Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  "You know what I want, Mr. Gates," Christian said slowly. "We both know what I want. I want to work. I want my visions to come to life, for my creations to reach completion. You want to make money. You want to see what I can do. We both know what I want. I'm sorry for our little squabble yesterday. I want to work things out."

  "Quit with your fucking games, Greve," Gates grated. "I told you yesterday, and I'll repeat myself. She is not for you. You want to talk something else, maybe we can do business. Madeline is out of it. You bring her in, you die. I think that's pretty clear."

  "Crystal," Christian agreed. "I have a second proposal, Hiram, may I call you Hiram? I understood you yesterday. I don't want to talk to you about Madeline; there is another. She's is a girl you've used in the past, a girl that was in a newspaper ad for your business. I want to shoot her. I want to make her my masterpiece."

  "You're crazy," Gates snorted, obviously recognizing whom he meant right off the bat. "Veronica is way out of your league, buddy. She works as a professional model. No private sittings, no cheap dance tricks, but the real thing. I would have had to pay out the ass for that shot myself if I hadn't helped her along early on. No way, Greve, she's out too."

  "I could always phone Madeline," Christian said, wanting to gauge the response. He had no intention of backing down on this one, but he wanted to be certain that he and Gates understood one another.

  "You cocksucking bastard," Gates exploded. "I'm not telling you again. Leave her the fuck alone."

  "It was only a joke, Hiram," Christian said pleasantly enough. "Now, about this girl, Veronica? I'm sure there's something we could tell her, movie deal? Playboy portfolio? Something? For old times' sake, she wouldn't work for you? A man of your talent, your imagination and initiative, ought to be able to come up with something."

  "God damn you, Greve," Gates ground out. "I'll talk to her, but only on one condition, and you'd better take it to heart. You leave what's mine alone. Maddy is mine. No compromise. Don't even think about fucking with me on this. I know you're feeling cocky now, and I'm not going to say any more about it, but you're out of your fucking league, pal. Plain and simple. I'm not so caught up in this that I can't get out. Remember, I'm the one who knows what he's doing here."

  "Oh, I know that," Christian said, his heart racing at his own boldness, "But I'm learning, aren't I, Hi’."

  Gates slammed the phone down without another word. His head throbbed, and he reached for an aspirin without thinking. The bottle was in the same drawer as the photographs, and he found himself drawing them out as well, staring at the package, at the plain yellow envelope, at his future. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  He upended the aspirin bottle, let four of the small white pills drop into his palm and reached for the glass of scotch that was becoming almost a fixture on his blotter. Christ. In only a short span of days, this psycho had him popping pain pills, sweating bullets, and jacking off to pictures of dead women. It was just too crazy. What would be next? He knew that if he weren’t careful, very careful, whatever it was would be bad. Real bad.

  He sat back, pulled the pictures free with morbid fascination, and thumbed through them yet again. He couldn't help but wonder what Greve would do with Veronica. She was one hot commodity, a Christian Dior body with a Hee-Haw brain. He hadn't been at all truthful with Greve. Hiram had seen the moment as a chance to regain some control. He had her reins as tightly as any of the other girls, though she was a bit more difficult to handle. She was available, for a price.

  There were very few lessons that life had been able to pound into Veronica Moore's mind over her vast span of twenty-one years, but he had to admit that she could focus. She'd learned about money and pleasure early on, learned that one could buy the other, and vice versa, if she played her cards right. She was very good at the few things she did, and she knew it. She did what she liked, she did what men liked, and they gave her things. It hadn’t proven a bad arrangement for either side, until now.

  Hiram had helped her with those lessons for a six month period, setting her up with jobs he could never have landed for his "regular" clients, seeing the potential in the lines of her face, the deep-set, green eyes and sharp curves of her muscled body. She had been blessed with a can't-miss figure, and her other focus, one that had begun much earlier in life, was an almost fanatical devotion to the cultivation of that physical beauty.

