Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  “Me? Talk to me?! Tyler, for the love of God, what do I pay you for? Can’t you take care of it?!”

  “I’m afraid not. Apparently, a couple of the high-priced authentic masterpieces Ms. Caldwell has been selling are forgeries,” he said. “The police would like to know if there are any more, and they know she’s sold a few pictures to you.”

  “Holy shit,” Katrina said, sinking into a chair.

  “Since the call came from Elmore Fitch, the authorities take it quite seriously, and they would like to know what you might have to say on the subject.”

  “Holy shit,” she said again.

  “They may want a slightly more comprehensive statement, Katrina,” Tyler said dryly.

  Katrina didn’t hear him. She was looking at the wall directly across from where she sat. Her brand-new Rauschenberg dominated the wall, delivered just days ago by Irene Caldwell. It represented a considerable investment—and if it was fake? She was badly shaken, not merely by the thought of the money but by the very idea. Fakes—from Irene Caldwell?

  “How did he know?” she blurted out.

  There was a short pause before Tyler said, “I’m sorry . . . ?”

  “GodDAMN it, Tyler! Elmore Fitch couldn’t tell a Van Dyck from a Vermeer! How did he know his painting was fake?”

  “Oh, yes,” Tyler said. “Apparently, he got an anonymous tip? He was told these particular fakes have a newspaper clipping hidden in the lower left corner. With a recent date?”

  Katrina lurched to her feet, still clutching the phone convulsively, and stumbled over to her gorgeous new Rauschenberg. She was dimly aware that Tyler was talking, but she didn’t hear a word of it. She bent down and stared at the lower left-hand corner of the painting. It took a moment, but she found it: a small strip from the New York Times.

  With a date from just a few weeks ago.

  Her Rauschenberg was a fake.

  Just before she screamed, she realized Tyler was speaking again, and she forced herself to focus.

  “. . . told them you would speak to them at my office, and they agreed, but they would like it to be today. Apparently Mr. Fitch is twisting a few political arms? So can you drop by this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”

  Katrina looked at the painting again and felt a sudden shiver of anger. “Bitch,” she hissed. If Irene Caldwell had cheated her, it was totally worth a trip into town to make sure she paid for it.

  And then louder, to Tyler, she added, “Three o’clock. I’ll be there.”

  Katrina went to the interview still angry, and glad of an opportunity to strike back at Irene for what she regarded as a true crime—forging great art. But two minutes into it, she realized that the two sour-faced cops had no idea what a Rauschenberg was. “Wasn’t he that comic? On Saturday Night Live couple years back?” one of them said, straight-faced.

  The other cop was looking at a rumpled piece of paper. “Jasper Johns. That mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “Not personally,” she said. “He’s a great artist, though.”

  “Uh-huh,” the cop said dubiously.

  “You know Elmore Fitch?” the other one asked.

  “Oh God,” Katrina said, and she could not repress a shudder. “I’ve met him.”

  “Yeah, we have, too,” the cop said, and his buddy shook his head.

  “Is he implicated in some way?” Katrina asked.

  “We thought maybe you could tell us,” he said.

  “My client has told you she barely knows Mr. Fitch,” Tyler said.

  “Yeah? I’m sorry. I didn’t get that,” the cop said.

  “Can you tell us about the paintings Irene Caldwell sold you?” his partner said.

  “Were they insured?” the first cop asked.

  Katrina described the painting, but the cops kept interrupting, steering her into one narrow area. All they really seemed to care about was how much she’d paid, how much the painting was really worth, why she let Irene Caldwell rip her off, and if her insurance would cover the loss. This last area began to expand, until Katrina understood that the cops wanted to implicate her in the scheme somehow. When she realized that, Katrina looked at Tyler, whose frown had been growing over the last few minutes.

  “This is going nowhere,” she told him, and he nodded.

  “That’s all, gentlemen,” Tyler told the cops.

  The older one frowned. “We may have more questions later,” he said.

  “I doubt it,” Tyler said crisply. “I’m fairly confident the FBI will take over—probably by this evening. But if not—please get in touch with me, and I’ll arrange something again.” He stood up. “And now if you’ll excuse us?”

  The cops looked at each other, but they got up, and after a significant glance or two, they left.

  “I’m sorry about that, Katrina,” Tyler said when the cops were gone. “If I’d known they would try to implicate you—”

  “It’s ridiculous!” Katrina fumed. “Goddamn it, I’m the victim here! And to try to connect me to that loathsome Elmore Fitch—”

  “Yes,” he said. “But you’re both rich, and they’re cops.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Katrina said. “I hope that woman rots in jail ’til she dies.”

  “Probably not that long,” Tyler said. “But she’ll do some time.”

  It was small consolation for Katrina. She was still furious when she got home. She had trusted Irene, and she had loved that painting—and goddamn it, it was fake? She felt offended, abused, even violated. She was so angry that it wasn’t until she sat down in her half-finished living room that she realized that on top of everything else, she needed to find a new decorator.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.” That seemed like the capping insult to the whole situation, that she would have to call around and get recommendations from friends, and each one of them would want all the details about how on earth oh-so-art-savvy Katrina had been tricked out of a few million bucks. And then it was 50-50 whether whoever her friends recommended would be any good at all—and the way things were going, she’d probably end up with a few more art forgeries anyway. They were popping up all over the place lately! She really didn’t want to put herself through that. But how could she avoid it? Apparently, as much as she thought she knew about modern art, she could not spot a fake. So what she really needed was a decent decorator she could trust who knew modern art and could spot a fake.

