“So what’s the good news?” she mutters.
“If it wasn’t for that one act of incredible sheer dumbness, we wouldn’t be standing here getting acquainted tonight.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says coldly.
“Your father thinks you do,” I say.
“It’s him you should be investigating,” she bursts out. “For the first time in my life I’m finally doing something I really love, and he…he…he just won’t see me happy. You can’t imagine the kinds of things he’s accused me of, but this really takes the cake.”
“I understand he bought you this place,” I say. “Sounds pretty decent to me.”
“He can afford it,” she mutters. “If it were my sister, he’d of bought her ten. That’s the way he’s always been, and there’s nothing I can ever do to change it.” Her hand goes to her throat as she says it, as if she’s searching for some pearls to hold onto. Then her eyes go moist again as she tells me how her mother died young, and how since she was the oldest, she had to take care of the house. Daddy wouldn’t hire any help, but then he resented everything she did to help. She got out of South Texas as soon as she could, she says. The words are coming fast now, as if we’re the only ones in the room. She says she’s made mistakes, God she’s made mistakes, but dammit if she’s going to let her daddy go and ruin it for her again. She really loves art, and maybe the gallery hasn’t been too much of a success just yet, but she’s damn sure going to make it one.
“I mean look at that painting,” she says, turning towards the fruit bowl with the apples.
“I did,” I say, “and I just couldn’t get over those apples.”
“Yes!” she cries, nodding her head as she turns to look me in the eyes. “I mean that’s just something so beautiful to me. And why don’t people care? Sometimes I get the feeling they’re laughing at me when I say something like that.”
“Nobody’s buying?” I say.
“Not tonight,” she says.
“You could use the money,” I say.
Her eyes shoot such fire that it’s a miracle I stay on my feet. “I did not steal that Madonna, or paint it, or swap it, or whatever it is you say I did,” she says. “I have had threats from all kinds of people ever since I came up here, and I’m most certainly not going to take it from you.”
“Threats?” I catch a little hitch in her eyes, like maybe she’s forgot a line, not that this detracts in any way from the performance, and not that I’m any less charmed.
She glances at the musicians, then glances back at me. “Nevermind,” she says. “I forgot for a moment who I was talking to. But you didn’t by any chance send me those letters last week?”
“Sweetheart, I wish I had,” I say. “If only I could have found the words. Got stuck trying to find a rhyme for kama sutra. What letters?”
“I’m being blackmailed too,” she says lightly, “and I thought that if you’re capable of making these kinds of accusations, you might be capable of that too.”
“No doubt I am,” I say. “But really I’m just here for the painting. Sooner rather than later, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re wasting your time,” she says, “Mister private investigator.” Spits it out like it’s got a taste, then looks out across the room to make it clear she’s finished with me. Which draws our attention to Billy and Twiggy, who are moving through the crowd handing out brochures and may need a little reigning in.
“What’s that?” she says.
“Oh that’s just Billy Sidell and Twiggy,” I say. “They’re into pheromones.”
“Just what I need,” she sighs, eyes flicking across the room. “Get me a drink and then get out of here. Tell my father he’s disowned.”
So I step over to the bar, where I have to wait on the champagne, and by the time I turn to move back towards the music, Fernanda has slipped off to another circle and is talking a blue streak, as if she can put some distance between us with vocabulary. I move over towards her with the glass, which she takes without a glance for yours truly. Unfortunately her glance is for none other than Miss Havisham, who catches the emergency in the boss’s eyes and starts bearing down on me at high speed. She body-checks me right out of that circle, and before I can yell rape she’s giving me two options of my own: I can leave, or she can call the police.
“Question for you, Havisham,” I say as she hooks her arm through mine and drags me across the floor. “Albania is a fascinating country, I understand, and based on our encounter this afternoon, it’s a sentiment I imagine you share. So the question – why did you have me followed, and what has that got to do with Albania?”