  This latter lesson had to be attributed to her mother. Veronica’s mother been a beauty herself, and she had been free with the lessons that she knew would carry her little girl as far as her limited brain power could sustain her. Careful diet, intensive aerobics, and a love for clothing that hid nothing and offered everything. She was the perfect ten, her mind being the zero. She had always had a soft spot in Hiram's heart and a stiff spot in his pants, but that was over now. He would offer her up as a sacrifice to save Maddy, and to save his own quickly fading sanity. Christ.

  He knew he could convince her to do almost anything if the price was right, and having seen what Greve's work was bringing in now that the "serious" collectors were finding out about him, he knew the money wasn't a problem. She was as good as in the can, so to speak. He nearly chuckled at his own morbid humor.

  He was even getting a little excited over the prospect. Veronica was one beautiful woman, and Greve would improve upon it. He had invariably done so thus far. He would draw out something; maybe add it in, which would change everything about her, transforming her into an object of undeniable desire. Since she could do that pretty much on her own, the collaboration should be powerful.

  Hiram flipped quickly through his Rolodex, mentally creating his speech as he did so, whittling away at the bullshit and coming up with the solidest line he could create. He knew he didn't have to try all that hard, but he worked at it anyway. He needed the distraction. It would be good to be involved in a conversation where he held all the cards again, would help him to get his disordered brain back into the proper perspective. He could deal with Greve and their problems later. Business was business.

  * * *

  Christian sat and stared at the phone for a long time after Gates hung up on him. It felt good to have a focus again. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd yanked Hiram's chain again so soon, but it was intensely satisfying that he'd gotten away with it.

  The image of Madeline's smile had faded to a dull itch at the base of his brain, and the face of the other girl, Veronica, blossomed. He'd worked her features over and over in his mind, chiseling away at what would not fit and perfecting what was nearly transcendent beauty all on its own.

  The other women he'd worked with had been beautiful, there was no denying that, but there was a world of difference between the beauty of a girl in a bar, or on a street corner, and the cultivated beauty of a professional model.

  Even her application of makeup would be nearly the match of what he could provide, though the effects of their divergent talent would be much different. Veronica would miss the subtleties, like the tiny, hairline cracks in the sculpted perfection of her face, the slight variance of hue that would catch the highlights in her eyes just right.

  Her hair would not be out of place, nor would there be lines of fat or tension marring her features. He would be repainting a masterpiece, not working one up from scratch. It was the difference between his mother's old flash camera and the new one he'd bought after graduation. It was like the feel of his mother's aged, sagging flesh compared to that of Lindy's, or Cherie's. They all had their appeal, dark as that might be, but there was a world of difference.

  The change would be like moving from red clay to fine porcelain in sculpting, or from the hazy hues of watercolor into the blazing rainbow of Pastel. Night and day. Actually, the other way around, in this case. Veronica was the beauty of the day. He would make her into the epitome of the night. The vision of darkness and everything men desired, but knew in their hearts they would never possess. His photos would embody the essence of feminine mystique.

  The
wait was going to be an eternity, and it would be the ultimate test of his nerve. He needed to remain calm and to keep his vision clear. There were things to be done, of course, but none of them seemed important in the face of what was to come.

  Christian moved about his apartment as if seeing it for the first time in days. He straightened up the rooms, made his bed and put away the thousands of prints that covered it, even tossed the scotch bottles out, all but the 1/2 full one on the counter. The clutter had amassed while he wasn't paying attention and had grown to phenomenal proportions in a very short time. He wondered how he could have missed it, how he could have allowed it.

  His mother had always kidded him about his cleanliness. He had developed it as a defense, a wall against her perversity and her casual filth. He'd cleaned up after her, after her men, after himself, until he sometimes dropped of exhaustion. He lost himself in the work. Childhood memories are etched deepest, and memory becomes habit.

