Читать книгу The Painted Gun - Bradley Spinelli - Страница 9

3

I woke up late and groggy, shaved my tongue, and tried to wash the taste out of my mouth—like I’d been chewing on an old boot. I showered and cooked a hangover breakfast of hash browns and eggs, sat and smoked sixteen cigarettes, called a cab, and barreled out the door. There was one lead to follow, and I figured I’d better chase it quick.

For the second time in two days I almost killed myself walking out the front door. A flat Fed Ex envelope fumbled its way between my legs and almost sent me sprawling over the rail. I caught my balance, scooped it up, and ripped the zip. Inside was an envelope with my name on it and, sure enough, a check made out to me for $25,000. I almost jumped over the rail voluntarily, but remembered who it was from and doubted it would actually clear.

The cab took me to Molloy’s to pick up Delores. I drove straight to the bank to deposit the check, and on my way home I picked up the Chronicle, the Observer, and the SF Weekly. I sat at my kitchen table with a highlighter and a notepad, making a list of every gallery in town that might conceivably hang works by unknowns, with a special eye out for any group shows. I started pounding numbers.

It was slow going. It took me half a dozen calls just to get over feeling like an idiot: “Hello, are you currently exhibiting anyone by the name of Ashley?”

“Ashley who?”

To avoid answering that question, I settled on playing a dumb college student who knew that a girl from his class had a show but couldn’t remember which gallery.

Then I hit pay dirt.

“Dalton Gallery, can I help you?”

“I was wondering if Ashley is part of your group show.”

There was a pause on the line. He didn’t ask, Ashley who? He was quiet for a moment, breathing through his nose. Then, slowly, like a pot of milk coming to a boil and escalating quickly: “Yes, we do have one of her pieces.”

“Great. How late are you open today?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

It was still early, and it was Wednesday, and I usually go to the range on Wednesdays. I figured I had the time and that it would do me good. I didn’t feel like having to clean my gun later, so I hopped into Delores and rolled down Grand to the 101 access road and pulled into the Jackson Arms. There was a chill in the air, and the characteristic South City morning fog was stubbornly hanging onto the hills.

“Hey, Charlie, how are you?” Charlie, six foot two, had to be close to two bills, with red-cherry cheekbones, long, stringy hair, and a genuine smile that held one broken incisor. A big gun-toting California redneck, Charlie was salt of the earth and all woman.

“Crane, where you been?”

“Oh you know, here, there.”

“Just not here.”

“It’s been a long week.” I was eyeballing the excellent selection of handguns under the glass.

“Got to stay in practice,” Charlie said. “Get sloppy, I’ll have to show you how it’s done—and you don’t want to get outshot by a woman.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” I said, “I’m a feminist.”

“Pshh,” Charlie half-laughed, half-snorted. “You know what I always say: show me a feminist,” a wry crooked grin pulled up one half of her face, “and I’ll kick her ass.”

I’d been eyeballing Charlie’s Beretta Cougars. They’d only been on the market a few years and I’d yet to try one.

“You didn’t bring your .45?”

“No,” I said, “thought I’d take something for a spin.” Then I spotted the Mini Cougar .45, so compact and snug, with a pushed-in muzzle—like the pug of automatic pistols, but still packing a mean punch. “Let me try that.”

“The Mini Cougar?” Charlie made a face. “It’s been sticking. I oiled it yesterday and it didn’t help—I gotta break it down. Hey,” she moved to another case and reached in, “I know how you love your .45s, man after my own heart and all. But you want to try something with a small profile . . . you ever shoot one of these?” She held up a sleek black snub-nosed automatic, the line between the slide and the frame like a racing stripe. “Gangbanger special?”

“I think you know I haven’t.”

“First time for everything.”

California has a law against renting guns to a single shooter at a range; if you want to rent a gun, you have to bring a friend. This is in response to suicides on shooting ranges, but Charlie has known me for years and always lets it go. “This is the Glock 26, 9mm. The ‘Baby Glock.’ One of their latest models. Just came out in ’96.” She loaded up a clip for me, handed me a box of shells, eye protection, ear protection, and a couple of classic red-on-black human silhouette targets. I geared up and stepped into the range, clipped a target onto the rack, sent it out about halfway, and squeezed off the full clip in a single breath. Polymer frame . . . it’s a lightweight gun. Easy to imagine why the gangbangers like it. I brought the target back in; it was a nice grouping, right around the heart, with two holes in the middle of the head. I missed one.

