The Painted Gun

by Bradley Spinelli

  “Your house is wired,” Sobczyk said.

  “These are video stills,” Rider said, “taken from a security camera. You’ve got a camera in your kitchen.”

  “What about the other device?”

  “These are . . .” Rider blushed, “even worse.”

  They had obviously come from the Chinatown painting. The images showed me and a woman having sex in my bed. Rider flipped through them a little too slowly, and said, “She’s really—”

  “All right.”

  He flipped ahead. The girl got dressed and left, and I got up and sat at my desk drinking whiskey and smoking for another two hours. Again, Ashley had picked the best part. The date stamp was 11/15/96, same as on the painting.

  “You have a camera in your bedroom,” Sobczyk said.

  “Someone’s bugging you,” Rider said. “Or at least was, when these were taken. You ever notice a big truck parked outside your house?”

  “No, why?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Sobczyk said. “You don’t have to be that close anymore. They could have a signal, bounce it off of satellites.”

  “Maybe, but that would have to be a powerful signal. What about a relay? To send it a few miles—”

  “What are we talking about here?”

  “The footage has to be collected somewhere,” Rider explained. “If you have video cameras in your house, someone has to come in to collect the tapes. It’s more likely that the tape is somewhere else—that the camera sends the data to another location to be recorded. Like in the movies—the FBI parked outside a mobster’s house in a bread truck. A deer blind. Something right out in the open that you’d never notice. Sobczyk is just saying that, in theory, the bread truck could be anywhere. You’d have to take a look at the cameras—find them, crack them open, see what kind of transmitter they’re using. We could totally do that for you. We could come over right now and—”

  “Not a good idea, Rider. Not now, anyway. If these people are still watching me, I can’t have them knowing that I know. I might take you up on that offer at a later date.” I pulled out my wallet and peeled off a couple hundreds. “Here,” I said. “Thanks for the help, both of you.”

  “Itchy, come on,” Rider whined. “We don’t want your money. This is fun—let us work with you.”

  “It’s not fun, it’s dangerous. Trust me on this one. If I can use you, I’ll let you know. Can you burn this stuff onto a CD for me and keep a copy?”

  “Already done.” Rider handed me a CD.

  “Don’t show this stuff to anyone.”

  “Promise.”

  “I gotta go.”

  Sobczyk looked disappointed, and I slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Itchy,” he said. “Just . . . you should check and see if your phones are tapped. Or if there’s a bug in your car. Just . . . so you know.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

  14

  I went up the street and waited for the 21-Hayes, positively shaking. If nothing else, I finally understood how Ashley had managed to paint my portrait without my having sat for her. The real question was, why? Why was my house bugged in the first place? Tapped phones were one thing, but video cameras? In two rooms of the house—that I knew of? Who in the world would care so much about a floundering information broker to keep such close tabs? And why would a twenty-something artist have access to the footage? Why would she paint what she saw in these videos and then bury the film in the painting? And how would she have access to devices that weren’t supposed to exist yet?

  It drew into sharp relief the question of who was after what. Ashley was missing, Conrad didn’t want me to find her, Conrad didn’t want anyone to have these paintings, McCaffrey sent me a painting, McCaffrey wanted me to find Ashley—and her paintings were the only real clues. I remembered what Dalton had said to Ashley: These paintings are to die for. They’re loaded, all right. I wondered if anyone, besides me, even knew what was hidden in the paintings.

  I got on the bus, riding down toward Market. Fuck Ashley, I thought. I want to know who’s spying on me, even if I never find out why. I found myself, once again, asking impossible questions about loyalty and motive—the eternal variables of a conspiracy. My best hunch, and my best bet, had to be Conrad, and I knew someone who could lead me to him.

  * * *

  I passed the porn shop on Market and wasn’t surprised to see Alan Punihaole’s beat-up Datsun parked just around the corner on Golden Gate. I went up the rickety back stairs of Hollywood Billiards and spotted him right away, swimming in a haze of smoke, shooting Nine-ball in the corner with a skinny black kid smoking those cheap Garcia y Vega cigarillos. When Al saw me coming he did a double take, got control of his bowels, chalked up his cue, and leaned in casually for a tough combo from the three to the nine. He missed.

