Page 30 of A Long Con

Now, as Steve had suggested, O’Bell seemed paralyzed. His lips didn’t even move as he stared straight ahead, breathing very shallow.

Berkeley whisked my plate away. “No more! And you’re coming outside with me!”

Uncaring about O’Bell, Berkeley dragged me out the front door, then down a side alley. The stench of urine here was so bad I nearly puked, but that’s what Berkeley instructed me to do anyway.

“Puke!” he commanded, so I did.

I was familiar with sticking my finger down my throat. I choked up all the papery, fishy pieces, so intact I could practically count them. I was massively relieved when I saw I upchucked the shark fin—at least the one I didn’t chomp on. When I tasted sake in the puke, I knew I was good.

Standing straight, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I think O’Bell got the plate meant for me.”

Berkeley said, “I do, too. I saw you switch them. That fucking chef is up to no good.”

“Yeah, but it was O’Bell who tried to get rid of us. I doubt he was willing to give us back the painting to begin with.”

“Speaking of, if he’s fucking dying, maybe we can wring his hotel information out of him.”

I clapped Berkeley on the shoulder. “Good idea.”

We zipped back inside the restaurant. We had to shove against at least ten people who were trying to get out, maybe wanting to distance themselves from the drama.

“Guy’s fucking dying,” one hipster told me.

Neither sushi chef was in sight as we rounded the bar to find O’Bell on his back, arms and legs splayed, muttering shit. Melanie, as the chosen “woman” in the room, was obligated to squat and hover over him, but there was nothing she could do. Steve furiously googled on his phone, so I asked him,

“Is there any remedy?”

“Apparently not.”

Berkeley asked, “Not even puking?”

“Well, puking is a sign of poisoning, but he hasn’t puked.”

I squatted next to the guy. He was panting like a winded dog. I slapped his face lightly and took up one of his hands in mine.

“Buddy, buddy. Can you talk? Which hotel is our painting in? Where were you staying?”

“Painting?” Melanie asked Berkeley, who kneeled on the other side of the patient.

“Yes. He bought a painting of mine in error. We need it back.”

Melanie appeared touched by this. “Oh, Jeez! Dennis! Mister O’Bell! Tell them where the painting is!”

O’Bell croaked out, “The Marsella. Avenue Centanario.”

“I know that place!” whispered Melanie.

“Antonio,” said O’Bell, still calling me by my mistaken name. I rattled and squeezed his hand. “Follow the ink,” he intoned.

“Ink? What ink?” everyone whispered, hushed.

“Follow the ink . . . “

By this time, I had to hold my ear to O’Bell’s expiring mouth. Ink. Something clicked in my brain, and I remembered the advice of Ira Hogshead.

I looked at both of O’Bell’s hands. No ink. Since he was shirtless, it was easy to scan his other ink. Yes. There, on his arm. A rectangle of color had been painted onto his forearm like a bold Rothko painting. Three, maybe four colors, that was it. Just a colorful rectangle, much like Ira Hogshead’s tattoo.

Whipping out my phone, I snapped a few photos of it, then tossed down his arm. I squiggled his phone from its cradle and went to the bar. I poured myself some sake, since the bar was now empty aside from us. This time I liked the relaxing feeling the drink gave me. It seemed to expand my mind so it was able to stretch farther back, recall certain things. Yes. That airhead friend of Berkeley’s, Cloud, had suggested that Ira’s ink resembled a Navajo rug. So did O’Bell’s.