Planet Willie

by Josh Shoemake

“If you could just ask her to bring out the bottle. Save a trip, so to speak.” The last thing I need is a cardiac arrest. Kafka gives her some instructions, and she goes off. We watch her go, and man is it tense. When she’s finally clear Kafka invites me to squeeze onto the couch beside him and offers me a cigarette, which I decline. They’re little brown ones, and I realize that’s what I smelled in my room. Sort of like a mixture of cinnamon and body odor.

  “Where’s Twiggy?” I say.

  “Who?”

  “The blonde with the ribcage.”

  He laughs a little nervously. “Yes, I guess she is a bit like a twig,” he says. The big woman brings out a bottle and some glasses, and I pour drinks for everybody.

  “Don’t tell me you live here, Kafka,” I say. “Artist of your stature should be fitted out in style.”

  “This is Willie Lee,” he says to the others sitting close. “He’s interested in art. We met him down around the galleries in Soho.”

  A kid Kafka’s calling Max asks if I saw anything I liked.

  “Not unless you like your redheads ornery,” I say. “Didn’t get to see many paintings on account of her.”

  Max nods and says: “I’m sure Kafka has told you about our mission.” Kafka smiles faintly and stares at his combat boots. “ALF will turn the entire capitalistic hierarchy of the art world on it’s head,” he says real smooth, making it sound like Eastern religion.

  Which gets me a lecture on ALF, which stands for the Art Liberation Front, apparently, although I could think of a few less polite names beginning with those letters. ALF is what these kids have in common, apart from Albania. It takes me half an hour of having big vocabulary words shouted at me from all corners of the room in questionable grammar to make any sense of it. What I finally get, more or less, is that these kids are all artists of some form or another, and that their art just is the first step in some kind of worldwide revolution to destroy what they’re all calling the capitalist power structure.

  “Well, it’s been nothing short of fascinating,” I say after a while, beginning to wish I’d never met Kafka. Nobody’s paying me to spend the afternoon chatting with ALF, and even if they wanted to, I’m pretty sure I’m not qualified. So I throw down a twenty-dollar bill for the bottle, bid adieu to my new Albanian friends, and head out to the streets where I can breathe again.

  4

  On the corner I find phone booths, but no phones. They’ve all been clipped away with bolt cutters. I walk up to the next corner, where one still looks intact, and put in a quarter, which fails to get me a dial tone, much less my quarter back. I reach my finger up into the change slot and feel some plastic up in there, which I pinch between two fingers and pull out till it becomes a plastic shopping bag and quarters come raining out like a one-armed bandit, fifteen dollars’ worth at least. Oldest trick in the book, and it does make you a little nostalgic for your youth. In any case, I load down the pockets with quarters till the Italian pants are almost falling off and give her another whirl. This time I get a dial tone and punch in the number Shore’s given me for his insurance company. The woman tells me I need two more quarters. Honey, quarters I got. I go ahead and put in about a dozen, in case we want to get into an extended discussion of the insurance business.

  The receptionist at Brattle Brothers Insurance answers the phone and introduces herself as Jean. I ask to speak to the person in charge of Harry Shore’s account.

  “Whom may I say is calling,” Jean says.

  “Who, sweetheart. You’re working too hard. And this is Willie Lee, private investigator.” Which gets me some extended elevator music. The good news is I could hold through midnight and still have quarters to spare, but in three minutes or so she’s back, telling me that the man I want is in a meeting. I ask her when she thinks he’ll be out of that meeting, she tells me she just doesn’t know. Not particularly helpful, Jean, so I decide to help myself.

  “Seeing as how as I’m not overly occupied at the moment,” I say, “why don’t just I come on up and settle in to wait for him. First on the list, so to speak.” Jean doesn’t like this at all. This is simply not protocol. Her voice goes high, but before I can make out what she’s saying, I’ve hung up the phone.

