chapter twenty-seven

immortality within reach

DeFrane’s late-night phone calls set in motion a frenzied dash the weekend before the banks opened Monday. DeFrane had enlisted the help of his DOJ friend Dom Lucchesi to investigate Maynard’s banking history. A team of experts in white-collar methods of money laundering intensely scrutinized Maynard’s business dealings. They discovered possible past improprieties with Bruce Finch acting as go-between every time. They struck pay dirt when they questioned the excitable Mr. Finch at his home late Sunday. Armed with insider knowledge, it was a matter of exerting the right type of pressure on Finch to testify in exchange for immunity from prosecution and the chance for a fresh start. His nerves and bad acting had nearly compromised the undercover operation, but Maynard’s greed caused him to ignore his attorney’s recommendation. I hoped he’d come to regret it.

I went home after I helped Finch hyperventilate into a paper bag to alleviate his panic attack. A tiny manila package waited for me in the mail. Inside was a storage key and a note which read:

Dear Mitchell,

This is another posthumous letter I’d hoped to avoid. When time allows, go to the Glover Storage facility off south Kingshighway. The items in Unit #10 are my hobby, my personal treasures. I promise there is nothing illegal or stolen within. I decided to store them here when we entered the production phase, in the event of my arrest. I didn’t want them falling into unfriendly hands.

They are yours to keep or give away as you see fit. My only request is that they be given away, not sold, to people who will appreciate them. The space is climate-controlled and in order to empty unit #10 in one trip you will need a small truck and the help of a discreet friend. Once done, please close the Glover account number listed below and you will receive a refund for the remainder of the year’s rental fee. Use the balance for your trouble as you see fit.

Account #2694746.

LW

P.S. I wish I possessed your talent with people.

P.P.S. I was rejected for restorer technician as well. You will understand when you visit #10.

Tony Martin, my former mentor and supervisor at River City State Psychiatric Hospital, owns a truck and offered to help.

We met at Glover Storage late one sunny afternoon. It was an old, sprawling one-level storage facility similar to others in the area, with rows and rows of units painted basic orange and brown behind rusting metal bars.

When I pulled up the heavy tri-hinged metal door to Unit #10, it rattled in its aluminum track with a rumble like rolling thunder or the groan of an angry god. The first thing I saw was DaVinci’s Mona Lisa and her subtle smile. She smirked and laughed at me from an old easel. I wondered how Lonnie could have pilfered it from The Louvre. Beyond tiny and inscrutable Mona, I saw DaVinci’s Last Supper, Monet’s Water Lilies and The Lily Pond, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, Rembrandt’s Blue Boy, Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, Degas’ Letoile, and Goya’s Nude Maja. We walked through the private art gallery in silent awe until Tony emitted a low whistle and said, “Are you seeing this, too, or am I imagining it?”

I picked up Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and turned it around. The initials LW had been brushed on the back in the most elaborate calligraphy.

At the back of the storage unit, Tony said, “Your guy had a sense of humor. Look at this one.” With a devilish grin he held up a frame for my inspection.

I saw a large red and black dollar sign splashed on a beige background. "One of Andy Warhol's many images of money," Tony said.

I couldn’t suppress a sad smile. “He’s right, there’s nothing illegal here. He created these in his free time.”

“He was a talented little felon,” he said.

I silently nodded agreement.

“What a waste,” Tony said, shaking his head. “He could have used his gifts for good.”

He’d tried. He’d applied for work as an art technician who restores priceless works of art that have begun to fade due to the ravages of time. Rejected again, his past denied him the chance to keep masterpieces immortal.

“I think he changed his little part of the world the best way he could.”

Tony stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head.

I couldn't explain everything to him yet, for Maynard’s fate was far from sealed and he still possessed many powerful and intricate ties with the police. “A lot of doors closed on him. After the truth comes out, I’ll explain it all over a couple beers.”

“At the risk of sounding like a racist, did Lonnie help only black people?” he asked, thumbing through a cabinet that contained hundreds of sketches and lithographs wrapped in plastic.