I fired off the rest of the box of shells, trying to focus my intention and concentrate on the one thing, the shot, all the while knowing that I was squeezing off my hatred for McCaffrey and my frustration at having to take this bizarre case. The smell of the popping shells helped a little.

“Whattaya think?” Charlie asked.

“A little light for me. Too much like a toy.”

* * *

I hopped back into Delores and hit the 101 at a trot, driving out of the fog, warming up as I jumped onto 280 and rode it to the end, veering around the sharp bank of the last lonely stretch of freeway with the bay on my right and the City unseen, finally coming up over the steep rise of the exit ramp with the City splayed out ahead of me, the Transamerica winking in the sunlight. The ramp took me over the CalTrain tracks where the trains slow into the depot, down into the depths of the industrial backstreets this side of 80. I went up 6th into SoMa and turned right onto Mission. I was lucky enough to find a parking space right down the street from the gallery, after going around the block only twice. I paralleled and fed the meter.

I stepped into the air-conditioned gallery and saw a cute brunette, early twenties, at the reception desk, talking to a thin-lipped blond man standing at the door to an adjacent office.

“I’ll be back in five minutes, I promise,” she was saying.

“Go ahead, Serena.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dalton.” With that, the girl, all trim thighs in a tight skirt, skipped past me without a glance and out the front door.

“Excuse me,” I said, stopping Dalton’s progress into his office, “are you the man I spoke with on the phone? About Ashley?”

His lips grew even thinner and he inhaled quickly through his nose, stepping around me without looking at me. “You’ll find Ashley’s piece in the gallery.”

I perched at the doorway. “I was wondering if I could chat with you just a moment.” I handed him my card. He flipped it over in his wiry hands to see if there was anything on the back before he bothered to read the front. “Information broker? What are you, some kind of investigator?”

“Not really,” I forced a laugh, “I’m just doing some research for a journalist who’s working on a story about Ashley.” I didn’t want to spook him. “What can you tell me about the artist?”

He waved me in. His office was immaculate. The desk had one of those month-per-page calendars with appointments lettered in exquisite print, and a telephone that looked as if it had never been touched. The walls were covered with prints of a certain taste: Matisse, van Gogh, Monet.

He sat stiffly behind his desk and blinked at me. He did almost a double take, like he either knew me or was sizing me up for a new sports jacket. “What is it you want to know?”

“Anything, really. But more about her personally. We think her work speaks for itself.” I took out a notebook and put a pen behind my ear to look professional. “What is her last name, by the way?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he said, bored. “She’s a one-name diva.”

“Have you met her?”

“Once or twice,” he replied dismissively. “It was quite enough.”

“How so?”

“She flounced in here demanding more for her work than I could possibly sell it for—portraits, you know. They just don’t go for much these days.”

The word portraits ran down the back of my neck like stray hairs in a shirt collar after a haircut.

He went on, sighing heavily, casting his eyes at the ceiling: “She wanted to negotiate the gallery’s cut, which is nonnegotiable. All lip gloss and no business sense. She’s . . . an artist.” He smiled, the way one smiles at a crazy cat lady.

The ensuing silence threatened to strangle me. He offered nothing else. Apparently, he was done. “Do you know how we could contact her? An interview would be fantastic.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. She acts as her own agent, and when I tried to contact her regarding her share of the sale, her number was disconnected. I’m at a bit of a loss myself.”

“The sale?”

“The piece she has in the current show. I sold it.”

“To whom?”

He smiled crisply. “That’s confidential, I’m afraid. The painting will be collected when the show comes down at the end of the month.”

“I see. But you said you met her—what can you tell me about her personally?”

He stiffened visibly, his eyes focused over my shoulder. I turned to see a slick-looking young man, not too tall, but brick-like, standing in the doorway. He wore a silver-gray sharkskin suit, many years out of fashion and very much out of place—but since this was the art world, maybe he fit right in. His loafers were tasseled and shined to perfection. He noticed me staring at him and furrowed a pair of stiff, surly looking brows. Dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad nose. I couldn’t place his heritage—not quite Caucasian, but not exactly dark-skinned either. Maybe half-Mexican, or Spanish, or even Italian. His demeanor suddenly relaxed and his lips parted, baring a wide smile generous of teeth but not of intention.

“Oh,” he showed us his palms by way of apology, “I didn’t realize you had a visitor, Mr. Dalton. So sorry to interrupt.” He had a slight accent, a little too much attention on the h’s and r’s. Definitely a Spanish speaker.