  I decide to walk uptown, which has always been my preferred mode of transport in the big city. Subways make a job out of moving from one place to another, and city buses with their old ladies can have devastating and long-term effects on a man’s libido. So you walk and you take it all in, contributing your little hopes and dreams to the big show. And apparently I’m part of the show. Brattle Brothers is up near Rockefeller Center, and by the time I reach midtown, I’m about as certain as I’ll ever be that somebody’s on my tail. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a fedora down over his face. Not particularly built, but his height is intimidating. I mean you hate to think what he could do to you from up there. When I turn up Thirty Second Street, he turns too. I stare up at the Empire State, he stares up like he’s just noticing skyscrapers for the first time. I move on, stopping at a Don’t Walk sign. He stops halfway down the block until the light turns red, then follows me across the intersection. I have no idea where he came from, though as tall as this guy is, and if Kafka and Twiggy are any indication, I’m leaning towards Albania. It doesn’t make sense, but then a hell of a lot doesn’t make sense, and I do mean in general. I pick up the pace and manage to lose sight of him among the crowds of tourists on Fifth Avenue. Brattle Brothers is just around the corner from Saks, and in the lobby of the building I beat the elevator doors before they close.

  You ask yourself what makes a man go into the insurance business. All those little newborn babies out there, not a care in the world, and more than a few of them will grow up and decide they’re made for insurance. Boggles the mind, it does, but pop into Brattle Brothers and you start to understand some of the thinking that goes into this. I’m talking wood-paneled waiting rooms and enough flowers to hold a funeral at a moment’s notice. Guy dies in the elevator, they can hold the ceremony right there. Carpets about a foot thick. I wobble over to the front desk thinking I may just go ahead and ask for a job application. Making me a little sexy, the carpet is, but then I meet Jean, with whom I’ve had the pleasure of speaking over the telephone. Jean’s cleared sixty, which experience has taught me can sometimes be edifying, but weighing in at over two-fifty she’s about one fetish too many. True to form, I manage to be polite in the face of disappointment. Grace under pressure is what it’s called, but then I don’t have to tell you that.

  “Hi Jean,” I say, giving her a little smile I’ve developed that goes by the name of the Diligent Schoolboy. A lot of rosy cheek-work and a general widening of the eyes designed to give them full advantage of the baby blues. Works wonders on the over-sixty set, but apparently it’s been a decade or three since anybody worked a wonder on Jean. Terrible how we neglect our elderly, I think.

  She looks me over and tells me to have a seat on the couch, where I get to flipping around in some ladies magazines, catching up on my beauty tips and whatnot. Meanwhile Jean goes about typing like the possessed. She’s wearing these little half-moon glasses with a cord around her neck and has to get so close to that computer screen to see what she’s doing that she must be feeling some electrical fuzz on the tip of her nose, which can’t be good for the general health of the body. Then as if to confirm my diagnosis, she starts making these little indigestion noises that cause a man to think back to what he last ate and consider whether it’s still sitting right. Can’t really recall too much since the breakfast buffet, and that starts the old stomach rumbling. I could eat – let’s just say that – and the more I think about it, the more the old stomach gets to feeling the need to express its feelings. I mean it’s some serious experimental music in there with Jean and me. I’m thinking we ought to consider taking it on the road. Thank you, Wichita, I’m thinking. Looks like we’ve got a good crowd out there tonight.

  I’m introducing the other members of the band to the good
people of Kansas when the elevator doors slide open to reveal a little Hawaiian fella smelling of Tex-Mex, and it is frightening how in tune with the world I am. Armies of little Hawaiian deliverymen out there anticipating my needs. He’s got two big brown paper bags and seems to be on a first name basis with Jean. He hands over the bags and waits while she talks into an intercom on her desk. “Loku’s here,” she says.

  “I have no time for guessing games, Jean,” a man’s voice says.

  “Loku. With lunch,” she says, and this young guy in a cheap suit immediately comes hurtling out of the nearest office. Hair so slicked back you wouldn’t exactly call it hair. There are a hundred uses of petroleum jelly, and this is one.

  He pays off Loku, whose spoken vocabulary may or may not be restricted to the Hawaiian language, and gives a bag to Jean, which is honestly exactly what she doesn’t need. She points me out, he comes over to shake my hand.

