tiny starbursts off their curved surfaces. He couldn’t have said why, but the memory of that glowing tableau began to calm him.
John Smith suggested breakfast. But the thought of swallowing anything solid made Nestor bilious. He settled for a single cup of black instant coffee. Christalmighty, the americanos drank weak coffee.
And then they were in John Smith’s Volvo, heading for the Isle of Capri restaurant. John Smith was so right. When he woke up during the night and when he first rose from the couch, he had no memory of where he had left his car.
They drove over to Jacinto Street and then turned down Latifondo Avenue… and the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that John Smith was a good person. Last night the americano had literally taken him in… off the street!… and provided him a place to spend the night… and even waited around all morning to let him sleep as long as he wanted and drive him to his car. His fear of what this tall pale periodista americano might write began to recede. ¡Yo no creo el Miami Herald!… but John Smith was right on about how the powers that be would twist his story… his career… his life! any way that suited them best, as long as he had no voice to speak up for him… even if it had to be in the pages of the Yo No Creo Herald.
“John,” he said—and then he paused, because he had surprised himself. He had never called him by his first name before, or any name, for that matter. “I want to thank you for everything. When I finished the shift last night—I mean, talk about bummed out—I was… I was hard up as I’ve ever been in my life. I owe you one… no, a shitload. If there’s anything I can do for you, just say it.”
John Smith didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at Nestor at first. He was still looking straight ahead at the road when he finally responded. “As a matter of fact, there is something. But I figured this wasn’t the right time. You’ve got enough to think about for one day.”
“No, go ahead. If I can do something for you, I’ll do it.”
Another long pause, and now John Smith turned toward Nestor. “Well… I need access to police files”—he glanced at the road and then back toward Nestor—“to see what information they may have on a certain individual, a man who lives in Sunny Isles.”
“Who is he? What’s his name?” said Nestor.
John Smith said, “Well… I haven’t mentioned this to anyone except my editors. But if I’m right, it’s a big story. His name is Sergei Korolyov. Does that ring a bell?”
“Ummm… no.”
“You don’t remember this Russian oligarch—that was what they kept calling him, a Russian oligarch—this Russian who gave a bunch of valuable paintings to the Miami Museum of Art? It wasn’t that long ago… a bunch of Chagalls, Kandinskys, and uhhh this Russian ‘Suprematist,’ he called himself… his name’s gone right out of my head, but he’s a famous modern artist. Anyway, the museum figured these paintings were worth close to seventy million dollars—Malevich! That was the guy’s name!—the one who called himself a Suprematist… Kazimir Malevich. This was such a gold mine, the museum changed its name to the Korolyov Museum of Art.”
Nestor gave John Smith a long puzzled look. The americano had lost him the moment he mentioned Seagulls or whatever the artist’s name was… and Kadinsky and Malayvitch… and the Korolyov Museum of Art, for that matter.
“The thing is,” said John Smith, “I got a very solid tip that they’re all forgeries, all those seventy million dollars’ worth of paintings.”
“No shit!”
“No, my source is a very serious guy. He’s not the type who’s just full of gossip.”
“Did the museum give him any money for these paintings?”
“No, and that’s the funny thing. These were straight-up donations. All he got out of it was dinner and a lot of flattery.”
The fantasy’s lights dimmed. “Mierda,” said Nestor. “If he didn’t get any money out of it, I don’t know if it’s even a crime. I’d have to ask somebody.”
“I don’t know, either,” said John Smith, “but either way, it’s a hell of a story. I mean, there they all were, the mayor, the governor, Maurice Fleischmann, every hotshot in Miami, all trying to outdo each other piling praise on an impostor. It reminds me of Gogol’s play The Inspector General. Did you