Page 85 of The Picasso Heist

NIKOLOV LETS MY first call go to voicemail. Of course he does. He doesn’t recognize the number.

“It’s Halston,” I say after the beep. It’s all that’s needed.

He’s not in Macy’s and he’s not buying a new pair of Ray-Bans at the Sunglass Hut. Ever the man of the people, even in a cashmere sweater, Anton Nikolov is sipping a coffee at a table in Starbucks. Sitting with him, of course, is his ever-present shadow, Blaggy.

Does Blaggy ever get a day off? What’s the schedule for a lead henchman of a Bulgarian mob boss?

I watch as Nikolov listens to my message; he turns to Blaggy the second he hears my voice.

I immediately call again. Nikolov answers before the second ring. He sounds a lot more Bulgarian when he’s angry.

“How the hell did you get this number?” he asks.

“No Hello? No How are you?”

“Fuck your hello, and I don’t care how you are. How do you think I am?”

Say what you will about Anton Nikolov, but he doesn’t waste time with polite chitchat.

“So you’ve heard the news about Bergamo?” I ask.

“More like seen it,” he says. “Along with everyone damn else in the world.”

“A literal fall from grace, huh?”

“You think this is funny? ’Cause I don’t.”

“I get it,” I say.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Why do you think I’m calling? We need to talk.”

“So talk,” he says.

“In person.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“It means you just became a liability,” he says. “Bergamo will do or say anything to avoid going to jail. You realize that, right?”

“So?”

“So who’s to say you won’t do the same?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” I say.

“And that’s why I’d sooner just kill you and be done with it.”

“You have to find me before you can kill me.”

“Oh, I can find you, all right,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Anytime, anywhere. So fast, it will make your head spin, Halston.”

“Right back atcha, Anton,” I say. “By the way, I hear the pumpkin-spice latte is really good. Is that what you’re having?”

And there it is. The head-on-a-swivel, eyes-darting, oh-shit mo-ment that I’ve come to witness in person.

And the best part is he can’t see me. Though it’s not for lack of trying.

Nikolov immediately springs up from his chair and runs out the door of Starbucks, leaving his shadow behind.

Blaggy races to catch up with him, asks what the hell is happening.

Now that I have your attention, Anton.

“Where are you?” asks Nikolov, frantically looking left and right. But the Short Hills mall is packed as usual, people crossing in front of him, his view obstructed no matter which way he turns. He’d have better luck finding Waldo.

“I didn’t figure you for a mall kind of guy,” I say.

“Clever. Very clever. A busy public place to ensure your safety. So what do you want?”

“I told you—we need to talk.”

“So stop with the games,” he says. “Come out from wherever you are and we’ll talk.”

“Not here.”

“Where, then?”

“Your house,” I say.

He laughs. “Maybe you’re not as clever as I thought. My house?”

“Head there now, and I’ll do the same.”

“What’s the catch?” he asks.

“No catch. Just a conversation,” I say. “And if you don’t like what I tell you, you can kill me as many times as you want.”