  “Mister Lee,” he says. “I’m Brice Darling. Mister Shore called yesterday to say you might be stopping by. Have you eaten?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” I purr.

  He nods and leads me back to his office, which unfortunately returns my opinion of the insurance industry back to about where it started. Sort of like a broom closet with a diploma on the wall. He pulls out two big Styrofoam cups of chili from the bag and provides his own plastic spoons from a drawer. The chili appears to have pineapple in it, but I guess you can’t complain.

  “Good of you to see me, Darling,” I say as we sit. “I was hoping you’d let me have a look at whatever information you have concerning the estate of Harry Shore.”

  “I’m not authorized to do that without the expressed permission of our client,” he says, spooning up some chili.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong here, Darling,” I say, “but Shore called yesterday expressing that permission.”

  “Not to look into his entire estate,” Darling says, real pleased with himself here. Been in an office so long he thinks like a Xerox machine. The good news is that there’s a framed black and white photograph on his desk of Miss Ava Gardner, in The Killers if I’m not mistaken, and anytime you get Miss Ava Gardner in a room, you figure there must be some kind of hope.

  “Let’s skip the estate,” I say, taking a bite of chili and wishing I hadn’t. In this modern day you want to be open to cuisines of all nations, but there are some you only need to do once, and brother that’s Hawaiian chili. “I’m really just interested in his school of Botticelli Madonna. The one with the sexy smile, not unlike Miss Gardner’s.”

  He looks over at her and says, “The Killers. Robert Siodmak.”

  “I figured as much,” I say. “She was something.”

  “She was,” he says, relaxing a bit. “It’s a great film, and she’s the tops. But if we’re talking about Siodmak, I prefer Phantom Lady. Ella Raines, she was something too.” He grins to himself and wolfs down some chili. I wince with each bite, but I guess you have to let the kids make their own mistakes.

  “How do you know so much about movies, Darling?” I ask. “They let you out of here occasionally for good behavior?”

  “Actually I studied film in college. Film studies.”

  “You spent four years studying the likes of Ava Gardner,” I say, “but the pull of insurance proved too strong.”

  “This is a great career in a great firm, Mister Lee,” he says, forgetting Ava and giving me the look I guess he’s been practicing in the mirror for his first board meeting. “Not a job, not just something I’m interested in, but a career, Mister Lee.”

  “Call me Willie,” I say. “Nobody’s called me Mister Lee since I fired the butler. Now how about everything you’ve got on Shore’s Madonna. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  He doesn’t like it, but he goes over to a large filing cabinet. After some searching he comes back over to the desk with a file the size of a Russian novel and starts going through it in search of the Madonna.

  “When was the last time you had any contact with the Shore family?” I ask as he works.

  “As you know, Mister Shore is confined to a wheelchair,” he says, “so most of our business is conducted over telephone or through his lawyers.” Which wasn’t the question, so I decide to follow up with another little zinger. They don’t pay me the big bucks for nothing. “Shore mentioned that his daughter Fernanda is closely involved in his business affairs.”

  “Miss Shore does occasionally visit us as her father’s representative,” he says. “She’s naturally very concerned for his financial welfare.”

  And that’s putting it mildly, I’m thinking, as he slides a folder from the stack. It’s one of those folders printed with blank lines where you can sign or fill in a date.

  “Now then,” Darling says. “The school of Botticelli Madonna.” He pulls out some papers and turns them on the desk for me to read – certificates, attestations, bills of sale, and a lot more I couldn’t begin to understand. I ask him how much the painting’s worth, he tells me it’s insured for a million dollars, which does put the case into perspective.

  “How about photographs?” I say.

  “There’s one in here,” he says, flipping through papers. Near the bottom of the folder, he finds an eight-by-ten and passes it over. I look at the eyes. That’s what I do – I look at the eyes. Unfortunately I’d have to be Harry Shore to say how blue they are.

  “Could I get a copy of this, Darling?”