  With that thought, of course, Katrina also thought of somebody who fit the bill. And the fact that just thinking of him sent a little flutter rippling through her stomach had nothing to do with anything. She grabbed her purse and rummaged for the business card, pulling it out and setting it on the couch beside her while she dialed.

  It rang four times, and then a crisp male voice said, “Randall Miller.”

  “Hello, Randall,” Katrina said. “This is Katrina Hobson. From the awful banquet?”

  “Of course! How are you today?”

  Katrina thought he sounded glad to hear from her, which was nice. “A little pissed off right now, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “There’s a lot of that going around right now,” he said. “Damn it, no! Excuse me a second . . .”

  Katrina heard Randall’s phone clunk down onto a hard surface, and then his voice in the background berating someone—she couldn’t quite make out why. A few moments later, he came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s this shipment of Mexican tile. And the workers are trying to—” He blew out a long breath. “Never mind, that’s my problem. How are you—oh, I already said that, didn’t I?”

  Katrina laughed in spite of herself. “You did. But I think I can forgive you,” she said. “Especially if you’ll tell me you can come finish my redecoration.”

  “What? But what about, ah—was it Irene Caldwell?”

  “T
hat’s right,” Katrina said, and some of the anger came back to her. “Irene is going to be busy making license plates for a while.”

  “Making license— You mean she’s been arrested? Good Lord, for what?”

  Katrina filled him in, as much as she knew, and Randall seemed deeply shocked. “My God,” he said. “Irene Caldwell, an art forger?”

  “Apparently so,” Katrina said. “Please, Randall, please tell me you can help me out with this. My whole house is upside down, there’s nowhere to sit, and I—I could really use your help. Please?”

  He hesitated before answering, and Katrina realized the palms of her hands were sweating. “I . . . would love to,” Randall said at last. “But this project I’m working on now is— Damn it, the other phone line is ringing. Could you hold for just a minute?”

  “Of course,” Katrina said. She waited, chewing on her lower lip, wiping her hands on the couch, listening to the rapid thump of her heartbeat, and wondering why this redecoration suddenly meant so much to her, and only admitting to herself that it might not be all about the redo seconds before Randall came back on the line.

  “Katrina?” Randall said. “I am truly sorry, but I have to go over to Jersey City—there’s some kind of problem with the paint, it doesn’t match the swatches, and I have to go out and threaten the dealer with bodily harm.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. And then, biting her lip as she plowed straight into the kind of self-centered focus she despised in others, she said, “But is it— Please, Randall, can you finish my house?”

  There was a brief silence on the other end, and then she heard him blow out a long breath. “I don’t see how, not for several months. I’m sorry, Katrina—I really do wish I could help.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling a huge weight of disappointment that was out of proportion with merely losing a decorator. “I’m sorry, too, Randall.” She heard herself sigh, and then, forcing cheerfulness she didn’t feel, she said, “I really hope your project goes well, Randall. And kick that paint dealer right in the swatches.”

  Randall laughed. “Thanks, I will. I’m sorry, too, Katrina.”

  After they’d both hung up, Katrina sat, chewing on her lip and thinking nothing more constructive than damn. Damn, damn, damn . . . Where would she find somebody now? Somebody she could trust, with taste that agreed with hers? There was no one, not on such short notice. Damn . . .

  Katrina got up and circled around the room, glaring angrily at the draped furniture and empty walls, and repeating her litany of damn as she wandered through the other rooms of the huge house. Most of them were worse than the living room, stripped of furniture, walls spattered with primer. Damn!

  She had just switched back to shit when her phone rang. “What!” she snapped angrily.

  “Oh, dear, did I catch you at a bad time?” After a moment of disorientation, she recognized the voice—it was Randall. But calling back so soon?

  “Randall! I thought you were off to Jersey City.”

  He gave a two-syllable laugh. “I was,” he said, and Katrina thought he sounded rather happy all of a sudden. “But tell me—do you believe in kismet?”

  “I’m not even sure what it means,” she said.

  “It means that I just hung up on the person who hired me for this massive project. And apparently their business just went belly-up, and although they said I can keep the Mexican tile, they can no longer pay me.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Katrina said.

  “Well, I’m not sure they’d agree with you,” Randall said. “But what the heck, I do. I really like the tile.”

  Katrina laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Can you do the job for me?”

  “Text me your address,” he said. “I’ll be there in the morning.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  The clock beside the bed said it was 3:18. It was a cheap hotel room clock, so it didn’t say “A.M.,” but it was: 3:18 in the morning. I had been lying there with my hands behind my head for four and a half hours. I hadn’t slept. I couldn’t. I just lay there and went over everything in my head. And every five or six minutes, the memories would come back at me.