But she just keeps dragging me for the door. I look back at Fernanda, but as far as she’s concerned, I’m just another guy in a cape. Nor is there any smile yet designed by man to get Havisham talking, so there’s really no choice but to concede round one to the art thieves and hone the body and mind for the rounds to come. In the meantime, I tell Havisham I’ll just call Fernanda in the morning, if she’d let her know, since now doesn’t seem to be a good time. Havisham says she’ll be out of town the next day, and the next day and the next if I’m calling.
Then thankfully there’s Billy Sidell, God bless him. Never have I had a better veep. He’s handed out all his brochures with the help of Twiggy, has two days of meetings scheduled, and has somehow persuaded the caterers to rustle up a bottle of Jack Daniels. I lead them out to the sidewalk, grab the bottle, and apply liberally.
“The night is but a fetus, Billy,” I say. “What do you and Twiggy here have in mind?” Twiggy appears ready to follow Billy to the ends of the earth, or at least, I’m guessing from my last conversation with Kafka, to where she imagines we’ve got that Madonna stashed.
Billy looks up at me with a big drunk grin. “I’m a huge golfer,” he says. I look down at the bottle, and there are two types of people in this world: those who say the bottle’s half full, and those who say it’s half empty. This one’s most definitely half empty.
“Good man,” I say. “So where does that leave you, me, and Twiggy?” And why not have her along, I’m thinking. It’s not yet midnight, and maybe there’s still something to be learned. Also she’s showing more flesh than an average person naked. So exciting it almost shuts down the libido completely. Like a little built-in safety valve. She catches me contemplating the little piercing in her belly button and says, “You shut up.”
“She says there’s a driving range open late not far from here,” Billy says.
I look up at Twiggy. She looks down at Billy. “It’s in Chelsea,” she says to him.
“Alright then,” I say to Billy, so he can relate the message back up to Twiggy. “Bit of a golfer myself,” I say, “if you count streaking the Westwood Hills Putt-Putt back in the winter of ’79.”
From where we’re standing it looks like Twiggy rolls her eyes, but she’s so far up there when her posture’s working that maybe that’s just blinking. Through her translator this comes out as, “Drita thinks it might be fun.”
“Who’s Drita?” I ask.
Billy busts out laughing such that I can’t make out a clear answer. “Alright then,” I say. “Let’s vamoose. There are golf balls out there in need of deliverance, and a thousand taxi cabs cruising to take us to the moon.”
8
The driving range is this impressive multi-level affair aimed out at the shores of New Jersey. Wall Street bankers and college kids in baseball caps smash balls out towards these little flags set up on astroturf under lights. We buy ourselves three of these cards they’ve got at fifty dollars a pop, paid for by the generous Harry Shore. You pick out a driver, find yourself a stall, put your card in a little slot, and a ball just pops up on a tee there for you. Makes you feel you’ve already taken a few strokes off your game just standing there watching that technology work. We’re set up on the third level and do ourselves some stretching, deep knee bends, breathing exercises and the like, then Billy steps right up to the plate
. Quite a cut, Billy takes. Misses the first five tries but keeps at it, which is in the spirit and admirable if you ask me. On the sixth try he manages to nick the thing, and it dribbles off about a foot from the tee. Another ball pops right up in its place, which is about all Billy can take. He picks up the first ball and hurls it out there as far as he can, screaming, “Go, dammit!”
Meanwhile Twiggy is taking a few practice swings with a driver about as tall as Billy. Nice and easy, she does it, and her skirt, if we can agree to call it that, flips up real gratifyingly each time. Probably the most beautiful golf swing I’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Flutters my cape a little on the backswing, and I fear for the city of Hoboken. Then, once she’s cleared some air around her, she steps back away from the tee and bends over to check her alignment or whatever. Turns out that from certain angles she’s not wearing anything at all. Real freedom of movement there. Everything goes real quiet all down the line except for Billy, who’s hitting what he can like the enemy’s closing in fast. The rest of us are watching Twiggy, who steps back around to the ball and smashes the poor thing clear out across the Hudson River. Have I mentioned she’s wearing the sort of high heels they’ve banned on commercial flights? I see at least five investment bankers down the line drop their clubs and give up the game of golf forever.
