The Cup of Life

The Cup of Life - 2

Emma Robichaux's car was waiting for us at the end of the street. It was hidden between two square apartment buildings, with cracked plaster on both that showed bare bricks like the exposed guts of a fresh kill. Good move—the car was a powder-blue little Volkswagen Beetle, with a paint job that looked made yesterday. Not a fancy rich people kind of car at all, but it said personality, and it said money just loudly enough that Miss Robichaux had clocked the need to park it out of sight.

When I climbed in, I smelled lemon air freshener and new leather upholstery. Nice.

"So," I said as she got behind the wheel, tossed her fancy trenchcoat in the back seat, and started the car. Her keychain had a charm with a small scorpion in age-yellowed resin, swinging from side to side as she turned the key in the ignition. "You got over the whole 'Rosemary hasn't aged since the 1940's' thing pretty damn fast, I have to say."

Miss Robichaux didn't look at me—she drove as if the road were lined with eggs she had to try not to crush—but her full lips curved into a cold smile. "In my line of work, I can't afford to waste anyone's time with skepticism. Look in the glove compartment."

I blinked, then I nodded and pressed the button to open the matchbox-sized little nook. Nothing was inside except a Zippo lighter, a pack of tissues, and an old, laminated sepia-tinted photograph. I pulled it out—I doubted that Miss Robichaux wanted me to hand her a tissue—and took a look at the two people in the picture, standing side by side. When I saw who they were... my throat tightened, and my heartbeat sped up to a painful staccato.

The photo showed an old, dignified neighborhood in Calais, with an austere classical-style facade supported by two Doric columns in the background. Standing before it on the marble stairs were a man and a woman. The man wore the uniform of the French Foreign Legion; he was built like a broomstick, sandy blond, and had a long, angular face softened by his kind hazel eyes. Not that I could see the exact shade of those eyes in this picture. The woman was as tall as he was, with a simple canvas blouse that was more durable than stylish, slacks, and plain leather boots. She had black hair, cut just short enough to still look fashionable, and a nose that had been broken a long, long time ago. One of her arms was slung around the man's shoulders and she was grinning into the camera, as if he had told her the best joke in the world.

That was all nostalgia, of course. The joke he'd told me that day was terrible. That's why it had cracked me up.

"Very clear resemblance," Miss Robichaux said softly.

I shrugged. "Well, it is me. I wouldn't have thought that Joseph kept this photo. We didn't..." That was as much as I could tell her before I choked on my words. We hadn't parted on the kindest of terms. After our last meeting, I hadn't been on speaking terms with him and with his wife Celine, who had taken the picture that day, for the rest of their lives.

"I know," was the clipped reply. "But you did spend a long time working for my grandparents. Smuggling artworks out of occupied French cities, was it?"

I turned away when I felt dark eyes searching my face, to look through the passenger window instead. "Well, more places than just in France, but that's where we were needed the most. Your grandparents and I were a small part of a much bigger effort. Most of the stuff we saved was returned to its place of origin after the war... and some of it was gifted to Eclipse because there was no one left to claim it." I paused. "Not that I've ever been an arts and humanities guy, but I would have liked a little memento myself. Joseph and Celine wouldn't hear of any of the paintings being put anywhere but in a gallery, though. Words were said, et cetera." I'd said most of them. The fact that they'd been completely in the right didn't make the memory sting any less.

A delicate silence descended between us, broken only by the hum of the Beetle's engine. Finally, Miss Robichaux spoke again. "I can't promise you any mementos either."

"Miss Robichaux—"

"Call me Emma."

"Emma," I said, trying out the name like a wine taster sipping an unfamiliar vintage. "That was a long time ago, and I was stupid and sentimental. I deal strictly in cash now. Name the sum first and see if we need to haggle about it."

"How does fifteen thousand sound?" Emma said calmly, and I choked on nothing in particular. "It's all we can spare from our annual budget, and we'll have to discuss legalities later, but I'm willing to part with that money if you can get The Cup of Life back to us."

"Lady," I said, wiping tears from my eyes when I was done coughing. "For fifteen grand, I'd even consider nicking Starry Night for you."

Emma didn't smile this time, but the corners of her mouth twitched. "That won't be necessary—just do the job quickly, and discreetly. Of course, you won't be paid a cent until the painting is on our wall again."

I sighed. "Of course. When are you giving me the location I need to grab it from?"

"Later, when we're at the gallery," Emma said, and her hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "I have to talk first about containment protocol with you. It's best to do it in a safe place."

"My office not safe enough for you?" I paused. My mind had snagged on something about the way she'd said those words. "Wait. I'm not safe enough for you?"

Emma flashed a look at me. "Right now, you're riding in this car because you're the first person my grandparents would have turned to in such a situation. You already know what The Cup of Life is, and you already know it needs a specialist. You wouldn't have been my first choice if we were talking of a different painting."

Another silence, then I turned back from the window to give her a smile. "Fair enough... and I appreciate the honesty. I'll do all I can for you."

"Good," was all she said.

—

When Emma pressed a button in the glass-walled elevator and we started to gently sink into the floor, I could confess that my stomach tightened a little. Dark places and confinement had been pet peeves of mine, so to say, ever since an incident in the 70's with a collapsing mausoleum in Boston. A story for another day.

I would have much rather looked around on the two floors the Eclipse Gallery had above ground, with the classical and the contemporary artists separated for better viewing, but gawking at fine brush strokes and delicate folds of marble wasn't what I was paid for... going to be paid for. Joseph and Celine Robichaux had built a second gallery, one I had never been allowed admittance in; that was the place we were headed to now, apparently one level below the basement of the main building. What would Celine have said to seeing her granddaughter lead me to the family's inner sanctum? Would she think Emma was making the right choice, or cuss her out in fiery French from the afterlife?

Well, it wasn't like I'd ever find out the answer to that question, so I booted it from my mind.

The elevator doors opened on a matchbox-sized vault done all in concrete, with a thick steel door and a keypad on it in front of us. The air down here had a damp chill and a faint funereal scent, like an old tomb that hadn't been opened in a while. Emma ignored me as she crossed the small room with three steps, boot heels clacking on the hard ground, and she typed an eight-number combination into the keypad. I pretended to find the texture of the concrete wall fascinating while she entered the code. Then there was a beep and a soft, hydraulic hiss, and the door slid to the side to allow us entrance.

I stepped over the threshold and took a look around. My first words were as dignified and rational as I could make them in such a place.

"Holy shit."