  “’Scuse me a minute,” he said to the kid, and stepped aside. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?”

  “I need to find Conrad. I want to know where he lives, where he eats, where he takes a shit.”

  “I tole you before, Mr. Crane, I don’t know much.”

  “When you give him a ride somewhere, where do you pick him up?”

  “Sometimes he meets me here, sometimes I get him across the street.”

  “Across the street?”

  “The Market Street Cinema. He’s sweet on a girl there—drops in almost every afternoon. He might be there now.”

  “Now why didn’t you tell me that the last time we saw each other?”

  “I was scared shitless, man! Don’t you remember?”

  “All right, all right.” There was no use leaning on him; it only raised his blood pressure. “When did you see him last?”

  “Couple days ago. But he was just paying me for the last time. For, you know, visiting you.”

  “Any plans to see him again?”

  “Later tonight.”

  “See, that’s the kind of thing I want to know, Al.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crane. You make me nervous.”

  The skinny black kid potted the nine and was coming around to shake Al’s hand. “Nice game,” he said, grinning. Al forced a half-smile that came out more like a grimace. I really did make him nervous.

  “Come on,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink.” He needed to relax if he was ever going to be of any use to me.

  Al sucked down half an imported beer in one gulp, put his foot on the rail and his ham hock of an arm on the bar, and seemed to settle down a little bit. I sipped my whiskey and took in the scene.

  “How did you get mixed up with Conrad in the first place?”

  Al finished his beer and I held out a finger to the bartender for another. “Thanks,” Al said, looking down. He was downright bashful when you got him alone. He leaned in toward me. “I used to be really good, all right? All I did was hustle here, and I did pretty good.”

  “You mean pool?”

  “I did good. But then these black guys started hanging out here, and—I ain’t racist or nothin’, but some of ’em are good, and my game started slipping a little.”

  “Because these guys are better than you?”

  “Naw . . . I don’t know. My mom got sick, I needed money, there was more pressure . . . it used to be easier, you know, just make enough to pay rent, buy some beers. No pressure.”

  “You have to relax, Al. You can’t win a pool game if you’re worried about your mom.”

  “I know, I know.” He hit his beer. “But when Conrad started coming around, I thought I could use the money. I’m not a criminal. I mean, hustling pool isn’t exactly illegal.”

  I had to appreciate his slippery sense of morality, and wondered if I could exploit it. “So Al,” I asked conspiratorially, “what kinds of things do you do for Conrad?”

  “Not much, really,” he said, his eyes going all shifty. “I took him to Oakland once, I helped him brace this one guy . . .” He trailed off, shifting his weight from side to side. “He’s an okay guy, but I think he
’s into some weird stuff, and—I don’t want to know. I just do what he asks and try to stay out of it. Drive the car. Look mean. That’s it.”

  “Is it like a regular thing? If he doesn’t drive—”

  “No, man. I done maybe three or four jobs for him. Just in the last few months. I’m not like his chauffeur or nothing. He takes a lot of cabs. Just when he needs another pair of hands.”

  “So what’s on for tonight?”

  “See, after last time, after I got into so much trouble with you, you know?” I nodded. “I was kind of mad. Like, he shouldn’t be getting me in trouble. So when he came by to pay me, I said that was too risky, and maybe he could throw me some other work. Easier work.”

  “Did you tell him I came to see you?”

  “No,” he replied, his eyes going wide. “This guy’s half crazy. He would kill us both.” He finished his beer; I motioned the bartender over. “All I said is, If you’re gonna take cabs everywhere, you might as well use me for long trips—save him some money, and I get paid.”

  “You’re really strapped, huh?”

  “It’s my mom, I—you don’t care about my problems.”

