by M. C. Grant
To my surprise, it is excellent.
I fill the mug almost to the brim, add a drop of cream, and inhale.
“Dix!” Frank calls from the sofa. “Phone’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Your mother.”
I stiffen. “You’re talking to my mother?”
Frank nods.
“And laughing?”
“Yeah, she’s—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Gimme the phone!”
Frank hands over the receiver with an expression that suggests I have just grown a second head.
“Hi, M—”
“Who is that nice man who answered the phone? He sounds older, much too old for you, but very nice. Is he single? How do you know him and why is he in your apartment? He didn’t stay the night, did he?” She gasps. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a prostitute.”
“No, Mom! I’m not a prostitute.”
Frank grins wide and crosses his arms. I sit on the couch and turn my back to him.
“Well, who is he then?”
“He’s a cop. A detective.”
“What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything. He’s help—”
“I’ve always said the city is too dangerous. Remember that time your father and I visited and that man urinated on our car wheels? Who does that?”
“I remember, Mom. How could I possibly forget? You kee—”
“You should come home.”
“I am home. San Francisco is my home.”
“No, you should come back to your family.”
“I have family. My friends are—”
“Hmmm. I was watching Dr. Phil and I think your friends across the hall might be more than roommates.”
“Really?” My mind flashes to the image of Sam handcuffed to the bed and wearing a dog mask.
“Yes. Dr. Phil says it’s becoming more and more common now for women to—”
“How’s Dad?” I interrupt, knowing it is a cruel question, but seeing little alternative.
“Don’t get me started. I think he’s on Viagra.”
“Mom!”
“Well, I mean, at his age, and then suddenly there’s talk he’s been at the Barn and dancing with everything in a skirt. Young, old, he’s not picky.”
“He’s allowed to have a life.”
“You always loved h—”
“You’re allowed to have a life too.”
“Hmmmm.” She sniffles. “Who would want me?”
“You don’t need a man to enjoy yourself.”
“No,” she says softly. “But it helps. I like to be treated right.”
“I gotta go. I have a meeting. Was there anything you needed?”
“No, dear, I’m fine. You go on, don’t worry about me. Marcy’s coming over later and we’re going to hit the thrift stores and then maybe catch afternoon bingo.”
“OK, have fun. I love you.”
“Love you too, little bird.”
She hangs up.
I turn to Frank.
“Don’t say a freakin’ word.”
Frank’s mouth twitches—a lot.
_____
“So you want me to drop you at the hospital?” Frank asks as we reach the bottom of the coffee pot.
I shake my head. “I appreciate the offer, but I have an appointment first.”
Frank frowns. “The Percs may dull the pain, but you need to make sure—”
“I will, Frank, but Roger Kingston isn’t an easy man to see and from what I hear, he holds a grudge if you disappoint. I’ll go to the hospital later. Promise.”
“What are you hoping to get from Kingston?”
I shrug. “A reason why Diego hated Adamsky would be good. Was he obsessed? Jealous? Is there a woman involved? Is that why he topped himself in such dramatic fashion—or why someone helped speed his demise along? Also, why does Kingston want the blood painting so badly that he had his rep arrive at the apartment before the body was even cold? And how did he know about it so soon, especially if Casper was no longer legally representing Diego’s work?”
“And you don’t think it’s dangerous?”
“Dangerous?”
“You’ve been attacked twice, Dix. Once while you were with a gallery owner who’s in Kingston’s pocket and then—”
I interrupt. “How many headlights does a Chevelle have?”
“Depends on the year. Why?”
“Say an early to mid-70s model.”
Frank scratches his head. “A lot of the old Chevys sported four. Again. Why?”
“You got me thinking about the alley in Chinatown. The car had four headlights.”
“And your flying attacker—”
“Landed on the roof of an old Chevy,” I finish.
“That’s what I’m saying. You’ve obviously pissed someone off, and I don’t think—”
“Where is it?” I interrupt again.
Frank rolls his eyes. “Where’s what?”
“That’s what my attacker said: ‘Where is it?’ I wonder if he meant Diego’s painting. The one I had with me last night.”
“You said you dropped it.”
“Yeah, I tripped over King William in the lobby when I came in.”
“Hold on, I’ll go look.”
With Frank gone, I turn to the computer and check my e-mail. Aside from a few medical advisories on how to lengthen my penis so I won’t be embarrassed in the locker room ever again, there are two e-mails from Stoogan. I don’t need to read them to know what he wants, since the headers give away his intent: “Where’s my story, Dix?” and “Cover or not? Need to know ASAP.”
I fire back a quick reply: “Will know more today. Interviewing Kingston. Few loose ends.”
Loose ends? When I boil down what little information I have, I’ll be lucky to pull together a short obit, never mind the cover feature. Of course, that’s where Dixie’s Tips #12 comes in: Never let them see you sweat—even if you’re wearing wool underwear in a sauna.
Frank returns with the painting.