  Now, as he sorted out his mundane affairs and settled in to wait, he knew it was time for care, discretion and planning. He knew he would get one shot at Veronica, and only one. He needed to be complete, to press himself beyond anything he'd done in the past. He wanted to experience every ounce of her, to know her inch by inch, but it had to be done his way this time.

  She had to be gone from the shell at the time of creation, a ball of empty clay. He had to have her completely in his hands before there could be release or joining. His vision would allow for no compromise in this.

  He knew that the image brought forth would be his alone. She was a beautiful girl, but she did not have the inspiration. She was material, a piece of stone, or a block of wood that he would fashion after the inspiration of his own mind and creative instinct. Nothing of her would remain; nothing of her would be shared. Only Christian, the raw material of her flesh, and the film would remain. A perfect trinity. Godhead.

  The phone rang. He watched it for a few moments, letting the ring repeat, and again, then went to the counter and lifted the receiver. No sense to let the nerve-wracking tension he was under show.

  "Yes?" he said, waiting.

  "It's set, Greve," Gates' voice grated in his ear. "It will be different this time, though. Safer, but different. You have to pay attention."

  "I'm listening," Christian said, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. It had happened more quickly than he had dreamed possible, fallen in place like clockwork. He didn't want Gates to know how relieved he was, though. He didn't want the man to understand the level of control he still held.

  "She is high class stuff, Greve, not a floozy. Luckily for you, though, she is also not very bright. What I told her was that you are a free-lance photographer. Some of your work has appeared in Playboy, a couple of shots in Penthouse, and a cover once for Vogue. She bought this, because you pay very, very well. That is not a problem, the money, I mean. Just don't let her see through your story.

  "This one is going to demand a classier setting," Gates went on, "something more fitted to the image you are going to put forth. She isn't bright, but neither is she terminally stupid.

  "I've arranged for a certain penthouse suite to be available in a building on Fifth Avenue, another favor called in. The owner is a collector. When it's all over, he will claim that the man who rented it was a short Italian, or something to that effect, and that the man dripped diamonds and paid cash. You with me so far?"

  "So far, yes," Christian replied. It was sounding very interesting, very unique, more like the due of a great artist than the sleazy surroundings he'd been shooting in thus far. Of course it was more undercover bullshit, more added trappings to distract him and annoy him, but it would be worth the trouble.

  "I want you to go out," Gates went on, "and spend some of that money. Buy yourself a suit – a nice suit. Everything else will be provided. It is very important that you fit her image of a pro. That much should be easy. She develops most of her images from cheap romance novels and the movies.

  "You will meet her at Sid's, the back table where we talked, and you will take her straight to the penthouse. If you can help it, don't even stay for a drink. The fewer people who see you, the better.

  "I'll provide a driver and a rented limo. It will help establish you as a rich visitor."

  "She will agree to the uh... stranger aspects of the shoot?" Christian asked, licking his lips. "I mean, is she another Cocaine freak, or what?"

  "No, no drugs." Gates said. "She drinks wine, though, and a bottle will be provided. It will not be just wine. Use it sparingly. There will be a shot of something in the medicine cabinet to finish her, something different. Straight poison.

  "I figure we'd better leave as many dead ends and diversions for the police as possible. We have to lay low for a while after this one, let things cool off. Those two detectives were here way too quickly after the last one, and my connections with Veronica are no secret. They'll be back."

  "No problem," Christian said. To himself he added, When we reach our goal and we have the perfect masterpiece, there will be no need for more.

  "You go, and you get that suit, Greve, and you be at Sid's at 7:30 tonight. I want you in and out of there before there's a crowd. One more thing – your name. You don't give your real name. Tonight you are Mr. Mclean, Artemis Mclean."

  "I'm not a fool," Christian answered, feeling his face flush at Gates' tone. "I can handle it."

  "Let's hope so," Gates went on. "She's going to be a hell of a lot more noticeable than a girl like Cherie, much harder to hide and much harder to sweep under the rug when it's done. You have to do it, and you have to get out. There are no second chances in this.

