Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  “You’re not a cop.” It’s a statement.

  “No, I’m Dixie. I work for NOW magazine.”

  “A writer, huh? I’m Aurora.”

  She holds out a speckled hand and I shake her glittery fingertips.

  “Cool name.”

  “Thanks, picked it myself.”

  She smiles again, and the joyousness of it lightens my mood.

  “Did you know Diego well?” I ask.

  “Kind of. We would dream to each other now and then, but his bicycle wasn’t really built for two.”

  “Bicycle?”

  “His life,” she explains. “He was too … into himself, you know? But we shared some time together and we both had a common interest in art. I don’t think he fully grasped my constant reinvention, but he enjoyed talking about ideas and stuff, you know?”

  “What did you mean before about him being tormented?”

  Aurora stares at me thoughtfully for a moment before leaping straight into the air. When she lands, she begins to skip around the room like a four-year-old.

  “When I first met Diego,” she says as she skips, “he was timid, jumping at every sound. He always had a smile for me, though. I like that.” Her own smile slips slightly as she stops in front of the unfinished painting. “Over the last few months, his colors faded as though rain was falling all around him. He tried to bury his anger inside, but the devil wouldn’t be quiet. I thought it would fly off in time, you know? But …” She pauses, closing her eyes for a second, fighting back tears. “But then I heard …” Her voice starts to quiver. “He was too talented to throw it away like that.”

  In silence, Aurora stares down at her green and yellow toes.

  “Were you lovers?” I ask.

  She smiles. “He turned me down.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  She smiles wider. “He said he was on a journey and that he needed to keep his mind and body pure so his soul could be free.”

  “A journey?”

  “Art,” she answers. “He was rebuilding himself as an artist, rediscovering his true path.”

  I point to the unfinished collage. “Did you know about this?”

  Aurora shakes her head. “It’s different, but it’s still Diego. You can see his demons in it.”

  “Demons?”

  “You know: anger, pity, betrayal, greed.”

  “What caused them?”

  She shrugs. “Every path has its demons. Some are just more powerful than others.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  She tilts her head and slowly rolls her eyes skyward as though attempting to see inside her own skull.

  “If the path was easy,” she says, “no one would ever step off. We would all be the same cookie-cutter apes in straitjackets. As we journey through life, we’re presented challenges to make us falter. Some of us accept the deals early on, sacrificing happiness for wealth or position. Some hold on a little longer, trying to find that middle ground: white picket fence, family, a job you don’t hate, you know?

  “An artist needs to fight both angels and demons to stay on the true path. Diego made it a long way on his journey. A child’s heart made fighting the demons as natural as breathing, but when the angels offered him wealth and recognition, how could he resist?”

  She pauses, remembering. “Last time we talked, he was excited about a revelation he had. It was to be the basis of his next piece. I still don’t know exactly what he meant …” She turns to study the unfinished collage. “He told me: ‘Man created God in his own image, but God usurped man.’ He kept repeating it like a mantra, like he was trying to convince himself as much as convince me.”

  The words of the revelation puzzle me. If Diego believed God was created by man, rather than the other way around, then he wouldn’t have any religious barriers against suicide. However, the second half, “God usurped man,” could indicate a rebirth of spirituality: At first, God needed man; now man needs God. Or would it be the reverse?

  The pieces spin around in my head, searching for interlocking partners. I release my breath slowly and force myself to refocus.

  “Do you know if Diego worked at a factory nearby?” I ask.

  Aurora wrinkles her forehead in thought before nodding. “I heard him mention some paint factory or something that’s near here. Some relative of his, a cousin, I think, got hired there, but I don’t know which building, sorry.”

  “Is it possible to find out?”

  Aurora shrugs. “I can call a few people.”

  I hand her my business card.

  “My home number is on there. Call anytime. It may be important.”

  “OK.” She pauses and shyly kicks at the floor with her bare foot. “Uh, do you think somebody from the paper might want to review my show when it opens?”

  “Sure. Call me when it’s ready and I’ll escort a critic there myself.”

  She beams. “Really?”

  I laugh. “When I tell them how cute you are and … let’s face it, how naked, they’ll be fighting for the job.”

  Aurora grins and skips to the studio door. “I better get back. I still have a lot of work to do.”

  With a wave, she crosses the hall to her own studio. At the door, she turns back. “If I find anything, I’ll call.”

  “Do.”

  She drops the robe off her shoulders and back-heels the door closed.

  _____

  I return to my search of the studio, but don’t find anything else out of the ordinary in the mess of paint, wood, canvas, and brush. I am just about to leave when the unfinished collage draws me in again. It is close to four feet in length, the canvas stretched and fastened to a rough wood frame.

  The last time I took my eye off a valuable painting, it vanished. This time, I decide to take it with me. Once Diego’s family shows up, I can either turn it over to them or to the Gimcrack.

  With the painting under my arm, I glance around for a phone to call a cab. There isn’t one.

