Page 41 of A Long Con

Split Waterman. That’s the name. You could probably cut a deal with them by turning him in.

We could do that . . .

Seeming not to notice his mentor’s affections, Berkeley spun around to face me. “Royal! You’ll never fucking believe what Split has in his—”

Split silenced him by pressing a lewd forefinger to Berkeley’s bowed lips. When Berkeley looked sideways with devotion at Split, I wanted to shoot them both. In the head.

Split waved me in with his other arm. “Come on, come on, Royal. Take a look.”

As much as I loathed the guy, I had to see what had Berkeley so excited. I practically shouldered Split out of my way as I peered beneath the dark of the shell.

Kanapapiki. It was Berkeley’s Nude Descending a Staircase No. 4.

It was still in the heavy-duty mailing tube Ash had FedExed it in. But I knew what it was because someone had inexplicably written in Sharpie on the tube, “My Music.” As much as I hated Split Waterman, it was an automatic reaction to slap him congratulations on his bicep and foam,

“How da fuck did you do that?”

He shrugged modestly. “I had the same intel as you, that O’Bell was going to be at the hunt club. But I didn’t follow him there. I just waited for him to leave his hotel, then bribed a maid to let me in for a few seconds.”

“Wow!” Berkeley enthused. He couldn’t resist flinging himself on his mentor, his face cradled in Waterman’s neck like a cozy puppy. Waterman stroked the back of his head and ran his lips against Berkeley’s silken hair as though testing the waters for later. Kokami! How long was I going to have to put up with these shows of seduction without puking? I would refuse to allow Berkeley to cuff me and slap me around if these two were going to carry on like this.

Again, I backhanded Waterman. “You seem to be a man who wears many hats. Eighty-sixing a Mexican Mafia hitman, stealing a million-dollar painting. . . All this while on the run from the feds.”

I was pleased to see a shadow pass over Waterman’s passionate visage. “Who said I was running from the feds?”

I squinted my eyes at him. “Apparently, the New York Times.”

Waterman tried to guffaw. “Oh. That.”

“You’re so famous,” gushed Berkeley.

“All right,” I said gruffly. “We need to go back to Hermosillo, get our bikes. If you’ll just give us the painting, Waterman, we’ll be safely on our way.”

From the side-eye Waterman and Berkeley cast each other, I could tell this wasn’t in the cards.

“Well . . . “ said Berkeley, once again a shy little art student. “Split has an idea. And idea that’ll make the painting worth twice that much.”

I snorted. “Yeah. And he’ll take forty percent.” But the bait was too much for me, and I bit. “What idea?”

Berkeley gushed, “Well, remember when Ira Hogshead showed us his fist tattoo? Said it had something to do with Nude?”

“Yeah. Then O’Bell had the same tattoo on his forearm, after telling us to ‘follow the ink.’”

Berkeley pointed at me joyously. “See? Split knows what’s behind it. Tell him, Split.”

Oh, how I loathed the superior, smug way that old cowboy lectured me. At the same time, I was so intrigued I was glued to the spot.

Split said, “Teddy Roosevelt attended a show where Duchamp’s original Nude number two was displayed. He later wrote something like ‘for instance, the picture which is inexplicably called A Naked Man Going Down Stairs. I have a Navajo rug on my bathroom wall that is far more decorative. Now, if for some strange reason I decided to call this rug A Well-Dressed Man Going up a Ladder, the name would fit about as well as the Cubist picture Naked Man Going Down Stairs. From the viewpoint of decorative value, of sincerity, and artistic merit, the Navajo rug is way ahead of the picture.’”

The Navajo rug. That damned hippie Cloud had been right. I pointed at the cowboy. “And if we can get ahold of Roosevelt’s rug, the two exhibited side by side would be infinitely more valuable.”

Waterman nodded. “You got it.”

“Well, any ideas where Roosevelt’s rug is?”

He nodded, self-assured. “Alamagordo, New Mexico. I’ve gotten wind that it’s in an antique store in a bad part of town. Problem is, Henry Gildersleeve could’ve gotten the scent of the same wind.”

Berkeley and I both asked, “Who the fuck is Henry Gildersleeve?”