“It was under the stairs,” he says. “Where do you want it?”
I think about it. “How about your place? I was planning to give it to Diego’s family when they show up, or to his agent at the Gimcrack to sell for them.”
“And in case this is what the break-in was about …”
I’m stone-faced. “I would rather it be with someone who sleeps with a gun and isn’t afraid to use it.”
“Ah, so if I’m attacked?”
“Aim for his balls, then the kneecaps, and if that doesn’t stop the bastard, two to the head.”
“A bullet to the balls usually gets their attention,” says Frank.
“True, but I wouldn’t take any chances with this one.”
_____
“Anything happens or you just don’t feel safe, you’ll call, right?” says Frank.
“Don’t I always?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want you thinking you’re taking advantage and should maybe let it slide this time. I would rather be pissed at you for calling than pissed at you for dying.”
“Sweet.”
Frank’s mouth twitches. “I’ll look into that car. Dented roof and four headlights, right?”
I nod. “And if there’s a dead creep on the roof, chances are good it’s the right one.”
Twenty-six
Sam opens the apartment door and invites me inside. She looks older: pale and creased, nail marks cutting into her stubbled scalp. Her normally bright eyes are lost beneath swollen lids. A night of tears has left hollow cheeks stained with salty tracks.
“How is she?” I ask.
; “Still sleeping.” Her voice is unusually weak. “Ruth said she’d wake up sometime this morning. She’ll be hungry, thirsty, and in desperate need of the toilet. Apart from that, Ruth says she’ll be fine. She took a blood sample to run some tests.”
“You should get some rest too.”
“I’m OK, just worried and a little scared.” She tries to smile, but her eyes fill with tears. She clenches her teeth, angry with herself. “We had a fight. At the club. When she wasn’t here when I got home, I didn’t know what … then I heard screaming at your …” She sighs heavily. “I don’t want to cry anymore.”
I step closer, wrap my arms around her, and hug tight. Although stiff at first, Sam slowly relaxes until she melts into me, her face buried in my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” I say. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
Her body trembles as more tears flow. But like the fighter she is, her strength soon returns. She loosens her grip to wipe her eyes with a tightly bundled tissue.
“I don’t blame you, Dix,” she says quietly. “I’m just thankful it wasn’t worse.”
Sam reaches down and lifts my bandaged hand.
“When I saw that knife sticking through your hand … I just … rushed him, I guess.”
“Good thing too. I was out of options.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sam says. “You even cracked a joke.”
I smile. “Too many John Wayne movies with my dad.”
Sam’s eyes lock on mine, her eyebrows knitting into a serious black line, while her piercings accent the storm within. “What did he want?”
“Not sure. He may have been after a painting.”
“A painting?”
“One of the final ones by the dead artist I’m writing about. I found it at his studio and brought it home for safekeeping. Bad decision, I guess.”
“How did he know you had it?”
The question gives me pause; the answer uncomfortable.
“Only one person saw me at his studio.”
“That narrows the list.”
“Considerably.”
“Is it valuable?”
I nod. “Diego’s new collection hasn’t been selling, but his death will change that. This last painting is different. It’s more unique in that he took another, more successful artist’s work and tore it to shreds to create a new piece. That gives it controversy.”
“And controversy sells,” Sam interjects dryly.
“Every time.”
“So this is about money?”
I shrug. “It usually is.”
Sam clenches her teeth. “Fucker deserved to die.”
“I agree, but”—I hesitate again—“it doesn’t look like he did.”
“What?”
“The body is gone. So is the car he landed on.”
“But that’s a—”
“Two-story fall, I know. Frank wondered if I was hallucinating.”
“I wasn’t.”
“No. He was real.”
Silence falls between us and I callously begin to worry about time.
“Can I see her?” I ask.
Sam leads me to the bedroom. Kristy is curled in a ball on the queen-size bed, her breathing calm and regular. Her face has been washed and her slinky dress replaced with comfortable pajamas. Sam and I smile like proud parents looking in on their young before closing the door and walking back to the front room.
Awkwardly, I clear my throat and try to find the best words to fit my upcoming request.
“I can read you like a book,” Sam says, a touch of brightness returning to her eyes. “What do you need?”
I feel like a heel. “I was going to ask Kristy before all this trouble, but now I …”
“Just spit it out.”
“I need to borrow the Bug.”
I look down at my feet in embarrassment, but when I look back up, Sam simply hands me the keys.
“Just don’t smash it,” she warns. “Or Kristy will kill us both.”
Twenty-seven
The drive to Napa Valley is hot and sticky, but with the top down on Kristy’s classic ’79 VW Bug and my face buried beneath an industrial layer of makeup to disguise just how badly beat-up I look, I don’t care.
I even found a pair of sunglasses stuffed in the glove box to prevent the sun from blinding me as it glares off the buffed electric-yellow hood. The only downside is the glasses are a vibrant shade of butterfly pink with tiny red hearts on each corner. If I meet any studly porn-star hitchhikers along the way, my cool is blown.
