A Paradise for Fools

by Nicholas Kilmer

  “Or he did what I told him not to do, called Tippy Artoonian, and she convinced him she didn’t give him the painting in the first place, it was a loan, or whatever she says it was. She gave it to him all right. It’s his.

  “The thing is, it’s the only thing he’s ever loved. Not Tippy, not me, his mother. He’ll never sell it. You don’t know Arthur. He doesn’t care about money. Not even when he needs it. Somebody has to make him. Everyone knows where he is now. Kenzo. Arthur can’t stay in Cambridge. He’s gotta go out West, and how is he gonna do that? Has he had his five minutes? Let’s go.”

  “Three minutes left,” Fred said. “In the meantime, tell me about Eva.”

  “Unless we find Arthur at Eva’s, we are going to find Eva at Arthur’s,” Kim said. “That’s what I can tell you about Eva. And as far as I know that skank Beth she’s with now, and Lexminster Oreo and his piece of paper, unless he’s already finished and out of there and Arthur’s sitting on a check for six hundred dollars, grinning like a moron, he’s got it made. Let’s go.”

  “You convinced me,” Fred said. “We’ll take my car.”

  “Mine’s fucked anyway,” Kim said. “Shocks. Struts.”

  ***

  At Green Street they pushed up the stairs, Kim in the lead. Arthur was on the landing at the top of the stairs, dithering, managing to tear his hair and clean his glasses both at the same time. The door into the apartment was open. He looked at them, dazed. “I don’t know if we should go in,” he said. Dogs barking and baying in the neighborhood. It gave Green Street a whole new ambience.

  “It’s your apartment, asshole.” Kim pushed him in in front of her. The place was as Fred had seen it last, but with the furniture moved around and a uniformed policeman taking notes on a clipboard. “Nothing missing?” he asked Arthur.

  “I don’t have anything but my tools,” Arthur said. “Which I can’t use in Cambridge, on account of the laws of Massachusetts. Everything’s here.”

  “You’d locked the doors? You are certain?”

  “I always lock the doors,” Arthur said. “And I never even use the back door. That’s open too.”

  “If nothing’s missing, what do you want us to do?” the officer said. “Somebody came in, looked around and went away, I guess it’s a crime, but all you have to do, you’re sure it was locked? Maybe a former tenant? Change the locks.”

  “You don’t take fingerprints?” Arthur insisted.

  The cop put his hands on his hips and stared. “You’re kidding, right? Who are these people?”

  “A friend,” Arthur said. “Also another guy.”

  The cop put a meaty hand on Fred’s shoulder and suggested, one adult to another, men of the real world, “Explain the situation, would you? You always have so many dogs around the neighborhood? We don’t hear them down the G Spot.” He tramped out and down the stairs.

  Arthur settled onto the couch where Fred had first encountered a supine Eva. “I couldn’t get there,” he said. “The meeting. Or I forgot. Or, but anyway, the thing is…”

  “Where’s Eva?” Kim demanded. “Where’s the painting? Give me that check, Arthur. Where’s Oreo? Are you out of your mind showing your operation to the cops? What the fuck is going on?”

  “Start with ‘What the fuck is going on,’” Fred suggested. He took the rolling stool and left Kim to drag a chair around. If they’d been in the woods of Georgia he’d have said the dogs outside had treed something: coon, or bear, or an escaped convict, a murderer, running for his life and motivated by the stunned blinding knowledge: all life, even mine, is precious.

  Arthur, still in the mode of nervous victim, gulped air. “Everyone told me to come home. Both of you, under the trees, next to that hotel we were at. So I did. I walked. And sleep. I got back, I can’t swear it, I think the door to my place was unlocked. Or open. Or whatever, I was so tired I thought, and we’d just been together, maybe Kim was here for some reason. I don’t know what I thought. But, so I went and lay down on my bed and, like you said, went to sleep. I was walking all night and I haven’t been sleeping.

  “Then I woke up maybe an hour ago. I remember we are supposed to meet again, the same place. Fine. I’m in time. I start noticing, like you do waking up, like a stair’s missing: something’s wrong. Even, everything’s wrong. The bed even. All the furniture’s been moved. A little bit.