  It happens sometimes. I am definitely not nervous, sensitive, high-strung—none of that shit. I mean, try disarming a high-tech alarm if your hands are shaking from nerves. That’s not me. And I don’t get all into feeling worried, like, Oh no, what if something goes wrong? That’s just not me, either. But sometimes the past comes back at me. Right before I get into something, right when I really need a good night’s sleep, I can’t do it. I remember instead. Maybe that’s worse than nervous.

  This was one of those times.

  I was all the way back in time to the old quarry again. Just couldn’t put it out of my head. And I wasn’t remembering the good part, the way I’d felt when I climbed all the way back up with that taillight in my hand, and I stood there looking down at where I had been and felt like some kind of god instead of a ragged-ass kid. No, I couldn’t get that. When the memories hit me, I never got the good ones.

  Instead, I get this part. The one that changed everything. The first time I got the Darkness. And it comes back at me completely clear and fresh, like it had happened this morning.

  * * *

  —

  Bobby Reed was a brickhead. The only way he managed to pass sixth grade was by copying from other kids. He could always get away with that because he was the biggest kid in the class. And his family was a big deal in town. They had money, and Bobby’s dad was a judge. So he got away with being stupid. And a lot of other stuff. Like being a bully.

  We were standing at the old quarry again, the one everybody’s parents told them to stay away from. I guess that’s why we went there. It was the same one that I had climbed into, grabbing the taillight and climbing out again. And Bobby was pushing at me. Maybe because being here, looking down into the quarry, and seeing one missing taillight on the old Studebaker—maybe that reminded Bobby that I had done something he could never do. Maybe that made him feel small and worthless. Like he really was.

  I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he was in my face and on my case. Bobby had pushed at me from day one. He always found something to pick on. Today it was my mother. “I bet she never married your daddy,” he said. The other boys, the ones who hung with him because they were afraid of him, all snickered. “I bet she don’t even know who your daddy was.”

  “Be fair, Bobby, coulda been a lot of guys,” his brother Clayton said. And all the other boys laughed.

  “Isn’t that so?” Bobby said, poking me in the chest. “Don’t know your daddy, do you?” Poke, poke poke.

  Before my climb, before I knew I wasn’t a sheep like them, I would’ve taken it. Maybe made some joke, tried to change the subject. But the new me poked back.

  “And maybe you don’t know your daddy, either, Bobby,” I said, poking at him, the same spot he poked me. “’Cause you sure don’t look like that old guy your mama’s with.” Poke. “Truth is, Bobby, you look a lot like Mr. Swanson, the mailman.”

  Bobby turned bright red. “You take that back,” he said.

  “Why would I take it back? It’s true!” I said. “You got the same nose!”

  Bobby turned even redder. I liked that I’d gotten to him. So I kept going. “Don’t get mad, Bobby, maybe you can be a mailman when you grow up. Just like your real daddy.”

  Bobby didn’t say anything. He probably couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he swung at me. It would’ve taken my head off if it had connected. But I expected it. I ducked under. As the force of his punch took Bobby around, I stuck my leg out and thumped him with my shoulder.

  All I meant to do was bump him. Maybe knock him down. I guess I figured that if he went down, I could get away before he got up.

  That didn’t happen.

  The bump worked perfectly. And Bobby trippe
d over my leg just right. But he didn’t fall to the ground. Because we were standing on the lip of the old quarry. So Bobby went over the edge.

  I was right there, right on the edge when he went. I saw the look on his face when he realized what was happening to him. And I stood there watching as he fell. I couldn’t do anything but stand there. And I didn’t try. Not because I knew it was useless. More like I wasn’t really involved, like it was happening to somebody else and I wasn’t really there. Like I was inside a dark cloud watching something on TV. That was it, the first time the Darkness came. And from inside it I watched. Bobby fell, his body turning slowly in a circle, spinning in the air, and falling. Falling. Seemed like forever, like he was never going to stop falling. But it wasn’t forever. I kind of wish it could be, because I can see he’s about to hit the rocks. And just before he does, it’s like our eyes meet—I mean, it’s impossible. He’s too far away, and moving too fast, and there’s just no fucking way. But it feels like that anyway, like our eyes meet, and his expression says, “It’s your fault.”

  And then he hits the rocks.

  They say that people remember what they see better than what they hear. Maybe that’s true. But I will never be able to forget the sound of Bobby Reed hitting the rocks at the bottom of the old quarry. Like somebody dropped a bowling ball into a huge pot of pudding. Kind of a heavy SPLAT. It echoes off the walls, comes up at me in waves, and that sound will stay in my head forever. SPLAT. And there’s no way in the world you can think he’s okay. Not after that sound. Bobby is dead.

  I don’t really feel bad about it. First, because I was inside that dark cloud for the first time, so it felt like it really wasn’t me it was happening to. And anyway, it wasn’t really my fault. Bobby pretty much did it to himself. And he was a truly stupid kid, a bully, and thought he was king shit because his family had money. The world was better off without him, like it is without all the overprivileged assholes I’ve run into since. Him dying like that didn’t bother me. But the sound when he hit? That’s stuck in my head and it’s never going away.