As Andre soaked in the tub this day, he thought about his latest quest. It would be the prize of his secret collection, and each time he thought about placing it among his other treasures, his heart started to race. The community of serious art collectors was a small one, and the subset who also maintained “private” collections was even more exclusive. Monsieur Garneau's collection was among the finest of the shadow collectors, but it was not the undisputed premier collection.
That distinction went to a ghost, known by the moniker “Falcon.” The Falcon would swoop in and pluck the finest morsels from the best underground private auctions, via phone. He worked through brokers who never met him, either. The Falcon was known for having platinum credit. He paid promptly, usually in precious metals or diamonds, and it was rumored that his pockets were so deep that, were one to drop a coin into them, it would fall for days.
Andre relaxed in the warm water and imagined the envy the Falcon would feel when he learned of he’d been bested.
The ringing of a tiny silver bell indicated that breakfast was nearly ready. Andre pulled himself out of the bath, dried himself, and got dressed. For such a large man, he did have an impeccable sense of fashion. The last part of his pre-breakfast routine was to brush his hair and check the mirror for any follicle which might dare be out of place. His hair feared him almost as much as the staff and rarely misbehaved.
The kitchen smelled of bacon, eggs, toast, and various pastry goodies. A bakery two blocks north would deliver a dozen delectable items each morning, exactly five minutes before the tiny bell was rung. The quality of the pastry had been so pleasing to Andre's palate that he had commissioned twelve items per day, anything the bakery wished to create.
The pastry chef was the only person who Andre truly respected. He called him the “Caravaggio of the croissant.” Over the previous five years, Andre had politely given feedback, mostly positive, about each of their daily creations. He was fair, kind, and incredibly detailed in his pastry editorials. Each night, Andre would write a one page note to the chef. It would be given to the delivery boy, who treated it as if it were a Dead Sea Scroll. The boy, careful not to wrinkle or crease the note in any way, then delivered it to his boss. Andre's insights into the sugary treats were so profound that the pastry chef took each comment as if it had come from a holy pastry monk.
Arthur arrived on time. He took a seat across from Andre, as was his daily custom, and waited until he was asked for the progress report. The cook set a plate of sausage, eggs, and toast in front of Arthur. He would wait to eat until after he had given his report.
Two minutes of relative silence later, Andre looked up, dabbed his face with his napkin, and gave Arthur a nod.
“I have an update. You aren't going to like it.”
Chapter Six
Henry sat and nibbled at his breakfast. He was hungry, but distracted. He was heartsick at Mickey's untimely death. The internal motor that lay dormant most of the time started up, and his instincts began to crowd out the pain. He would focus on finding Mickey's killer. He could grieve later.
The notebook he lifted from Mickey would take time. He looked at the chicken scratches, which sometimes resembled words, and gave a smile as he remembered an afternoon not long after he had been taken under Mickey's wing. Traffic was horrible in midtown that day. Mickey was trying to get to a building adjacent to Central Park. He had a client who lived there and would let him park in the building when he had business in the neighborhood. As it turned out, there was a long-legged, twenty-something blonde who had been promoted from secretary to the wife of an elderly oil tycoon, who might be showing up at the same building.
The oil tycoon suspected, or more aptly, assumed it was likely, she was having an affair. They had been married for two years, and though she still looked good on his arm, her youth and general stupidity had taken their toll on his affection for her. Two years older, wiser, and closer to his final carriage ride, the gentleman had started to think about his legacy. He hired Mickey to get proof that she was stepping out on him.
“Everything alright, honey?” Becky asked as she filled up Henry’s cup of coffee.
Henry smiled. "Just thinking about a friend."
“I noticed the smile on your face. First one of the morning I've seen.” She gave him a wink and went to take the order of a young couple who were holding hands in the corner booth.
Henry looked at the notebook and fell back into his interrupted memory.
“Hey kid, you payin’ attention?! The devil’s in the details!" Mickey had hollered at him as they parked the car. Henry remembered him always asking if he was listening.