  “First thing I think, like you do, is I’m crazy. Everything’s here, only it isn’t where it was, like your teeth have been arranged differently from what they were, even if they’re all there. And I start looking, someone’s been into the closet, the clothes are off the hangers, rugs moved around, and I thought, Kim doesn’t believe me. Got mad and came back looking. With that man Fred. But that didn’t make sense and anyway, here you both are. The back door too. Was open. Which I never use. Stuff in the back hall, whose it is, search me, is shifted around. Somebody’s broken in.

  “Except nobody’s broken in because nothing’s broken. Nothing’s taken. The painting already wasn’t here.”

  “You gave keys to Eva?” Kim accused him.

  “No. What Eva is, is with Beth,” Arthur insisted.

  “Who else has keys?” Fred said.

  “Nobody. Me and Kim,” Arthur said.

  “And Sammy Flash,” Fred said.

  “Shit. I forgot Flash.”

  “He left his keys when he took off?”

  “Flash wouldn’t,” Kim said. “Flash doesn’t check in. Flash doesn’t report. Flash doesn’t say thank you. Flash goes his own way, is what Flash does. It is fucking hot up here, Arthur.” She opened the man’s white shirt down the front and rolled the sleeves up, displaying Arthur’s brilliant work, and how much remained to be completed.

  “Whoever came in had keys,” Fred confirmed.

  “Unless I or Kim left the door open,” Arthur said. “Which it wasn’t me, because I wasn’t here last night. Kim was. Waiting to rag me out on account of what I am not doing with Eva, who is with Beth now. I keep trying to explain to you, Kim, Eva’s a dyke. Converted to a dyke. All I can say about Kim, knowing Kim, and Kim, you are an organized person, if you left the apartment door open you did it on purpose, it was no accident. So did you? You have something going with Orono? But there’s nothing here. And there wasn’t, before. Anything. Here.”

  “You dork,” Kim explained. “Someone was looking for the painting that you stashed with Eva. I wouldn’t leave the apartment open. This neighborhood? This neighborhood, they’d steal the tray of kitty litter if it isn’t locked up. And find someone to sell it to. Somebody came in looking for the painting who didn’t know that the painting isn’t here. Who’s left is Flash. No problem. Flash was too late.

  “Listen, Arthur. The whole thing’s in your head forever. The painting. You love it? Forget it. We travel light. With money we can leave town. Everything’s lined up. Oreo, that dealer’s waiting. We collect the painting from Eva. Fred’s with us. Fred knows what the thing is worth as soon as he sees it, we give Fred a cut—we’ll work it out. Let’s do it. Get this into your head, Arthur. You don’t get a chance like this every day. Whatever cut you think Eva deserves, call it a tip.”

  Arthur said, “I was afraid. It’s like having a person walk over your grave, when a stranger has been inside where you live, moving everything, looking through everything. I thought, Shit, there’s the G Spot. They know me. I didn’t think. I went down, grabbed that cop, brought him back. You saw how much good that did. I was sure they would take fingerprints. I always wanted to see that.”

  “We know it was Flash,” Kim said. “Forget it.”

  “Maybe some day tattoo fingerprints all over a person,” Arthur mused.

  The apartment door was pushed open.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  “Something else,” the cop said. He had a crackling walkie-talkie out now. “Arth
ur Pendragon, you said your name is?”

  “Yes,” Arthur said. “Not exactly. Not legal. I didn’t change it yet. The paper.”

  The cop said, “I want everyone’s name who’s here. Names and addresses, phones, everything.” He spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I’ll stay with them if you’re covered.”

  The answering crackle indicated that the other end was covered.

  Sirens approached and gathered in the street below, some of them turning to growls. The dogs reacted noisily, alarmed or joining in.

  “Fill us in, officer,” Fred said.

  “You fill me in,” the cop said. His brass name plate identified him as T. Murphy. He took a seat on the couch from which Arthur had risen. From the apartment windows overlooking Green Street it was possible to see the gathering of squad cars, and a movement of uniformed officers toward the area back of the building. Whatever was causing the commotion could not be seen from the apartment.