Given the circumstances, I decide to work on my putting game a bit. They say it’s the short game where you really make the difference, so I roll a few out there nice and easy. Of course you have to imagine the holes yourself, but this is the sort of thing I’m accustomed to, and I’m four for four when I hear Twiggy behind me saying, “I’m bored.”
“Not now, honey,” Billy says, gritting his teeth and spraying the astroturf at about fourteen rounds per second.
I give Twiggy a reassuring little nod. She rolls her eyes for maybe the tenth time that evening. “You need a new trick,” I say to her, then turning to Billy: “Twiggy and I are going for a beer in the clubhouse.” Billy may or may not hear this. He’s mumbling something about somebody saying hello to his leetle friend.
“I, like many people,” I say once we’ve settled into a booth in the clubhouse, “am greatly concerned by our nation’s abuse of its natural resources.” Then I take a little sip of beer to give this sentiment the necessary time to sink in. “Particularly gold lamé,” I say. “And I want you to know that I have nothing but admiration for your willingness here tonight, through your sparing use of said lamé, to save at least two or three lamés from certain extinction.” She’s taken a cigarette from her purse and blows a long stream of smoke into my face.
“You’re a fascinating woman, Twiggy,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me a little something about yourself. I’m not only curious – I am downright fascinated.” She stares up at the lighting fixtures for maybe a minute or two. Then she looks right at me and tells me my time is up.
I tell her I’ve been waiting for a line like that all evening. “You shut up,” she says. Then she gives me what she calls her ultimatum. My partner Billy and I are to tell Fernanda and somebody named Alberto to give up the Madonna – or a hundred thousand dollars – to the members of ALF before noon the next day.
What’s even more astonishing than this piece of news is that I manage to keep a straight face, especially considering what entertaining and imaginative stuff it is. She says she knows all about my business with Fernanda, and that they’ve been on my trail from the start. From this I take it Kafka hasn’t gotten up the nerve to report back to the troops on how he lost my trail, not that I can blame him. So I explain to the lovely Twiggy that if I had business with Fernanda, I wouldn’t be sitting there with her in a golf clubhouse, as much as I love golf and as charming as she is. “What does ALF have to do with this anyway?” But she goes deaf again. If there is a muscle in her face, I have not seen evidence of it. “And more importantly, who’s this Alberto?”
That really gets her. She hisses through her teeth. He touches a nerve, this Alberto. Yes, apparently she does have nerves.
“Okay,” I say. “Let me try another one. Let’s indulge your fantasy life a bit. What happens when ALF doesn’t get the painting or the money?”
“Then we will sell a fake Madonna into the market,” she says. “Then we will sell another one, and then another one.” She tells me that they have prepared many fakes. She tells me that they have experts in reproduction.
“I guess everybody likes to think of himself as an expert in that department,” I say. “Though I guess I’ve never found that special little lady I’d like to settle down with and raise a flock.” And in case you’re wondering, no, Caroline most certainly did not count.
Twiggy looks at me like I’m Montenegro, or whatever Albania’s arch-enemy is. “The fakes will be indistinguishable from the original,” she says. “The fakes will be just as beautiful, done with just as much skill. The fakes will be worth nothing, but their existence will compromise the value falsely attached to masterpieces by the market. Tell Fernanda all of this. In the end it will be very much cheaper for her to pay us the money.”
When I ask her how they’re going to paint all these beautiful reproductions without the original to go by, she tells me that Alberto got a photograph and offers what may be a smile. I get to smiling too with the mention of that photograph, the properly midnight blue version of which still happens to be down my left boot. I tell her I thought this Alberto was the enemy, she tells me that this Alberto has disappeared. I’m thinking how I’d like to get to know him when Billy staggers in so drenched in sweat that you have to wonder whether he got a little carried away with the follow-through and ended up in the Hudson. His hat’s dented in a few places and there’s an ugly looking bruise on his face that could use some attention.
