Читать книгу The Painted Gun - Bradley Spinelli - Страница 14

8

The next morning I woke up hacking and took a long, hot shower. I whipped up a quick breakfast of poached eggs on toast and went back to square one: the painting in my garage. I looked at it for a solid hour but saw nothing I hadn’t seen before. Me, the barber, the signature, the date . . . it was good brushwork, good composition, and a good likeness, but I’m not an art critic. I’m an info guy, and the information I needed was, where is the artist?

I went down to the Schoolhouse Deli and worked the pay phone.

“Good morning, Dalton Gallery, this is Susan Dalton, can I help you?”

“Susan, hello. My name’s David Crane.”

“And what can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bring up a difficult subject, but I was in the gallery the other day. The day your brother, ah . . .”

There was a stiff pause on the line. “I see. And what exactly do you want?”

“I don’t want to trouble you, Miss Dalton, but I was hoping I could come down and ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve already told the police everything—”

“I’m not with the police, Miss Dalton, I’m a journalist, and it would be a big help to me if you could spare a few moments. Can I come down this afternoon?”

“I can’t . . . I can’t talk about it here, it’s too—”

“Let me buy you lunch.”

She chewed that over. “All right. Meet me at Zuni at one o’clock.”

Expensive taste, but the hell with it. I was a rich man.

* * *

I was there early, fiddling with a fork as a surrogate cigarette and eyeing the door. Susan came striding in about a quarter past the hour, looking very smart in a skirt and a suit jacket, her blond hair pulled back severely, dark shades on her face. She had the same thin lips as her brother, but on her face they lent an air of elegance and mystery, like she knew something but you’d have to beg to get it out of her. Seeing her for the second time, I realized what I hadn’t quite noticed the day before at the gallery: she was hot stuff. The conservative clothes couldn’t hide the voluptuous body straining against the fabric.

I caught her at the bar and fumbled through my introduction, showing her to the table. I was relieved when she said she wanted a drink, and we ordered Bloody Marys and I grabbed the bull by the horns and ordered a dozen oysters—Malpeques, Kumamotos, and Wellfleets. Turned out she had been a freelance journalist before getting into telecommunications and had done gigs over at the Chronicle, so we cut up and cracked jokes about my old cronies, laughing like college kids. She was getting comfortable and I thought if I could get her at ease it would all go smoothly. After a mutual laugh at the expense of one of my drunk ex-editors, she got strangely quiet.

“David.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry . . . about what happened to you with the Guardian.”

“Oh . . . you heard about that.”

“Yes. I didn’t recognize your name at first, but when you were talking about . . . Anyway, I put it together.”

I shrugged. “You live, you die.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“I hope you don’t blame yourself.”

“It’s done. Really.” I signaled the waiter just to change the subject, but our food was already coming. We ate quietly, stealing glances at one another. I thought I felt her stockinged leg brush mine, but I was sure it was my imagination.

When we both had frothy cappuccinos in front of us, I opened it up: “How familiar are you with the workings of your brother’s gallery?”

She shifted in her seat. “I was Jeffrey’s . . . unofficial consultant from the very beginning. I know nothing about art, but I know a thing or two about business, and I know how to deal with people. Jeffrey . . . was not a people person.”

“He lived alone, I take it?”

“Yes. He had a lover every now and then—he was gay, I guess you knew that. But the gallery was really his life. It was all he thought about. He loved art, he hated artists, and he couldn’t get enough of either.”

“Do you have any idea why he might have been killed? Did he have any enemies, any—”

“No. Really, I haven’t a clue. This whole thing has been like a roller-coaster ride. I’m trying to get his affairs in order, our parents are coming out for the service, and meanwhile I’m trying to keep his gallery from going under. That’s all he would have wanted.”

I let that linger a bit, taking in the ambience of the fading lunchtime rush. She sipped her cappuccino and set it down with long, slender fingers. “Susan, what do you know about an artist named Ashley?”

She gave me a wan, sympathetic grin. “I had forgotten about her until that awful man came in yesterday to pick up her painting. But Jeffrey mentioned her several times—she drove him crazy. All the artists drove him crazy, but Ashley especially. He thought she was incredibly talented, but she always painted the same subject, and he thought she would be difficult to sell. And she wouldn’t take any advice from him at all. He called her ‘the diva.’ I never met her, but I think he discovered her at a group show or something. She had a studio . . . somewhere. I forget.”

“Listen, anything you could find out about her would be a fantastic help. I think—”

“Wait a minute. It’s you, isn’t it? That painting at the gallery—it’s you.”

“It did look a bit like me. But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

She leveled a steamy gaze at me and for a moment I imagined her Marin attire matted up on my bathroom floor. “Mm-hmm.”

“I promise you,” I said in my most convincing voice, “I’ve never met her.”

“So what is it? You think Ashley had something to do with Jeffrey’s death? I thought it must be that man Serena saw—”

“I think it was. But yes, I think it has something to do with Ashley.”

“Why?”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to tell you too much, Susan, and to be honest, I don’t know that much. But Ashley’s gone missing. I was hired to find her. I discovered that she had a piece at your brother’s gallery and went to talk to him. Half an hour later he was . . .”

“Dead. I see.”

“Susan, you don’t seem all that troubled—”

“Jeffrey tested positive for HIV years ago. He went into full-blown AIDS about six months back. The cocktails weren’t really helping, his health was deteriorating slowly but steadily . . . I’ve had some time to deal with the possibility of his death. Perhaps it’s better this way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re all sorry.”

I thought about that. “Did Jeffrey keep files, or any kind of background information on his artists?”