  "A last note of advice, Greve," Gates’ voice slowed, and the words were enunciated carefully and with force. "You want to remember what I told you. You take what you get, and you be happy. You mess with me, you bother Maddy one more time, and you're history. They'll be taking snuff shots of you, my friend, and they won't be nearly as flattering as your own work."

  Christian didn't answer at once. His face was hot and red, his eyes teared up, and his breath caught in his throat in little hitching sobs. His mother had been able to do this to him, and he'd hated her for it. It had been one of her own defense mechanisms, an amusement for lonely nights when she couldn't find anyone to satisfy her depraved desires.

  The images of Madeline flashed back, strobed with the pulse in his forehead, but he fought back his anger. Not yet. He used the image, though, used it to bring his mind into the clear, to bind his fraying thoughts back into one whole.

  "I'll do it, Gates," he breathed at last, "and the work will be transcendent. I will create, and I will deliver, and the police will not catch me. Not then, not ever. They will not get to you through me; don't trouble yourself about that. What we are doing is important. I know you don't see that and that you only see the dollar signs and the pretty girls, but it is.

  "As for Madeline, you watch her, Gates. You watch her, and you look at her. Picture her even more beautiful. See what lies beyond the surface waiting to come out. You don't have my vision, I know, but you may just catch it. You may just find what I would find, for a second, or an hour. You might like what you see.

  "You think hard about that, Hiram, because, I assure you, I have."

  This time Christian hung up first. He wanted that one small moment of satisfaction, the last word that meant nothing in reality, but felt so good. Besides, he was still afraid in the back of his mind that Gates would back out, that he would turn away and refuse to work with him.

  He'd pushed the man to the limit again, and it was a new experience; everything about the last two weeks was new and exciting. He'd been ready to write himself off as just another tortured artist, a misunderstood loser in society. A failure. He'd certainly had no lack of people in the past to explain that to him, to attach that label and attach it more firmly with the business ends of their boots.

  It had been almost a litany with his mother. "You'll never amount to anything, sweethear
t," she'd say, giving his cheek a pinch and grinning at him wickedly. "You'll never be important, except to me. To me, you're everything."

  He'd been nothing to her but a toy, a release, a puppet. He hadn't believed it then, hadn't wanted to believe it, but it was more than clear now. He was far from worldly, far from experienced, but he, like Veronica, was not terminally stupid.

  Gates had helped him to get beyond his lack of confidence, but he'd done most of it on his own. Gates wanted to remember that. He didn't want to try and take that control back from him. He wouldn't find that an easy task at all.

  There were plenty of models, and Gates himself had proven that there was plenty of interest in what Christian could create. That meant the only thing in the entire system that was expendable was Gates himself. Once the first masterpiece was conceived, Gates was an anchor. It was something to think about.

  In fact, he told himself, maybe it's time for a bigger change. Gates had told him to get a suit. Maybe it was time for bigger changes than that. Maybe it was time to turn his entire life around, to shed more than his clothing. He was moving on to big things with his work. He was beginning to appreciate just how much money they might be talking in these deals, how much his art was worth to the right people.

  Christian headed for the door with a purposeful stride, reaching for his keys on the counter. Yes, that was it. If he were going to look like a different Christian Greve, perhaps he would just become one.

  He had the ability to draw out the image within the image. It was his talent. He would turn that talent on himself today, let it loose and see what it could do. It was a tantalizing thought, a living model of his creative ability. A re-made man. He made women into goddesses; he would make himself something more as well.

  As he left, his mind wandered again, wandered over the contours and curves of a body he had yet to touch, tilted the head of perfection still several hours beyond him to just the right angle, ran his comb through long, golden tresses. Another blonde. He would have preferred something new, would have preferred, in fact, Madeline's darker, auburn hair and the hidden power of her smile, but he would make do. There was plenty of time.