to his name, either. Liza had envisioned a small tough guy, like the sort of characters Jimmy Cagney played in those old black-and-white gangster films on the classic movie channels. An exbantamweight boxer, maybe.
The real-life Phil Patrick wasn’t so much a bantam as a big chicken. Liza knew chickens. One of her grammar school classmates, Suzy Dorling, had lived on the outskirts of town—where all the Californians were erecting their McMansions these days. Back then the area was considerably more rural, and Suzy’s parents had raised chickens. Liza had gotten to see the dynamics of a flock, including the pecking order. There was always one scruffy-looking chicken that all the rest could pick on—or peck on.
Phil Patrick was the human equivalent.
They had first spotted him while they were parking. Patrick was still setting up for business, struggling to push a decrepit wooden bin full of tattered paperbacks. He chained it to the gate in front of his store. The heavy steel barrier was only pushed far enough to open the door.
By the time Liza, Kevin, and Michael crossed the street, Patrick was back inside the store. He was a tall, skinny type, a little too tall for the sagging jeans he wore. He had some sort of rash that left the exposed skin on his hands and face blotchy, cracked, and red. His quick nervous mannerisms only increased his chicken resemblance. Even his moth-eaten, out-at-the-elbows sweater looked like bedraggled plumage.
“What can I do for you folks?” He stood rubbing some sort of salve into his hands with quick, obsessive gestures, his head jittering and his eyes darting around as he addressed them. Liza wondered if he’d had to deal with so many customers at once lately.
“We understand you picked up messages for Chris Dalen,” Kevin began.
Patrick’s head began bobbing faster, as if he were a chicken working up the nerve to try taking a peck at them. “I dunno why people are digging that up,” he complained. “Some guy was on the phone right when I opened up, tryna put the screws to me, sayin’ how bad things were gonna get if I didn’t tell him everything I knew about that damned Mondrian.”
His voice came out as a whine, and his lower lip hung down to reveal snaggled, stained teeth. “That’s something that’s been over and done with for years. Sometimes people would call or drop a message for Chris—whether it was about jobs or what, I didn’t ask. Then, every week or so, Chris would call in. He’d buy a book or throw me a few bucks. But I ain’t seen him since before his big score. That would have to be nearly fifteen years, now.”
Liza wasn’t sure Patrick was as legitimate as he claimed to be. Standing in this dark, cluttered space, breathing in the smells of decaying wood and crumbling paper—with a whiff of unwashed Phil Patrick on the side—she figured the man needed something more than book sales to pay the rent on this place.
On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine Dalen using this pathetic character as anything but a go-between.
“So you never had anything to do with the Mondrian?” she asked.
“Nothin’—except for hangin’ it up on the wall here.”
“What?!” Kevin and Michael’s hopes of finding the stolen painting on the humble wall of the shop crashed pretty quickly.
Oh, it had the juxtaposed squared-off blocks of color usually associated with the Mondrian style. But it was just as obvious that this Mondrian was a page-sized photo cut from a magazine. Even in the dim light of the bookstore, it had faded against the varnished wood of the wall.
“There it is,” Phil Patrick said, “Composition in Blue, Red, and Green.”
“ That ,” Kevin burst out, “is worth three million bucks?”
Patrick shrugged. “Mondrians don’t come cheap. And this one was kinda special. That Mondrian guy wasn’t real fond of the color green—he didn’t use it much. So this thing was worth another coupla bagfuls of money from the dot-communist who
The real-life Phil Patrick wasn’t so much a bantam as a big chicken. Liza knew chickens. One of her grammar school classmates, Suzy Dorling, had lived on the outskirts of town—where all the Californians were erecting their McMansions these days. Back then the area was considerably more rural, and Suzy’s parents had raised chickens. Liza had gotten to see the dynamics of a flock, including the pecking order. There was always one scruffy-looking chicken that all the rest could pick on—or peck on.
Phil Patrick was the human equivalent.
They had first spotted him while they were parking. Patrick was still setting up for business, struggling to push a decrepit wooden bin full of tattered paperbacks. He chained it to the gate in front of his store. The heavy steel barrier was only pushed far enough to open the door.
By the time Liza, Kevin, and Michael crossed the street, Patrick was back inside the store. He was a tall, skinny type, a little too tall for the sagging jeans he wore. He had some sort of rash that left the exposed skin on his hands and face blotchy, cracked, and red. His quick nervous mannerisms only increased his chicken resemblance. Even his moth-eaten, out-at-the-elbows sweater looked like bedraggled plumage.
“What can I do for you folks?” He stood rubbing some sort of salve into his hands with quick, obsessive gestures, his head jittering and his eyes darting around as he addressed them. Liza wondered if he’d had to deal with so many customers at once lately.
“We understand you picked up messages for Chris Dalen,” Kevin began.
Patrick’s head began bobbing faster, as if he were a chicken working up the nerve to try taking a peck at them. “I dunno why people are digging that up,” he complained. “Some guy was on the phone right when I opened up, tryna put the screws to me, sayin’ how bad things were gonna get if I didn’t tell him everything I knew about that damned Mondrian.”
His voice came out as a whine, and his lower lip hung down to reveal snaggled, stained teeth. “That’s something that’s been over and done with for years. Sometimes people would call or drop a message for Chris—whether it was about jobs or what, I didn’t ask. Then, every week or so, Chris would call in. He’d buy a book or throw me a few bucks. But I ain’t seen him since before his big score. That would have to be nearly fifteen years, now.”
Liza wasn’t sure Patrick was as legitimate as he claimed to be. Standing in this dark, cluttered space, breathing in the smells of decaying wood and crumbling paper—with a whiff of unwashed Phil Patrick on the side—she figured the man needed something more than book sales to pay the rent on this place.
On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine Dalen using this pathetic character as anything but a go-between.
“So you never had anything to do with the Mondrian?” she asked.
“Nothin’—except for hangin’ it up on the wall here.”
“What?!” Kevin and Michael’s hopes of finding the stolen painting on the humble wall of the shop crashed pretty quickly.
Oh, it had the juxtaposed squared-off blocks of color usually associated with the Mondrian style. But it was just as obvious that this Mondrian was a page-sized photo cut from a magazine. Even in the dim light of the bookstore, it had faded against the varnished wood of the wall.
“There it is,” Phil Patrick said, “Composition in Blue, Red, and Green.”
“ That ,” Kevin burst out, “is worth three million bucks?”
Patrick shrugged. “Mondrians don’t come cheap. And this one was kinda special. That Mondrian guy wasn’t real fond of the color green—he didn’t use it much. So this thing was worth another coupla bagfuls of money from the dot-communist who