Jack made good time driving downtown. He wanted the car along in case Bellitto took off in a cab. He found Eli Bellitto’s antique store in the western reaches of SoHo. His Shurio Coppe occupied the ground floor corner of an old triple-decker ironclad that had seen better days. A couple of the cast-iron columns on the facade looked as if they were coming loose from the underlying bricks. Odd to see an ironclad here; most of them were further east.
Still in his Bob Butler outfit and mullet wig, Jack wandered up to the store’s main front window. Under the elaborate gold-leaf script of “Shurio Coppe” was the phrase, “Curious Items for the Serious Collector.” Holding center court in this window was a large stuffed fish, a four-foot sturgeon with hooded brown eyes, suspended on two slim wires so that it looked as if it were floating in midair. The thick down of dust on its scales said that it had been swimming in that window for a good long time.
Jack moved on to the front door and checked the hours card. Eli’s brother had been right. Sunday hours were noon to six. Jack checked his watch. Five-thirty now. Why not kill the remaining half hour till closing by browsing the shop? Might find something interesting.
He stepped up to the front door and pushed it open. A bell jangled. A man in the aisle directly ahead looked up.
Here was the brother himself. Jack recognized him from the photo Edward had given him: Eli Bellitto. At six feet he looked sturdier in person, and the photo had missed his cold dark eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored three-piece charcoal gray business suit with a white shirt and a striped tie. With his sallow skin, high cheekbones, dark brown
hair—dyed?—and receding hairline he reminded Jack of Angus Scrimm. Sure as hell looked nothing like his brother. Edward had said they had different mothers, but Jack wondered if they might have different fathers as well. Maybe somebody’s mother had fooled around with the local peat cutter, or whoever straying Dublin wives might have fooled around with sixty years ago.
“Good evening,” Eli Bellitto said. “Can I help you?”
His voice surprised Jack. A trace of an accent, but not Irish. He remembered that Edward had said they were raised apart. Maybe in different countries?
“Just browsing,” Jack said.
“Go right ahead. But please be aware we close promptly at six and—” As if on cue, a number of clocks began to chime. The man pulled a pocket watch from a vest pocket and popped open the cover. He glanced at it and gave Jack a thin-lipped smile. “Exactly half an hour from now.”
“I’ll watch the clocks,” Jack said.
On the other side of the store he saw a heavyset older woman with a loud voice and a tragic resemblance to Richard Belzer giving instructions to a younger red-haired man as she guided him through the store, pointing out price tags.
New help, Jack guessed.
He turned away and meandered among books, plaques, mirrors, dressers, desks, lamps, vases, sculptures of stone and wood, ceramic bowls, china cups, stuffed birds, fish, and animals, clocks of all shapes and vintages, and more, curios ranging from the splendid to the squalid, from Old World to New, Far East to Near, patrician to plebeian, ancient to merely old, exorbitant to bargain priced, Ming Dynasty to Depression Era.
He fell in love with the place. How long had this store been here and why hadn’t anyone told him about it? Hundreds of square feet crammed with a vast and eclectic array of truly neat stuff.
He wandered the aisles, opening book covers, angling mirrors, running his fingers over intricately carved surfaces. He stopped in a corner as he came upon an antique oak
display case, oval, maybe five feet high, with beveled glass on all sides. The case itself carried no price tag, and the items within were untagged as well. These were of much more recent vintage than the rest of the stock and seemed jarringly out of place. Arrayed on the three glass shelves within were what might best be described as trinkets, knickknacks, baubles, and gewgaws, none of which were more than ten or fifteen years old and could have been picked up at any garage sale.
He looked closer and saw a stack of Pog disks, a Rubik’s cube, a Koosh ball with purple and green spikes, a bearish looking Beanie Baby, a red Matchbox Corvette, a gray Furbie with pink ears, a red-sneakered Sonic the Hedgehog doll, a tiny Bart Simpson balancing on an even tinier skateboard, and a few other less identifiable tchotchkes.
But the item that grabbed Jack’s attention was a Roger Rabbit key ring. For an instant, as his eyes drifted past it, he thought he saw it shimmer. Nothing obvious, just the slightest waver along its edges. As he snapped to it, he saw nothing unusual. Probably just a defect in the window. Old glass was like that, full of ripples and other defects.
He stared more closely at the little plastic figure and noticed that some of the red had rubbed off its overalls, and off the yellow gloves at the ends of his outstretched arms. But what struck him and grabbed him was the intense pale blue of Roger’s eyes. Supine in his somewhat cruciform pose, he seemed to be staring at Jack, imploringly. Real pathos there, which was way out of character since Roger was pretty much a moron.
The little key ring made him think of Vicky, who’d taken to the Roger Rabbit video lately. Watched it a minimum of three times a week and could do a fair mimic of Roger’s saliva-laden, “Pppppleeeeease, Eddie!” Vicky would love this key ring.
Jack looked for the knob on the door and found instead a sturdy padlock. Odd. Every other piece in the store, no matter how small, had to be more valuable than all of these put together. Why the lock?
“We’re getting ready to close now,” said a voice behind him.
Jack turned to face the proprietor himself. The older man’s expression was neutral.
“So soon?”
