The answer was yes. But just barely.
Tracy was so intent on getting inside the atrium of the museum that at first he didn’t even look at the small line of people gathered at the coat check who were on their way out.
Of course, though. It made perfect sense. She’d wanted to leave.
Even from the side Tracy knew right away it was Dorian Laszlo. He’d seen plenty of photos of her, courtesy of Dylan. There were a half dozen alone on the website for New York’s Consulate General of Hungary. Laszlo, the economic and trade commissioner, was always smiling and shaking hands with some American business leader. The only picture that didn’t look dated, though, was the one with her and a marketing executive from Gojo Industries, the makers of Purell. They were smiling and touching elbows.
Tracy stopped on a dime. “Gordon! Is that you?”
All those photos of Laszlo were so Tracy knew who not to look at as he approached his old friend “Gordon,” who just happened to be standing behind Laszlo in the coat-check line. At no time could Tracy even glance in her direction.
“Bill! I didn’t know you were going to be here,” said Danny, giving Tracy the combo handshake-and-hug.
Tracy, for sure, didn’t need to glance again at the picture of Danny Sullivan in his breast pocket. This was Ryan Gosling’s would-be brother, all right. Maybe even his doppelgänger. Either way, Tracy could pick him out of a lineup. He literally just had.
The original plan called for some chitchat up front before getting down to business. The conversation had to seem natural and unforced to anyone who might happen to overhear them. But that was then, this was now. Laszlo was only a few people away from handing over her claim ticket and putting on her coat. She’d be out the door. More important, out of earshot. It was time to improvise.
Tracy stepped back from Danny, tripping over his own feet. He nearly fell.
“Whoa,” said Danny, reaching out to catch him. “You okay there?”
“I’m fine, absolutely fine,” said Tracy, slapping the air with his hand the way people do when they’ve had a few drinks. “I’m pretty sure a mob boss wants to kill me but other than that everything’s great.” He slapped the air again. “Whoops. Forget I just told you that.”
There was no wink, no nod, no anything from Danny in return. He simply said what anyone would say after hearing that from a friend. They were off script but on the same page.
“What are you talking about?” asked Danny. “What do you mean mob boss?”
“Shhhh,” said Tracy. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s obviously something. Wait. Is this about that meeting? It is, isn’t it? You wouldn’t tell me who it was with.”
“I still can’t tell you.”
“But you said the whole thing was bullshit.”
“It is bullshit. A mysterious painting that can’t go to auction? It’s probably a tax scam or something.”
“You told the guy that? This mob boss?”
“Hell no.” Tracy laughed. “He would’ve killed me, for sure. What I did was politely explain that I don’t do black-market sales. He said he understood, but, hell, I wasn’t listening to his words. It was his eyes. He wanted to strangle me.”
“Wow.”
“Tell me about it. I went straight from the meeting over to the Palm. It took me three martinis just to stop shaking.” Tracy stuck out his hand. There was still a slight tremble. “Damn, I think I need a fourth. Which way to the bar?”
Danny pointed toward the atrium. “Go straight and then take a left at the giant Rothko,” he said.
“Appreciate it. Hey, you available for lunch next week? We’ll both get drunk and you can tell me if Sotheby’s is really getting that Matisse from the Rockefeller estate.”
“I’ll never tell.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The two repeated the combo handshake-and-hug before Tracy peeled off for the atrium, not once looking back. He’d done all he could do. So had Danny, who stared straight ahead, watching as Laszlo stepped forward in the line. She was next up, ticket in hand.
C’mon, you know you heard us. Take the bait. Okay, maybe get your coat first, but then take the bait. Go track him down, Dorian…