  I suppose it’s time I join the digital age and sign up for an iPhone, but the idea of always being reachable seems like a large commitment.

  I cross the hall, knock on Aurora’s door, and enter.

  Aurora stands against a backdrop of painted white brick, eight large floodlights illuminating the eeriness of her painted transparency. As I watch, she contorts and stretches for a snapping, medium-format Hasselblad. She controls the camera with a miniature remote, and I know a lot of professionals would be jealous that technology has deprived them of the job of photographing her.

  The longer I watch, the less I notice her lithe nakedness. Instead, the waves of color that shimmer on her skin and the movement of her muscles enrapture my senses.

  When she notices me, she reaches over to switch off a CD player that is pounding out dance hits from Prince and Pink. Strangely, until she turns it off, I hardly noticed it.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” I say. “But do you have a phone?”

  “We use the last studio on this side at the end of the hall as a communal office. There’s a phone in there.”

  “Thanks. Also, is there another door out of here? I don’t think I used the right one coming in.”

  She laughs. “You found the right one. We haven’t got around to fixing up that half of the warehouse yet.”

  I thank her again and let myself out. Someone releases a lustful cry as Aurora switches the music back on.

  Twenty-two

  The taxi drops me in front of the Dog House and I’m surprised to hear laughter behind the iron door. I skip down the short flight of steps and push my way inside with Diego’s collage tucked awkwardly under my arm.

  The usual assortment of pensioners and hard-drinking cops fills the hovel, but it’s Frank who has been the main sou
rce of laughter. The after-effects have left him tilted dangerously on his stool, his face beet red, and coughing up a half-chewed peanut. Bill is standing behind the bar with a madman’s grin, his massive belly still quivering with delight. He doesn’t notice that the dripping wet dishrag in his hand has left an embarrassing stain on the front of his pants.

  I prop the painting against the bar and take my usual stool beside Frank. He uses a napkin to wipe his eyes while Bill reaches into the fridge, pops the cap off a Warthog Ale, and places it in front of me.

  Frank catches his breath and heads to the washroom as I take a long swallow from the bottle before the frosty vapor has a chance to leave its slender neck.

  “Tough day?” Bill asks as I place the half-empty bottle back on the bar.

  I shrug and tilt my chin toward Frank’s retreating back. “What’s he laughing at?”

  “A story Al told me.”

  “Frank saw Capone?”

  “No.” Bill shakes his head as if I’m the crazy one. “You know how Al is. It was this morning before opening. I just told Frank.”

  I take another sip of beer and rise to the bait. “So what’s the story?”

  Bill grins wide and leans across the bar. He has recently finished smoking one of the cheap American-made cigars that he claims Al brings him, and his breath knocks my head back. He doesn’t take offense, but the whiplash sends a stabbing pain through my neck.

  He starts. “Al was telling me about this dame he was seeing, right?”

  I nod and rub my neck.

  Bill bares his yellow-brown teeth that always remind me of a post-apocalyptic skyline. In the ring, he had sported a sharp set of lethal, pearly white gnashers, complete with built-in spurting blood capsules for the full, ear-ripping effect. The trouble with real teeth, however, is you can’t soak them in a jar while you sleep.

  “Well, this dame was a looker, a real looker, you know? Long, tanned legs; big, firm tits, face like a cover model. A real wet dream, but high class too. This was no tug it for a fin, suck it for—”

  “I get the picture, Bill,” I interrupt.

  He flashes anger, but it doesn’t stick. A wild grin twists his mouth out of shape again. “So Al kinda likes this broad and he’s treating her alright, you know? Flowers, furs, bangles, rings. But she’s not happy. She keeps harping on Al for a commitment; she wants to know what their future is together. Finally, Al can’t take it anymore—”

  I lean forward and my elbow almost knocks my bottle off the bar. Bill flashes another annoyed look.

  “Are you listening?” he barks, slapping the bar with one of his huge hands. A puddle of spilled beer sprays in a hundred directions, one of which finds my eye.

  “I’m listening!” I yell back and grab a napkin to wipe my stinging eye.

  “Well, sit still, then,” Bill orders.

  I continue to dab at my eye until the grin returns to Bill’s face.

  He continues. “So Al sits the girl down and begins to tell her his philosophy on life. About how he rewards his friends and slays his enemies. Then he gets on one knee, a goosedown pillow underneath it first of course, takes hold of her hand and looks up with doe-eyed innocence.”

  Bill tries to imitate the look, but his face is too much like Boris Karloff to get the proper image across. “Then,” he continues, “Al says to her: ‘I want to make you a promise.’ So this dame is a puddle. She’s thinking this is it. The big proposal, you know? And Al, who does a much better Humphrey Bogart impersonation than I ever could, takes a deep breath and says, ‘Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be farting through silk.’ ”

  I thought a B-52 bomber had just flown a low-level pass above the bar as Bill’s laughter reverberates around the room for a second time. The look on his face, rather than the story, makes me join in.