“Six o’clock is closing time today,” Bellitto said. “Is there anything I can help you with before we lock the door?”
“Yes,” Jack said, turning back to the display case. “I’m interested in one of these doo-dads.”
“I can’t imagine why. They are beyond question the least interesting items in the shop. Remnants of recent fads. Detritus of pop culture.”
“Exactly why I want one.”
“Which, may I ask?”
“The Roger Rabbit key ring.”
“Oh, yes.” His thin lips curved into a small, tight smile. “That one’s special. Very special.”
“Not so special. I’m sure half a zillion were sold, but no one’s making them any more, and I know someone who’d really—”
“I’m so very sorry. It’s not for sale.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I assure you that I do not … kid.”
“Then why put them on display?”
The anemic smile returned. “Because it pleases me.”
“Oh, I get it. Kind of like a joke. Lock up the junk and leave the valuables lying around. You didn’t strike me a postmodern dude.”
“I should hope not. Let’s just say that these tiny treasures carry a certain sentimental value for me and I like to leave them out where people can see them.”
“Does the sentimental value of that Roger Rabbit Key ring exceed ten bucks?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“How about fifteen?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Twenty-five, then?”
“No.”
“Fifty?”
“Sorry.”
“A hundred?”
A head shake. Bellitto’s smile had broadened. He was enjoying himself.
This was crazy. The guy couldn’t mean it. Turn down a hundred bucks for that little piece of junk?
Jack took a quick look at Bellitto’s ears. Nope, no hearing aids.
Okay, time to call his bluff.
“How about five hundred?”
Another head shake.
Smug son of a bitch, Jack thought. How can he say no? All right, one more try. This one has to get him.
“Mister, I will give you one thousand dollars—are you listening?—one thousand US dollars for that key ring. And that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
“I prefer to leave it, thank you.”
Jack’s shock was tinged with relief. He’d allowed himself to get carried away here. A thousand bucks for a worthless little tchotchke like that? Who was crazier here?
He looked back at Roger Rabbit, whose eyes still held that imploring look.
“Sorry, guy. Maybe next time.”
“No next time,” Bellitto said. “When I said, ‘Not for sale,’ it was not a sales ploy. I meant it.”
“I guess you did. Still, can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He glanced at his watch. “Past closing time, I’m afraid.”
Jack said, “Yeah,” and started for the door.
“Tell me, Mr … . ?”
“Butler,” Jack said.
“Tell me, Mr. Butler. Would you really have paid me a thousand dollars for that key ring?”
“That’s what I offered.”
“Talk is cheap, Mr. Butler.”
“So it is. And this is just more talk. So I guess we’ll never really know, will we.”
Jack gave him a wave and stepped through the door into the twilight.
Eli Bellitto … the man seemed a model of cool control. Jack sensed no seething cauldron of violence readying to erupt. Sensed no passion at all, in fact. Admittedly it had been a brief meeting, and in his experience he’d found that people were rarely what they seemed, but Eli Bellitto seemed a long way from a new-moon lunatic.
He hoped he was right. He’d play watchdog for three nights and that would be that.
He made a show of casual window shopping, doing a slow sidestep to the end of the building, then crossing the street to a furniture store, already closed. At six sharp Jack saw the redheaded trainee clerk step out and head up toward Houston, followed by the older woman. With a clattering chorus, metal shutters began unrolling from their cylindrical bins over the windows. Bellitto came out a moment later and locked them down. Then he rolled down a similar shutter over the door by hand. After that was locked, he strolled right, turning the corner and moving a dozen paces down the side street to where he entered a doorway.
Home sweet home, Jack thought. Now be a good boy, Eli Bellitto, and stay in for the night. Catch up on all those Sopranos episodes you missed during the season.
He crossed back over to Bellitto’s side, to check the street number, and he heard something crunch beneath his feet. He looked down and found a scatter of broken glass, some pieces frosted, some clear. As he moved on he glanced up and found the source: the lens of the street light had come loose and fallen. No … the bulb was missing, or broken off. He thought he could make out a couple of deep dings in the metal casing. Yeah. No question. Someone had shot out the street light. With a pellet gun, most likely.
Jack looked around. Didn’t like this. The dead light would leave Bellitto’s end of the street in darkness. Who’d done it? Bellitto himself? Or someone out to get him?
Jack continued to move down the block until he came to a small bistro across the street. A few couples sat around
the white resin tables on the sidewalk. Jack positioned himself at one that gave him a view of Bellitto’s door, and ordered a Corona, no lime. He’d nurse a few, eventually have dinner, killing the hours till darkness. Then he’d find a shadowed spot with a view of the doorway—not too hard with the street light out—and camp there till midnight.
Jack kicked himself for taking this nothing job. Instead of sitting alone at this rickety table, he could be hanging at Gia’s, having a drink with her and playing sous chef as she fixed dinner.
But Edward had been so frightened that his brother might hurt somebody, and Jack had responded to that. Still, he could have let this one go by. He’d promised Gia he’d stay away from the rough jobs. At worst, this one might involve a little roll and tumble, but he didn’t think he’d have too much trouble controlling Eli Bellitto.
He wished all his fix-its were like the Kentons’. He was looking forward to Tuesday’s encounter with Madame Pomerol. That had all the makings of a fun fix.