Page 76 of The Picasso Heist

IT’S DéJà VU all over again.

The only difference this time is a higher thread count. The pillowcase pulled tight over my head doesn’t feel like industrial-grade sandpaper against my face.

“Where are you taking me?”

Of course I ask that, and of course they don’t answer. I can’t see a thing. They tell me nothing. I’m just as I should be, completely in the dark.

We drive for about twenty minutes. Stoplights, turns, extended straightaways, but no bridges or highways.

We’re still in Manhattan. No one’s talking; the radio’s off.

I can hear the sounds of the city—traffic, construction, the occasional voices cutting through the background hum of people walking about—but it’s all just distant noise.

Then everything goes quiet as we take one last turn and slowly roll to a stop.

There’s silence, just the engine idling.

I ask again where they’re taking me, and again they don’t tell me.

Instead, I hear the clanking of chains and the flexing, metal-on-metal grind of hinges.

It’s a garage door being manually opened.

We roll some more; the door closes behind us. Poof! I’ve disappeared.

The pillowcase gets yanked off my head, the doors of the Escalade open, and I get ushered into what could pass for an operating room, although I know we’re not in a hospital.

No, this is where you get taken when going to the hospital isn’t an option, and I don’t mean because you don’t have health insurance.

If you listen closely, you can almost hear the echoes of lead clanking against stainless steel as, one after another, extracted bullets are dropped into a surgical bowl.

When wiseguys get shot and still have a pulse, this is where they come. The mob doctor will see you now.

There’s an operating table, an x-ray machine, and some monitors. I’m told to sit in a folding chair near the wall. My hands get zip-tied, wrist against wrist. The silent treatment continues; my two escorts don’t say a word to me. They look to be waiting for something. Or someone.

I hear the footsteps before I see anything. Dress shoes against wooden stairs from above. The sound gets louder and louder until finally he appears, walking toward me and folding his arms tight against his barrel chest.

“You must be Halston,” he says.

I don’t answer. I look away from him.

He laughs, the laugh of someone who finds almost nothing funny. It’s quick and to the point, a borderline grunt. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He leans forward. “Do you know who I am?”

I still don’t answer.

He’s done being amused. He grabs my face, his thick, bulky hand crushing my cheeks, and forces my head back toward him. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he says through clenched teeth. “And answer me when I ask you a damn question. You got that?”

I nod. His vise-like grip eases, and he lets go of my face. I’ve never been punched, but my jaw now knows the feeling. “I know who you are,” I say. “Everybody does.”

“Because of what you see on TV and in the papers—is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the only way you know who I am, huh? From reading about me? Watching the news?”

“Yes.”

“So how is it that I know about you, Halston?” he asks. “How the hell do I even know your name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do I not believe you?”

“I don’t know that either,” I say.

“You know what I think? I think you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not. I swear to God.”

“You don’t strike me as a very religious person.”

“Okay, I swear on my life, then.”

“Your life, huh? Now we’re talking,” he says.

Dominick Lugieri doesn’t nod or motion with his hand. He simply stares at me, eyes burning into mine. I hear footsteps behind me but I don’t turn. Only when I feel it do I say anything.

“Wait. Stop. What are you doing?”

There’s a gun to my head.

“We’re going to play a little game,” says Lugieri. “Turns out, Malcolm here is like a human polygraph machine. Isn’t that right, Malcolm?”

“Something like that,” he says.

It’s only three words but this Malcolm sounds different than he did when he was doing all the talking back at the Downhome diner. His voice is deeper, as if he’s flipped a switch inside. Not on, but off. There’s no emotion. He’s soulless. Like a stone-cold killer.

“The rules are simple,” says Lugieri. “Tell the truth and you might live. But lie to me one more time and you die.”