the Nude Going Down a Staircase painting? What kind of moron do you think I am?”

“First class,” I was about to say, but Barbie and the lock picker came out of the bedroom.

Barbie said, “No painting, jefe. Hey, what’s going on?”

And then, of course, without knowing what was going on, Barbie whipped out his piece too, as did the lock picker. We now had a pinwheel of gangsta-gripping guys surrounding us. I visually felt the power struggle between Royal and me. A gorgeous fuchsia color emanated from Royal, and in it, I felt secure. I also sensed his guilt at not having “come out” of the closet sooner. There was his fear that he’d die without having been out in public. He was thinking of the Bent Zealots and his universal brotherly love for them.

Oyster shouted, “Did you know these two gilipollas sold me a fake painting?”

In order to save Royal, I had to confess. “I have your bearer bond for two million, outside in my motorcycle saddlebags.”

Now everyone was frozen. My elbow stuck in Royal’s abdomen, my feet were spread as though going out for a pass. Royal’s fingers were still on the back of my neck. Oyster’s barrel was pointed somewhere between our heads.

Finally he moved. I guess he’d gauged the power struggle between Royal and me, because now I was plainly his main victim. “Okay, then!” he yelped. “Show us where! Move!”

We had no fucking choice. Now we’d be out that straight bank and my beautiful painting. We moved.

I could just hear Royal’s thoughts as we were marched out front and toward a side alley. Why didn’t we just leave after O’Bell bit the dust? You could’ve painted Nude #5. I don’t want an idiot like you touching me anymore. I want a guy who doesn’t get his head blown off by a Sinaloan gangster. But I couldn’t see his expression, since he walked behind me.

It was a balmy, windy day, I remember that. I remember almost enjoying the warm wind against my face as we marched to our doom. I slowed my pace a little as we passed a pickup truck that just sat parallel with the road, pulled over in our parking lot, engine idling. The driver turned his head away from me when I looked.