  He chuckles like this is really the most comical statement he’s heard in all his many years of experience. Difficult line to take when you’re still fighting facial acne, though in all honesty the petroleum jelly can’t do wonders for the complexion. “I’m afraid not,” he says.

  “And that’s the only photograph you have on record?”

  He looks down at the Shore file. “It would be in this file if we have it,” he says.

  “Do me a favor,” I say. “I’ll turn my head if you like, but would you mind just taking a quick glance to see if you find any other photographic evidence of our lovely Madonna? Then I can say I’ve done my job, you’ve certainly done yours, and I can let you get back to work.”

  He sighs deeply and makes a big show of opening and closing folders. I see statues go by, jewelry and Persian carpets, and then Darling’s as surprised as I am to see our coy Madonna again, fixing us both with that mysterious smile.

  “This file’s a mess,” Darling says under his breath. “I’ll have to speak with Jean.”

  I ask if he’d mind if I have a look at the photograph, and he passes it over. Shore’s not nuts. Or maybe he’s nuts, but he’s right about this. The eyes in the second photograph are darker than the first, which is faded and must have been taken at a different time. So somebody saw the wrong photograph…and then what happened?

  “What are those dates on the outside of the folder?” I ask.

  “Anytime we consult with a client about an item, we’re supposed to date the folder,” he says.

  “This one’s dated March this year,” I say. “That was about a month ago.”

  “Mister Shore’s daughter was here, as I believe I mentioned,” he says quickly.

  “She was looking at the Madonna folder,” I say.

  “That’s confidential,” he says.

  “Well it says it right here, Darling. March 10th.”

  “We may have discussed the Madonna,” he says.

  “Fair enough,” I say, “and I thank you for your time.” I make to get up as he shuffles the folders back into a neat little stack, but the truth is I’m only getting started. I make a point of gazing admiringly at Ava a bit, then I tell him I loved her in Mogambo.

  “Her in that shower when Gable shows up?” he says.

  “Plus Grace Kelly,” I say.

  “Amazing,” he says, and there may be hope for the kid yet.

  “How did you get into movies anyway, Darling?”

  “A high school job,” he says. “I worked at this video rental place on the weekends, and the
boss was always showing classics on the in-store screens. I must have seen The Killers fifty times like that.”

  “I worked in a similar sort of establishment myself,” I say. “Tulsa, Oklahoma. I did deliveries.”

  Darling grins and shakes his head. “Man, those were the worst.”

  “Not so fast, Darling,” I say. “There’s a lot to be learned out there on the road. Principally what I learned – and this might be helpful someday for your friend Loku – is that if you want the big tips you’re going to have to deliver more than a movie. I mean people out there are longing for something more. People need to get through the night, right? The women particularly tend to be sensitive types.”

  He feels it coming, and brother he likes it. Hell, Darling’s longing for something more too.

  “Sometimes,” I say, “it takes a few trips to get them to acknowledge this longing. But keep in mind you’ve got the pick-up two days later, and the pick-up is generally where you get the first-timers. Seeing you twice in two days just kills her.”

  Darling shakes his head and asks if I’d mind if he smoked a cigarette. I wave my hand like an Arabian prince – all my people shall have cigarettes. He takes a pack from the desk drawer and slides open a window about the size of his diploma, which only opens about an inch, I’m thinking probably on account of the high suicide rate among New York insurance professionals. As he blows out smoke, I move the Madonna folder to my lap.

  “If she’s a new release,” I say, “nine times out of ten you can make the first move and she’ll go along and forget it ever happened. Romantic comedies are more problematic, for the obvious reasons. Your average romantic comedy has overly developed expectations, not that you can’t meet those expectations. If it’s Action, on the other hand, my advice is to bring protection. She may have done this sort of thing yesterday.”

  He flicks his butt down to Fifth Avenue and tries to force down a grin. I move the Madonna folder down towards my leg.

  “Then of course there is the genre known as exercise.” I say. “There was this one time. This sweet thing in spandex did the complete Jane Fonda workout on tape, on me. Wonderful program, Jane Fonda’s. That woman is a national treasure.”