She shook her head. “He did, he was quite good about it, but they were all destroyed or went missing when . . .” She trailed off.

“Right. I saw the office.”

She said nothing. We were drifting away from each other like continents.

I paid the check and gave her my card. “If anything turns up—anything—or if you think of anything . . .”

“I will.” She laid that gaze on me again and I excused myself quickly.

* * *

When Susan called later that night I hoped it was social.

“David? This may sound a little forward, but—”

“I’m sorry, can I call you back in just a few minutes?” Don’t hang up, gorgeous, my phone is tapped. She didn’t speak at first and I didn’t breathe.

“Um . . . sure.”

She gave me her number and I ran down the street to the pay phone and called her back, almost panting.

“Can you come over?”

My heart did a double take but it clearly wasn’t a booty call. She lived in the Marina; I had to forgive her for that. Yuppies come in all shapes and sizes. I found a parking space on Chestnut and walked up Bay and found her little complex and rang the bell. She answered the door in a comfortable little sundress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination—or perhaps too much. Mine was running wild.

“I’m so glad you came by. I found something, and it just made me so nervous that I—it sounds stupid, but I just didn’t want to tell you about it over the phone.” It didn’t sound stupid to me.

“Show me.”

She showed me a portable file cabinet, one of those plastic things you get at the Container Store. “I was at Jeffrey’s apartment. He had a small place in the Castro. I was just going through some things and I found this. It was weird—it was stuck in the back of the closet, kind of hidden.” She was getting herself all worked up into a cute frenzy. “I’m sorry—I’m terrible. Can I get you something?”

I settled on a Sierra Nevada and she sat me down at an Ikea table. The apartment was small but tastefully decorated: rich, plush, off-white carpet, family photos, a television that wasn’t quite the center of attention. I figured the kitchen would have china that matched the curtains, and the sheets on her bed probably matched her underwear.

Turns out Dalton was less of a gallery owner than an artist cultivator. He coached his artists and pushed them in directions he found appropriate, and kept intricate files on each of them.

“This is the one I wanted you to see.”

The file, a slim manila folder, was labeled simply, Ashley, and contained a number of neat, handwritten field notes, for lack of a better term. It was beautiful . . . Dalton, that wonderful, perfidious son of a bitch, had mapped out his brain for us. I skimmed over it for the highlights:

Went to show at Project Artaud, 499 Alabama—bullshit Mission School ilk. Collaboration between Jason Masello and the mononymous “Ashley.” Calling it “collaboration” is a travesty; they’re each doing their own thing and apparently hating each other for it. Probably lovers hoping to find a common ground—and failing. Masello is an idiot. Ashley Fenn is a genius.

I jumped. “Fenn? That’s her last name?”

Susan nodded. “I think so. But look at this,” Susan said, flipping past a copy of the gallery guide with a couple photos, descriptions of the works, and another bizarre bio of our Ashley to direct me to another page of Dalton’s notes: Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview.

“Bayview? Pretty rough neighborhood for a young girl.”

“Keep reading.”

Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview. Took a long time to convince her to let me come—she swore me to secrecy, to never tell anyone where it was. Strange—not convinced it WAS her studio—it looked like she brought finished works into an empty space. No sign of any work actually being done there. Regardless, can’t believe one so young has such command of brush, palette, and composition. Like she was born with it. She has a fine eye, is an obsessive observer. You can feel her watching you, it’s almost creepy. Wanted to offer her a solo show immediately, but every painting is a portrait of the same man. Some are complex enough to not be considered just portraits, but . . . no. Encouraged her to branch out; she was indignant. Conversation was strained and difficult. Asked her who the subject was and she said she didn’t know. “I see him in my dreams.” Bullshit. He has to be a lover or a crush. They’re too good, too consistent. She knows him from life—or a thousand photographs. I said, “These are paintings to die for,” and she laughed and said, “They really are. You have no idea.” Woman needs a shrink and a prescription.

I looked up at Susan, who was hovering over me expectantly. I hoped she couldn’t see the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. She put a hand on the back of my chair. “Paintings to die for,” she said. “That gave me the creeps.”

“Me too.” There was more but I couldn’t concentrate. “Susan, let me have this.”

“David, I’d like to, but I think I should give it to the police. Look at the last page in the file.”

I skipped ahead.

Convinced Ashley to give me a piece for the 5x6 group show. You would think she didn’t want to sell anything. She insisted on absolute secrecy, still won’t tell me her last name—I didn’t divulge that Masello already leaked it. She said, “These paintings could get me killed.” I told her she was being overly dramatic. She grabbed me, very disconcerting, and made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone about her studio or her other work. “This is nitroglycerin. You can’t tell anyone about me. I’m a dangerous girl.” I’m sure it’s all in her mind but a promise is a promise. She’s unbalanced, and I worry she could easily become unhinged. I wonder if she was abused. Before I left she asked if I thought all our dreams came true in heaven. I told her I hoped so, and she said, “Bless you” and gave me a haunted look. What a nut job.

“Susan,” I said, “just give me two days with this before you go to the police. All right? Let me make a copy. I want to talk to this Masello character before the cops get to him and spook him for real.”

“All right,” she said, nodding. “Take it.”

I finished my beer and was on my way out when something about the way she was fingering the strap on her dress made me pause.

“What?” she asked, looking at me with radiance, her head slightly askew. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” I took her face in my hands and kissed her—a deep, soul-destroying kiss that lasted half an hour and took us into the bedroom. We made furtive, silent love for what seemed like a week. The sheets didn’t match her underwear; she wasn’t wearing any.