I examined a duplicate self-portrait of Leonardo DaVinci. “Since Maynard’s arrest, I’ve spent time piecing together Lonnie’s story. A couple weeks ago, I met a lady who’d taken in her infant granddaughter because the mother’s a crack junkie who tried to sell her baby on the street for drugs. Grandma has her own health and financial problems, but couldn’t bear the thought of her grandbaby with strangers in foster care. A few days later I met a man who runs after-school programs for underprivileged teens in the city whose ministry was being forced to close its doors due to lack of funding. Both received eleventh-hour financial aid, accompanied by a mysterious letter from an LW thanking them for their selfless deeds. Both are whiter than Wonder Bread, and there are more. LW was color blind. He didn’t see anyone’s ethnicity, sexual orientation, or age. All he saw, those he helped, were people in need who spent their lives helping others. But once word got out, especially in his own neighborhood, he made more than his share of enemies. I met several who wanted start-up capital for bars, escort services, pawn shops, or cash advance loan stores. He turned every one of them down because, for Lonnie, it wasn’t where you came from or who you were, it was what you did and what you lived for.”

He held up a brightly colored oil and pastel on thick cardboard and said, “Damn, This looks just like The Scream by Munch.” Still gazing at Lonnie’s handiwork, he ruminated, “We’ve both worked with criminals who occasionally toss money into church poor boxes to help relieve their inner guilt over stealing. Was he one of them?”

“I don’t think so. There was a lot more to him.” A modern-day Robin Hood came to mind again. His philanthropy could have made him an intriguing figurehead for the Occupy Wall Street movement if he’d had a political bone in his body. But, he shunned the limelight like a blind mole. “The fact is unique, extraordinary people come along, grace the rest of us with their presence, and then are gone.” I thought of Kris, her smiling face flashing before me. “Like shooting stars, sometimes we enjoy them before their light goes out, sometimes we don’t.”

He eyed another painting and said, “Hey, could I have this Vermeer for Cindy? She loved that movie about the girl with the pearl earring. We watched it together a lot. She lusts over Colin Firth and you know I have a thing for Scarlett Johansson.”

His wife Cindy followed her favorite actors with a groupie-like zeal unusual for someone in her mid-forties.

“As long as she’ll appreciate it,” I said, with a sudden air of propriety. He turned to look at me, and I felt my cheeks flush. “Which I know she will.”

We carefully loaded Tony’s truck. While he completed the final rope ties, I walked to the manager’s office. It was a stale smelling room made of cinder block walls painted mauve and a water-stained drop ceiling that reminded me of the visiting room at Gateway Jail. A morbidly obese black man with mutton chop sideburns looked up and scowled when I walked through the door. He returned his attention to the baseball game on a tiny black-and-white television perched precariously on a warped plywood desk. He fiddled with the rabbit ears on the old TV and made no move to acknowledge my presence.

“I’m here to close the account for unit number ten,” I said, dropping Lonnie’s keys on the grimy pockmarked counter.

The man’s ears perked up at mention of the unit number. He turned off the set, his sullen indifference now sudden attentiveness. He stood up, wiped his hands on his shirt, and said in a soft, high-pitched voice, “ID, please.”

I showed him my driver’s license.

“Uh-huh,” he said, his droopy hound dog eyes carefully comparing the picture to my face like a wary passport inspector. “I have your refund here. You can be on your way in a minute, sir.”

“How can that be? I didn’t rent the storage unit.”

“Don’ matter,” the corpulent man said as he lumbered to a gray metal filing cabinet. He bent to the lowest shelf, wheezing from the exertion. He pulled out a manila folder and handed me a check for over three hundred dollars.

“This is already made out in my name. How did you know I would be coming here?”

“Somebody called ahead, said to be expecting you within the month and for me to cut the check.” More wheezing, heavier this time. I noticed an inhaler next to the television.

“Was it Michael Anthony?”

His face was calm but I thought I saw those muddy eyes briefly widen at mention of the name. “I can’t say, sir.”

“You know who Lonnie Washington is, don’t you?”

“Everyone know him. He been on the news for weeks. That the most I can say. Have a blessed day.”

I noticed his name badge and decided to take a shot in the dark. “Michael Anthony sure has a sweet, silky voice. A most pleasing accent reminiscent of tropical islands. What do you think she looks like, Reggie?”

For an instant, he stopped in his tracks, then suddenly grabbed the inhaler and waddled through an arched doorway marked “FOR EMPLOYEES ONLY.” It barely accommodated his girth, and the plastic red beads hanging in the narrow archway rattled against each other like hollow bones in his wake. He did not return. As I left I thought I saw those same sad, hangdog eyes peer at me through the lengthening shadows past the dirty window pane.

As I walked to the truck, I wondered if Reggie was placing a call to Michael Anthony.