Authors: David Stukas
Biceps Of Death (21 page)
“Just fantastic,” I said.
“The rest of John’s co-conspirators really were former cops and they supplied the muscle, the equipment and their knowledge of alarm systems and police and forensic procedures to stay several steps ahead of the law. All of John’s henchmen have been rounded up, but alas, the Van Goghs are still missing. Bekkman stashed them somewhere safe and who knows if they’ll ever turn up. Oh, the reason Bekkman was living across from the Metropolitan Museum was because he was planning a major break in there. He was studying everything about the museum from security to building layouts and points of entry ... the police discovered his copious notes when they drilled his apartment safe open. It’s all over the news.”
“So who tried to run me down ... more than once?”
“That,” Monette sighed, “we may never know. Probably Chet Ponyweather, someone from Frank Addams, Addams’s IPO. brokerage firm, or Sheffield. I can say for sure that it wasn’t Bekkman, McMillan or any of their gang because they preferred to bump people off quietly.”
“Chloroforming them, mainly because their victims were big and strong,” I added.
“In Cody and Eric’s case, yes, but in yours, I think it was a quiet form of murder. No loud bangs, no noisy struggles or anything that could attract attention. Plus, they often used chloroform to knock out security guards while breaking into museums, art galleries or private apartments. Oh yes, one final thing: I used the photos of my boss, Hardcourt, to get him to forget about me putting that thyme on the extinct list, and to give me a nice little raise. And they all lived happily every after, the end.”
22
You Can’t Go Home Again—But Who Wants To?
A
month and a half later, I was well on my way to recovery. I had outgrown the cane and was walking miles on my own. The hip still hurt when I spread my legs wide, but as Michael suggested, “That’s a situation that you shouldn’t face too often.” Marc was with me the entire time, helping me, pushing me, and packing for me. My new apartment seemed like a palace to me, the 840 square feet feeling like Versailles. The view was not too bad. My apartment looked west and I could actually see bits and pieces of the Hudson River between the buildings that blocked a good part of my view. But I didn’t care. It was mine, and I could afford the co-op fees with my meager salary.
month and a half later, I was well on my way to recovery. I had outgrown the cane and was walking miles on my own. The hip still hurt when I spread my legs wide, but as Michael suggested, “That’s a situation that you shouldn’t face too often.” Marc was with me the entire time, helping me, pushing me, and packing for me. My new apartment seemed like a palace to me, the 840 square feet feeling like Versailles. The view was not too bad. My apartment looked west and I could actually see bits and pieces of the Hudson River between the buildings that blocked a good part of my view. But I didn’t care. It was mine, and I could afford the co-op fees with my meager salary.
And the big day came. Time to say goodbye to the old life and welcome to the new. I asked Marc to wait downstairs for me while I locked up my old apartment for the last time. I walked around the old dump, actually feeling like I was going to miss it in my own perverse way. Despite its size, despite the lack of heat in winter and overabundance in summer, it was the place I had spent a lot of my life and where a lot of memories were made. But it was time to move on, to grow.
And so I closed the door on the sordid apartment that I had called home for over a decade and I headed down the steps of my building to catch a cab with Marc to my new co-op in Chelsea. Things were actually getting better in my life. Sometimes in life, the little guy wins. You just gotta learn to hang in there and believe, believe, believe and have great friends who would do anything for you.
Of course, a little blackmail certainly helps things along.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10022
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2004 by David Stukas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8805-9
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