Twiggy’s not going to be the one to give it to him, however. As Billy sits down, she gulps the rest of her beer and storms out of the clubhouse. I buy him a beer to ease his pains.
“This’ll give us a second to talk,” he says, watching Twiggy go, as is just about everybody in the place. She gets most of the room grinning, but Billy’s not looking too happy. “She’s a really nice girl,” he says.
“She sure is.”
“You know I told you about my wife,” he says, smirking up at me from under the brim of his hat. “What should I do? What about Betty Boo?” What should he do? Run for the hills. Catch a boat sailing far, far away. But the light’s in his eyes, and because I’ve gotten to like ol’ Billy, I make an attempt at something a bit more reassuring.
“You ever read any Nietzsche?” I ask. He shakes his head. “There’s this principle of his he calls Occam’s Razor,” I say. “Ever hear of Occam or his razor?” Apparently not.
“What this principle says is that no decision ever benefits by more information than is necessary,” I say. “More often than not, when faced with a decision, your instinct has already done the work faster than your brain can. Thinking about it just delays what you already know. That, my friend, is my advice.”
“Then where’d she go,” he says, making his beer disappear quick. I turn around. She’s out of sight. I tell him I think she left, he flies out of there faster than any golf ball he’s ever hit. He’ll encounter some difficulties if he finds her, I imagine, but then I’m encountering difficulties of my own. Sinking beneath the weight of too much information, so to speak. Too many Kafkas and Havishams and Albertos out there. More loose ends than ALF has fake Madonnas. I sit there drinking and try to tie a few together, but the more I think, the more loose ends I’ve got. Finally I’m left no choice but to drink a little faster and whip out Erasmus from my suit pocket in the hopes of remaining philosophical about it all. After a while I come upon this, which with the day I’ve had sounds just about right: “To know nothing is the happiest life.”
9
My head jerks up off the pillow. Out the window it’s morning, and for a moment I don’t know where I am. Then I recognize the smell, and then that’s my suitcase over ther
e, and then I’m regretting ever leaving dreamland, since what I’m looking at is the Hotel Blue. Also my head is about ready to explode, courtesy of Mister Jack Daniels and his friends.
I roll out of bed to my feet and risk a glance in the mirror. Not too bad, although honestly it could be better. Admittedly the belly does have a little jiggle to it when I put it through its paces. Well fed, let’s call it. Normally I’d just call it plain healthy if the rest of me weren’t feeling anything but.
I ease down to the floor for a set of thirty pushups. It gets the blood flowing, which is exactly what you don’t want blood to do in situations like these, but considering how those Albanian kids here glared at me last night when I stumbled back in to what I guess you’d call the lobby, I’m going to need the blood flowing just that much faster than the next fella’s. Then I do some high-level sit-ups, fifteen for Harry Shore, another fifteen for me. Figure I’ll get in my aerobics a little later on and take a blazing hot shower till I’m feeling more or less Willie again.
As I dress I try to remember if anybody mentioned Kafka last night in the lobby. Then I try to remember if anybody mentioned my owing them a hundred thousand bucks. Twiggy seemed to have a few ideas about that. What she didn’t realize is that I’m after the same thing she is, although judging from what I’ve seen of ALF’s methods, there’s absolutely no advantage in partnering up with them to find the painting. So I pack my suitcase, figuring I’ll check out fast and make another call to the gallery. First, however, I wouldn’t mind speaking to this Alberto. I vaguely recall mentioning his name last night to the crowd in the lobby, but what I don’t recall are any polite answers.
The lobby’s empty except for the cheery giantess, who never seems to move from her desk, which considering her dimensions does seem wise. She grins up at me. I give her the key and wave. She waves back, and we do some more grinning.
Planet Willie Page 7