  Murphy said, concentrating on Arthur but gesturing toward Kim’s exposed skin, “Your work?” Arthur nodded. “Nice. I’d like to see the rest of it some time. Tell me again, buddy. No. First tell me your real name.”

  “Schrecking. I’m from Nashua. New Hampshire.”

  “OK, Schrecking. Tell me again what time you came home? And what you saw and what you heard again. Take it from the top and go slow. You’ll be repeating it when the detectives get here. Think of me as an interested citizen.”

  Fred said, “Myself, Arthur, whenever a cop tells me he’s an interested citizen, and he’d like to hear my story, first thing I do, I wait for my lawyer. That’s me.”

  “I’ll wait for my lawyer,” Arthur told Murphy.

  “And what brings you here?” Murphy asked, the question designed to hit Fred between the eyes. His glare swerved to include Kim. His walkie-talkie crackled. He might be able to distinguish words in the otherwise impenetrable noise. Kim shook her head. Fred said, “I’m going down the back stairs. Let your colleagues know. I might be able to help. Tell them Fred Taylor. If I’m no use to them I’ll come back up.” He didn’t wait for permission.

  The staircase was dark, rancid and splintery. The dogs were louder. He’d been hearing them since he parked down the block. Blinded by the invisible painting, he should have paid attention to so significant a change in the environment. A huddle of cops, most in uniform, stood around one of the refrigerators that had collected in the back yard. When Fred had seen the discarded appliances a couple days back they had been lying on their fronts, to prevent children from getting into trouble. Two boys, maybe twelve years old, stood to one side, the taller sporting a black leather cap that was hot for the season, and outsize for the boy. The dogs, kept back by the cops, expressed thwarted interest.

  “We’re the ones found it,” the boys told Fred.

  The refrigerator in question had been rolled onto its back and opened.

  “You boys aren’t strong enough to roll that thing,” Fred said.

  “My brother,” one of them said. “He took off. Damn sure.”

  The man crumpled into the bed of the refrigerator was missing the leather cap and satchel, and was wearing a pair of yellow trousers Fred didn’t recognize; but there was otherwise no doubt. He hadn’t been dead that long. Heat like this, he’d blow up and stink fast. As it was, though the dogs had winded him, the scent wasn’t much.

  Fred told the gathering, “His name is Sammy Flash. That’s what he goes by. He used to hang out upstairs, on the landing.”

  From the look of him Flash had been beaten to death. Though there was not much flesh exposed, the head, neck and hands were welted with regular bleeding bruises that hinted at interlocking curves. Flies did their best to adhere to the bloody patches. A heavy chain could do that kind of damage.

  “He comes in the G Spot sometimes,” someone said. “Flash, you said? I never heard his name. This is convenient to where he drinks. Stick around, Fred. Tom called down from upstairs, said you could help. What else do you know?”

  “People upstairs likely know more,” Fred told him. “Depending if they are free to talk.”

  ***

  He didn’t get out of there until after midnight. He was dead beat. He’d done what he could to signal to Kim and Arthur that with a murder at issue, they might as well be as helpful as seemed appropriate. In the long run, that would save them time and trouble, as long as they hadn’t killed the guy. Once you start being seen to impede a murder inquiry, folks want a lot of your company.

  But as far as Fred was concerned, before he would spill everything of what he knew, or what he thought, or what he suspected or wondered, he needed to think. And he needed to think where he wasn’t going to be disturbed. First, he needed to sleep.

  He’d given his address as Clayton’s building and his phone as the number there. So that’s where they’d look for him if they started to think of more questions to ask before the time in the morning he promised to show up at the station to pick up where he’d left off.

  Traffic was sparse along the river and over the bridge to Charlestown.

  “Where do we start this thing, and where do we stop?”

