“There’s a problem with that, Victor,” Rizzoli said patiently. “If you accuse him of cheating he’ll kill you, and if you don’t pay him he’ll kill you.”
“Oh, my God,” Korontzis moaned. “I’m a dead man.”
“I really feel terrible about this. Are you sure there’s no way you could raise…?”
“It would take me a hundred lifetimes. A thousand lifetimes. Everything I have is mortgaged. Where would I get…?”
And at that moment, Tony Rizzoli had a sudden inspiration. “Wait a minute, Victor! Didn’t you say that those artifacts in the museum were worth a lot of money?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with…?”
“Just let me finish. You said that the copies were as good as the originals.”
“Of course they’re not. Any expert could tell…”
“Whoa. Hold it. What if one of those artifacts was missing and a copy was put in its place? I mean, when I was in the museum there were a lot of tourists going through. Could they tell the difference?”
“No, but…I…I see what you mean. No, I could never do that.”
Rizzoli said soothingly, “I understand, Victor. I just thought maybe the museum could spare one little artifact. They’ve got so many.”
Victor Korontzis shook his head. “I’ve been the curator at that museum for twenty years. I could never think of such a thing.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even suggested it. The only reason I thought of it was because it could save your life.” Rizzoli stood up and stretched. “Well, it’s getting late. I guess your wife will be wondering where you are.”
Victor Korontzis was staring at him. “It could save my life? How?”
“It’s simple. If you took one of those antiques…”
“Antiquities.”
“…antiquities…and gave it to me, I could get it out of the country and sell it for you, and give Prizzi the money you owe him. I think I could persuade him to hold off that long. And you’d be off the hook. I don’t have to tell you that I’d be taking a big risk for you, because if I got caught I’d be in a lot of trouble. But I’m offering to do it because I feel I owe you one. It’s my fault you got into this mess.”
“You’re a good friend,” Victor Korontzis said. “But I can’t blame you. I didn’t have to get in that game. You were trying to do me a favor.”
“I know. I just wish it had turned out differently. Well, let’s get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night, Victor.”
“Good night, Tony.”
The call came in to the museum early the following morning. “Korontzis?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sal Prizzi.”
“Good morning, Mr. Prizzi.”
“I’m callin’ about that little matter of sixty-five thousand dollars. What time can I pick it up?”
Victor Korontzis began to perspire heavily. “I…I don’t have the money right now, Mr. Prizzi.”
There was an ominous silence at the other end of the phone. “What the hell kind of game are you playing with me?”
“Believe me, I’m not playing any games. I…”
“Then I want my fucking money. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time does your museum close?”
“Six…six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there. Have the money for me, or I’ll break your face in. And after that, I’m really going to hurt you.”
The line went dead.
Victor Korontzis sat there in a panic. He wanted to hide. But where? He was engulfed by a feeling of total desperation, caught in a vortex of “ifs”: If only I hadn’t gone to the casino that night; if only I had never met Tony Rizzoli; if only I had kept my promise to my wife never to gamble again. He shook his head to clear it. I have to do something—now.
And at that moment, Tony Rizzoli walked into his office. “Good morning, Victor.”
It was six-thirty. The staff had gone home, and the museum had been closed for half an hour. Victor Korontzis and Tony Rizzoli were watching the front door.
Korontzis was getting increasingly nervous. “What if he says no? What if he wants his money tonight?”
“I’ll handle him,” Tony Rizzoli said. “Just let me do the talking.”