  As the laughter subsides, Frank comes back and orders another O’Doul’s. Bill immediately pours one before heading down the bar to serve other customers.

  Frank turns to face me and sticks a limp, S-shaped cigarette between his lips.

  “When are they going to invent waterproof cigarettes?” he grumbles after unsuccessfully trying to light it.

  I shrug as he throws the ruined pack onto the bar. The question is on my lips, but I manage to bite it back, deciding I really don’t want to know how the pack has come to be in such a sorry state.

  “You’re in early,” I say.

  “All quiet on the homicide front.” He sighs. “I just know there’s going to be a triple murder-suicide and the accidental death of a politician while humping his secretary as soon as I get settled in front of the TV tonight. It’s in the air, kid.” Frank takes a swig of nonalcoholic beer. “How’s your day going?”

  “I found a few things.”

  “Any more trouble with cars?”

  I shake my head as Frank’s face creases with concern.

  “I’m being careful, Frank, OK? But there’s not much I can do. I told you, I didn’t catch a plate. I also haven’t received any threats, so it might not even be about me. Kids go joyriding through Chinatown and spot a couple of white faces, think it would be hilarious to scare the crap out of them. It happens.”

  “It happens,” Frank agrees. “But when it happens to you … let’s just say I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  We both take long pulls from our beers.

  “Anyway,” I start again. “What did you find out about our Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Not much.” Frank digs into his pocket and produces a thin notebook. He flips through the pages until he finds the right patch of chicken scratch.

  “Paul Gibson. Criminal record for possession of marijuana in college. Paid a $250 fine. Must have scared him straight because that was the end of his run-ins with the law. He’s worked at the same place, an accounting firm, for the last eight years. No outstanding tickets. Nice and boring, just how I like them.”

  I smirk. “You hate boring.”

  “Says who?”

  “You do, with every breath. You need the action. It’s what gets you up in the morning and puts you to bed at night.”

  “You sure that’s me you’re talking about?”

  I slide my empty bottle across the bar and nod for another one.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”

  Frank’s mouth twitches. “So what else you got?”

  “You know the cocaine found in Diego’s autopsy?”

  Frank nods.

  “I asked his agent about it. Not the weasel trying to get his mitts on the blood painting, by the way, but his current agent at the Gimcrack Gallery. According to him, Diego’s asthma would have prevented him from taking drugs. Cocaine could have killed him.”

  “It did,” Frank points out.

  “No,” I say, “a shotgun blast to the face killed him. And if you’re going to kill yourself, you don’t want to have an asthma attack in the middle of squeezing the trigger. Bad aim could mean walking around alive, but with only half a face. Nasty. Why take the chance?”

  Frank scratches his nose and rubs at wide, hairy nostrils with a thick knuckle. “You worry me, kid,” he says softly. “I don’t like to be worried.”

  “And?” I prod.

  “The coroner’s report came out this afternoon. I took a look before firing it to Northern.”

  “And?”

  “Traces of cocaine were found in the stiff’s lungs, but there’s no signs of asthma mentioned. And I know those butchers. They love to look for that kind of stuff.”

  “So somebody’s lying.”

  Frank sighs and scans the room. “I didn’t say that. Right now, the file says a depressed artist got high and blew his brains out. Anything else is circumstantial at best.”

  “I’m not arguing,” I say. “I’m just—”

  �
�Arguing.”

  “Questioning. There are loose ends here that nobody wants to tie up.”

  “Except you.”

  I take a swallow from my fresh bottle of beer. The mist has evaporated from the glass, but it’s still cool on the back of my throat.

  “My editor hates stories with holes. As a large man with failing eyesight, loose ends represent tripwires. And if I make him trip, he’ll make sure all his weight lands on me.”

  “So you’re just covering your ass?”

  “With Kevlar.”

  Frank laughs aloud, lifts his bottle of O’Doul’s in a salute, and clinks it against mine before putting it to his lips.

  “OK,” he says after he swallows. “I’ll talk to the coroner about asthma.”

  “Great. Now, what can you tell me about Chief McInty?”

  Frank is surprised. “Why?”

  “I had a talk with him this morning about the painting you found in Diego’s apartment.”

  “And?”

  “He told me Diego stole it.”

  “From where?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  Frank studies his beer. “McInty’s the kind of man you don’t want on your ass. And if he thinks you’re sticking your nose into police business, he just might have it chopped off and framed behind his desk.”

  “It’s a nice view.”

  “What?” Frank says, confused.

  “McInty’s desk. It’s got a nice view.”

  Frank shakes his head and orders another O’Doul’s. I decide I need a little warmth in my belly and order a scotch.

  “Oh, by the way.” I pull Diego’s collage out from its resting space against the bar. “What do you make of this?”

  Frank leans back on his stool and studies it carefully. “What is it?”

  “It’s another Adamsky. Only this time, Diego shredded it to pieces and turned it into this.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “From Diego’s studio. Met a nice girl there, too, by the name of Aurora. She paints herself from head to toe and poses in the nude.”