“No—no, not at all,” Dalton replied hurriedly. “We’re finished. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Just one last thing, Mr. Dalton. About that number you said was disconnected, could I trouble you—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crane, this gentleman has an appointment.” He was done with me. “If you’d like to take a look at the piece, I’ll speak with you again shortly.”

“Certainly.” I stood up and looked down on Sharkskin’s snarling brow. He was shorter than me, but not by much, and stocky, with a dangerous, cat-killer look in his eyes. He didn’t make a motion to get out of my way, and I couldn’t get out the door without knocking him over. “Excuse me,” I said, as sardonically as possible.

“Mmmmm,” he purred, giving me a coquettish look that was disarming from such a brusque man, and moved aside just enough to let me pass. The second I was out the door it shut behind me.

I cut down the passageway to the gallery proper, the air-conditioning hitting me like a wall of frozen air and drowning out the stagnant silence.

A bright painting fairly illuminated one end of the hall. It was me, wearing fading blue denim Levi’s, a gray T-shirt, and a tattered green Mr. Rogers cardigan with six missing buttons and four big holes. That’s my sweater, all right. I was bent over my kitchen table, addressing a large envelope, with two more small untidy piles of mail and paperwork on either side of me. The painting had a cool cerulean feel to it, with sharp accents of bright orange in the hair and translucent lime greens highlighting the sweater. Behind my head was a view out the window, barely revealing telephone lines dotted with blackbirds, subdividing a bright, hazy sky, the slight fog reflecting light into the room. My face was bright on one side with the other in shadow, an expression of scattered and nervous concentration on my face. My hand was tense, holding a teal pen with Bayshore Metals written on the side. I did some work for a welder at Bayshore and had a ton of their pens floating around my house. The bottom right corner was dated 1/1/96.

The air conditioner rattled, a yo-yoing, pinging sound from deep in the building, as a similar noise went off inside me.

New Year’s Day, last year. I remembered that night. I’d been working on a big project for a historical fiction novelist and was past deadline; the writer wanted everything before Christmas. I didn’t go out on New Year’s Eve, spent the whole night in my house cranking away, and was rushing to get the package put together and ready to mail first thing in the morning. I remember how stupid I felt when I realized that the post office is closed on New Year’s Day.

This was another fucking snapshot of my life.

I had to find that girl Ashley.

* * *

I hoped Dalton was done with Sharkskin and I could at least get that number off him and see what kind of damage I could do with it. I still had some pretty good connections at Pac Bell and didn’t want to walk out with nothing.

I was surprised to see that Serena still wasn’t back, but the door to Dalton’s office was slightly ajar. I gave it a hard knuckle rap, just in case.

No response.

“Mr. Dalton?” Still nothing. I gave the door a kick with my foot and it swung open partway; I ducked my head in and found the office empty. “Mr. Dalton?” I pushed the door the rest of the way and stepped in. There was a faint scent lingering in the air, and I rubbed my fingers together and took a whiff, realizing that I was only smelling a trace of the gun range on my hand. Then I looked over the desk and I wasn’t so sure. I could see what looked like the top of Dalton’s blond head.

I took another step forward and there he was, tipped back behind the desk, his feet hung up on the edge of his overturned chair, his arms akimbo, and his head askew in a pool of crimson blood. There was a very neat hole right between his eyes, surrounded by a dark, discoloring flash of powder burn. That sound I’d heard wasn’t the air conditioner—it was a pistol fired with a supressor.

My heart was in my throat and my feet were out of the office before my brain knew what hit it. It was only the second dead body I’d ever seen, and Dalton with a bullet in his brain was a far cry from my grandmother laid out in a casket embalmed and waiting for the embrace of the worms. I choked my breakfast back where it belonged and stood there a moment in front of Serena’s empty area, my thoughts racing.

Ashley, missing; Dalton knew something; fifty thousand dollars. Bells went off. Fifty thousand dollars wants this girl found. That’s a lot of dough, even in today’s dot-com roller coaster. That’s got to be the tip of the iceberg—McCaffrey would never cut me a square deal.

Every two-bit gumshoe from every dime-store novel I’d ever read was jaywalking through my mind. My next thought—to call the cops—was crushed underfoot like a cigarette burned down to the filter and tasting of fiberglass. Get out, Crane, just get out. Red exit sign—back of the gallery.

I hotfooted it and found the exit and the typical Do not open—alarm will sound notice. I kicked the bar across the door. No alarm. Fuck it, that’s retrofitting for you, they can’t remember everything. Bright afternoon light, a short trash-can alley. I jumped the chain-link fence and found myself on Minna, and walked calmly around the block to Delores. I found the 101 as quick as I could and headed south.