  Everyone has a sob story. “Don’t worry, Al, you’re a resourceful guy.” It always came down to money, and it was nice to know that Al’s loyalty was for sale. I threw some money on the bar for the drinks and peeled off a couple twenties for Al. “Take this, all right?”

  “You said I owed you a favor.”

  “Yeah, but I’m asking a little more than a favor. I don’t want to get you into trouble, but I might not be able to help it. Tell me more about tonight.”

  He eyed me nervously, then looked at the money on the bar. “I did this job for him once in Foster City. On the way back he stopped in San Mateo. Said he went to this place all the time. So I said to him, Next time you go down there, I’ll drive you. It’s an expensive cab ride.”

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “Here, sometime after ten. He’s gonna call here when he’s on his way over.”

  “Fine.” I chewed it over. “I want you to call me after you hear from him. If it all goes smoothly, there’s another fifty in it for you.”

  “If you’re gonna tail us, don’t drive. Conrad knows your car—he’ll spot it in a second.”

  Al wasn’t as dumb as he let on, but that didn’t mean I could trust him. “Al, who says I’m gonna tail you? Listen, there’s some weird shit going on, so trust me when I tell you I am not the only guy you have to worry about.” He looked so nervous I actually thought he would whimper. “Just don’t say a word to Conrad, all right? I was never here.”

  “Never saw you.”

  “I’ll be having drinks down the street at the 711 Club.”

  “I know it.”

  “Call me at the bar when you hear from him. Then forget about me.”

  “Okay.”

  I turned to leave.

  “Mr. Crane?”

  I looked back.

  “What is this really all about?”

  “Can’t say I know, Al. I think the less you know, the better. Just watch your back.” I was starting to like him.

  15

  I wanted some answers and couldn’t think of any reason to stay below the radar—I was the radar. Might as well cross the street and give it a shot. Conrad could stand to be rattled a little.

  It was twenty to get into the Market Street Cinema; the VIP room in back was extra.

  The place did look like an old cinema—beat-up, semen-stained, flip-up theater seats with split wooden arm rests raked on a sticky black floor. There was a large stage in front where a completely nude, statuesque blonde was barely shaking herself to the overly loud heavy-metal music that came over the cracked PA. I spotted Conrad immediately, sitting down in front, eating pistachios and looking bored. This wasn’t his girl.

  I hadn’t even made it halfway down the aisle when a trashy-looking tawny matron—well past her prime and with a bad boob job that was going south quick—asked me, “Would you like to come in back and get your penis serviced?” I couldn’t imagine being in the mood.

  I sat down next to him. He gazed at my shoes, obviously annoyed that I was sitting so close considering how empty the place was, but he didn’t look at my face and didn’t speak.

  I broke the ice: “How are you this afternoon?”

  “Fuck off,” he rasped at me, still not looking. “If I want a blow job I’ll pay for it in back.”

  “Well, hello to you too, Conrad.”

  He looked at me then. The recognition went across his face like a bright light in a darkened outhouse. He was happy to see me. “Well, if it isn’t Itchy Crane. You should have made an appointment. If I knew you were coming to my office I would have put on a pot of coffee.”

  “You needn’t bother. Pure coincidence, really. I’m hot on a slinky little brunette who’s coming on in a minute.”

  “Oh, you still like little brunettes, do you?” He laughed a ghastly little laugh that was absent of mirth.

  “You could say that.”

  “I thought we convinced you to get off that trip, Itchy. What, you thick-headed?”

  “Oh, not at all. See, I already had it cracked before you came to see me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. She’s working at a diner off the 5 up near Redding. You know, greasy eggs and undercooked home fries. Goes by the name of Gladys. Saving up for a sex change.”

  He looked at me stiffly. He’d have killed me just as easily. “You’re funny.” The blonde walked offstage to hustle lap dances. There was a minute to wait before the next girl.

  “But what I can’t figure is why you didn’t ask me that in the first place. Why scare me off if you’re looking for her yourself?”