  How did Kenzo and Flash fit together, aside from the obvious? Flash hadn’t come into Arthur’s to search the place. He’d made a mistake, a big one, reading Kenzo wrong. Flash had told Kenzo, I’ll get you the painting. Meet me on Green Street. Kenzo had driven by motorcycle from Nashua to meet him, likely out back, among the refrigerators, and there was no painting. Flash said whatever foolish thing he had said, which probably involved a more generous payment, meanwhile pulling his keys out and starting for the back stairs. Kenzo had already got out of him that Arthur was holed up upstairs. And Kenzo had already called Arthur, threatening him, that night before Fred met him.

  Now Kenzo, fooling around with the bike chain, pretending to lock up, said yes, sure, whatever you want, let’s go up and talk where it’s comfortable, killed Flash, took his keys, and stashed him in the convenient refrigerator, not taking the heat or the flies or the Green Street dogs or the Green Street boys into account.

  Then Kenzo took his time upstairs. And found nothing.

  Where Flash had been the past couple of days, who knew?

  Talking with the first run of detectives, Fred hadn’t mentioned Charlestown.

  Unless Kenzo was a better actor than he had demonstrated in Fred’s brief exposure to him, he genuinely hadn’t found the painting. He’d walked into his shop this afternoon, disgusted, throwing his keys—scratch that. No. Those were Arthur’s useless keys, he’d taken off Flash—across the room, complaining to Stephanie, “I didn’t get the fucking…” until he saw Fred and adjusted course.

  That left Eva. A wild card. There was no way to explore Eva before daylight, for one thing because it would involve cooperation from Kim; and Kim, so voluble by nature, had come into an unusual taciturnity. Arthur was going to bunk in with Kim. He was not going to be allowed into his apartment until it had been gone over by technicians. He’d finally get those fingerprints examined, though the technicians weren’t going to allow Arthur to watch. The idiot had asked if he could.

  Supposing Fred’s suspicions were correct, Kenzo’s prints would be all over Arthur’s place. If for no other reason than that, Fred would do well to introduce the subject of Kenzo tomorrow, when he spent quality time with homicide detectives, starting at noon. And that would lead, in turn, to homicide detectives in Nashua.

  ***

  All he wanted was Molly’s hands between his among the crumbs. He hadn’t had time to leave the note. He hadn’t thought of a way to make it better, either.

  ***

  Eva’s the wild card, Fred thought, pulling up across the street from his own house, where a light always burned in the front vestibule and someone always sat waking.

  The night was cool. Cool air blew through the open
windows. He’d found a part of the world that was halfway between settled and unsettled. Small houses jostled against larger buildings. But there were trees. The occasional children did not seem entirely out of context. It looked like Morgan at the desk inside. Fred turned his lights off.

  “Stephanie in the red wig. Check. On a mission from Kenzo to nab if she could, or at least see, the painting. OK so far. A ‘gorgeous redhead’ meeting Zagoriski at the Moonglow the night he died. We’re still on track. Stephanie as decoy, bait, wearing the same popcorn-smelling wig? OK so far. But why? If Kenzo drove his truck over Zagoriski, why? To simplify the issue of ownership? Figuring he had Mary Zagoriski already? Or—did Kenzo run the errant husband down on contract for that, as she seemed, perfectly nice woman? Mary had reason to hate the man. But kill him?”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Eva. Could anyone pass up the chance to sum up Eva as a “gorgeous redhead,” even if he hadn’t happened to see her naked? Reading between the lines, as well as taking into account Kim’s spiteful jealousy, Arthur and Eva had a ‘thing’ at some time in the past. For an awful dweeb, Arthur certainly had enjoyed success with the ladies, probably based on his skill as an artist. Not that he’d ever allow the term artist to be applied to his role in what he did. Also he projected the need to be taken care of, which can attract multiple kinds of care.

  “Because it’s missing, and mostly because I want to see it almost to the point of obsession,” Fred grumbled aloud, “I’m letting that painting infect my reasoning. These things don’t have to fit together. You can take the pieces of half of seventeen jigsaw puzzles and shake them together in a box. Try to put them together into one picture? You’ve got problems.”

  Did the painting even play into the more important things that had happened? Didn’t it seem to be a factor because, after all, everyone was looking for it—everyone except, perhaps, Eva and/or, perhaps, Arthur if he was in league against Kim with Eva and a much better actor than Fred suspected?