Tracy nodded like it was never in doubt.
He pushed back from the bar and fell in line behind the black turtleneck and sport coat, weaving through a few tables before reaching the swinging door to the kitchen. After a quick left before a grill and prep station, they headed through another door to a wine-tasting room. The guy even turned to Tracy at one point along the way and, of all things, smiled at him. It was all very civilized.
Until it wasn’t.
The door to the wine-tasting room closed behind Tracy. In front of him sat Frank Brunetti at the head of a long table with a glass of red in his hand. Over his shoulder was another henchman. This one was younger, leaner, and now coming right at Tracy with a head of steam. “You a cop?” he asked, getting right up in Tracy’s grill. His breath smelled like an ashtray. “Huh? You a cop?”
“No,” said Tracy.
“Then who are you?”
“You’re going to mug me anyway, so go ahead. It’s in the back right pocket.”
Tracy turned and glanced at the guy who’d led him from the bar into the tasting room. He was standing off to the side by some crates of wine, flashing that same smile. All along, this guy knew what was coming next.
Tracy didn’t. He never saw the punch. It came so fast and hard to his gut that by the time the pain kicked in he was on his knees and falling flat on his face. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. It was as if his stomach were superglued to the floor.
“Yep, you were right,” said ashtray breath. “Back right pocket.”
He removed Tracy’s wallet, handing it over to his boss. Brunetti casually glanced at the driver’s license. “Nice to meet you, Mr. William D’Alexander from the Upper East Side.”
At any given time, the CIA has about five thousand invented people roaming the planet as various covers for their field operatives. They possess official passports and driver’s licenses from all over the world, and hold down every conceivable job as evidenced by their made-up internet profiles, including social media posts. Mr. William D’Alexander was an art dealer now living in Manhattan, after years of managing a gallery in São Paulo. There was another gallery before that in Lisbon. All the information was there in plain sight, just in case Brunetti wanted to google him at some point.
In the meantime, Tracy still couldn’t catch his breath from the sucker punch. Off Brunetti’s nod, he was helped to his feet. Slowly, his lungs started to work again.
Dylan had said it, and said it again. Expect the unexpected. Tracy now nodded as if nothing had happened. What sucker punch?
“Nice to meet you, too, Frank,” he said.
Brunetti cracked a smile. Full caps, not veneers. “What do you do, William?”
“Call me Bill. I’m an art dealer.”
“Do you have a gallery, Bill?”
“I used to. Not anymore.”
Brunetti thumbed through Tracy’s wallet again. “Do you have a business card?”
“No. Not these days.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like paper trails anymore.”
Tracy stared silently at Brunetti, waiting for the subtext to land. It didn’t take long.
“Do black-market art dealers actually refer to themselves as black-market art dealers?” asked Brunetti.
“I prefer the term facilitator.”
“And who are you facilitating for?”
“All my clients are confidential.”
“Of course they are. That would only make sense. Now, would you mind removing your clothes?”
“Excuse me?” asked Tracy.
“Your clothes,” said Brunetti. “Strip. Everything off.”
“You’re not going to at least buy me dinner first?”
Brunetti stared back at Tracy. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile this time. “Do you really want that joke to be the last one you ever tell?”
Tracy started taking off his clothes.