Leaving the city behind, I pop a Barenaked Ladies CD into the six-speaker deck, press down on the gas, and try to relax. The warmth of the morning combines with the Percs to soothe my aching muscles as I exit Highway 29 and turn onto the lazy, winding roads of wine country.
The sweet mossy scent of wildflowers and oxygen-rich foliage fills me with a sudden desire to pull over for a lazy picnic of liver paté, crusty sourdough bread, and a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. I could lie back in the grass and let the birds chirp my troubles away.
As it is, I keep driving, the words of “It’s All Been Done” strumming in my ear.
Sir Roger Kingston lives in the mouth of the valley on a winery that Forbes claims rivals both Robert Mondavi and the Christian Brothers. Unlike those two, however, Kingston doesn’t allow tourists the opportunity of a fruitful mid-afternoon tour. Instead, he is known to invite only the golden parachute crowd of business elite and political dignitaries—among them four former presidents—for weekend excursions.
The tastiest rumor I heard about those weekends is that Kingston ships in wild boar and leads his own hunting expeditions in a fenced-off game reserve.
Apart from rumors, little is known about the man’s private life. He pops up at charity events throughout the city, donating money, shaking hands, and slapping the mayor on the back, but once he steps off the stage, the media is persona non grata. Try and take his picture or ask a question unrelated to the event and his handlers shut you down faster than a jogger with the runs.
Personally, that’s never bothered me as much as it does the mainstream press. Everybody has the right to not talk to the media, so long as you don’t bitch about how that makes you look when reporters have to get their information from other sources.
After two hours of self-absorbed, wind-in-my-hair bliss, I come to an electronic gate guarding a private road that I recognize from an Annie Leibovitz photo shoot for American Express. Made from crushed mother of pearl shell and imported New Zealand sand, the glistening white road is rumored to need constant maintenance and grooming at a cost of $50,000 per year.
A camera on top of the ornate steel gate focuses its glass eye on me. I take off the sunglasses and smile demurely, since I don’t want to crack the false face I’ve painted on. Though if I was the guard, there’s no way I’d allow a sorry-looking wretch like me inside.
The gate opens silently and I feel a bit like Dorothy’s anal-
retentive cousin. Instead of the swirling, curling yellow-brick road, I drive down a path so straight and white it could have been designed by a dentist. On each side of the bleached road stretches row upon row of such perfectly uniform vines that I am a little surprised the grapes don’t wear blaze orange jumpsuits with serial numbers stenciled on the back.
As the Bug’s near-bald tires crunch along, the vineyards give way to acres of lush green lawn and I catch my first glimpse of Kingston’s summer home. The building is no ordinary mansion—it’s a genuine castle.
Piecing together the details from newspaper files, the story goes that a once-powerful aristocratic landowner in Britain—cousin to Queen Elizabeth II, twenty-second in line for the throne, and (if a certain NYT-bestselling mystery writer is to be believed) a possible direct descendant
of Jack the Ripper—fell on hard times. Kingston supposedly offered a price for the supremely British castle that couldn’t be turned down. Coincidentally, that was also the year that English-born Kingston was knighted for his charitable contributions to preserving British heritage.
With his knighthood secured, Kingston returned to America and brought the castle with him, shipped brick by brick across the Atlantic.
In the New World, however, he must have felt the medieval architecture was a touch on the drab side. To brighten it, he had every ancient stone sandblasted smooth and dusted in a spray of white sand and crushed seashell until it sparkled like something born in the cryogenic depths of Walt Disney’s imagination. All sense of history was erased in one smooth stroke, leaving nothing in its path but a garish monstrosity.
The driveway ends in a large parking area in front of a crystalline moat. The moat is spanned by an ancient drawbridge that appears, from the well-oiled links of chain attached to each corner, to still function.
I park and walk to the drawbridge. I take my time to give my throbbing muscles time to warm and stretch. The moat looks inviting. Instead of sharks, alligators, or sharpened metal spikes beneath the surface, it’s filled with huge carp the color of tropical fruit. Of course, there’s no guarantee that Kingston hasn’t trained the giant goldfish to eat human flesh. I move on, not wanting Bubbles to be jealous that I am admiring other fish.
Once across the drawbridge, I stand before two huge slabs of oak, twenty feet tall and studded with brass and iron. A pizza-sized knocker in the shape of a lion’s head yawns at me. Warily, I lift the heavy iron bar clutched in the lion’s mouth and release it. It hits the door with a heavy thud rather than the roar I am hoping for.
Somewhere within the hallowed halls, a gentle chime echoes.
The massive doors slide open on greased tracks with the gentle purr of a hidden generator. Waiting inside, a tall, regal gentleman stands stiffly. He is just as I imagined on the phone: impregnable British face; milk-white complexion; short, perfectly trimmed black hair; neatly pressed charcoal tuxedo. A poster child for the vanishing craft of butlery.