  “Who said I’m looking for anyone? Maybe I’m the one who disappeared her in the first place.”

  “Not buying it. You’d just let me look, knowing I wouldn’t find anything.”

  Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen” came on beneath an incoherent babble of introduction from the deejay. “Shut up,” he said, “this is my girl.”

  I decided to let him enjoy it. She was a redhead, very young and innocent-looking, big boobs, cute, nothing special. Had to be a type thing. She did a soft, sauntering striptease to the Steely Dan, then disappeared behind the curtained doorway at the top of the stage while the deejay blabbered some more gibberish hype. She came back through the curtains fully naked, with a wide pudendum shaved into a scarlet landing strip, thrashing around suggestively to No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak.” I watched Conrad watching her; he was enthralled, totally consumed. There was no room in his tiny Jurassic brain for anything else. He offered up a ten spot and she came over to do a little wiggle just for him. I held up a single and let her slap her boobs around in front of my face. When she was done she went back through the curtain, reappearing in the audience seconds later in a tight leopard-print outfit. She came straight to Conrad and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right with you, sweetheart,” she whispered, and then looked at me. “Care for a private dance?”

  “Not today, sweetheart,” I responded, and she moved off to hustle the few other stragglers in the room.

  “All right,” he said finally. “You got about two minutes to speak your piece before I go in the back room.”

  “You killed Susan Dalton.” I didn’t think for a minute that he had, but I thought it would get the ball rolling.

  “And what if I did?”

  “You’re next.”

  He laughed long and hard. When he stopped, he stopped suddenly and gave me a steady, snakelike gaze, one hand unconsciously crossing his chest. He was packing. “You want to step outside I’ll be more than happy to put a bullet in you right now.”

  “You could have killed me back at my place if you wanted to.”

  “I would have if I been PAID to. But if you want to get smart I’ll do it gratis.”

  “So why not knock me off from the get-go? Or don’t the g
uys who do your thinking for you tell you that much?”

  “You really want to know who killed Susan Dalton?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Same guy who killed her brother, pal. You.”

  “Excuse me? That red bush go to your head, or—”

  “Dumb-ass. You’re pegged, buddy. They can put you at the scene of both crimes, and they got guns with your prints on ’em. You’re still alive coz you’re made to order—sliced, diced, and dressed. But by my thinking—what little I’m at liberty to do—it don’t matter now at all. Dead or alive, you’re still a steak dinner.” He licked his lips with a narrow tongue. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a date.”

  He got up and left me looking at a skinny brunette with track marks. I left before I had to see her naked. On my way up the raked auditorium I ran across the trashy matron who wanted to service my penis. “Hey, doll,” I asked, “who was that cute redhead who just finished up?”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s Karyn, with a y. Sweet girl. Want to come back and meet her?”

  “No thanks, I’ll come back later.”

  She gave me a wink and an ass jiggle as she walked away.

  * * *

  I stumbled out onto Market with my head positively reeling. Conrad was an evil bastard, to be sure, and probably a killer for hire, but he didn’t strike me as stupid. I found it hard to believe that he would lay something so heavy on me if it weren’t at all true. Then again, if it was true, why tell me? What hard evidence could incriminate me in the Dalton deaths? My fingerprints weren’t on record anywhere. No murder weapons were recovered, at least none that I knew of. I knew there was no weapon at the Dalton Gallery, and I couldn’t imagine one had been left behind at Susan’s.

  I rode the BART to Colma—the end of the line—and got on the bus headed home. My head was still spinning. I felt like a drink, but I knew that if I had one it would mean ten more and I’d never figure anything out. Susan’s death was hanging on me, and because Conrad’s accusation had a little truth to it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dead because of me. I wondered how long I had left, and worse, what might happen to Masello, sweet Katie, even Rider and Sobczyk—anyone I’d seen in the last couple of days. Did anyone have long to live? Suddenly the thought of going home and walking around like a marionette before an unknown audience and with no knowledge of who was pulling the strings made me completely ill.