SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, you and Doonie caught the Bob Gilson case? You questioning everyone Bobby slept with?” Sounding amused, possibly even pleased. No, definitely pleased.

  “Is now an okay time for me to come over?”

  “Just you?”

  “Doonie knocked off for the night.”

  “But you’re still working.”

  “Always.”

  “Not quite true,” she averred, mock-sultry. “I’m here,” she added, and hung up.

  Yeah, she was there, same as Mark remembered. Except now she was JaneDoe. The term for an unknown victim—or suspect. A name she’d bothered to legally acquire. Shortly after Mark stopped seeing her. Or did it have nothing to do with him? Three years ago, fresh out of art school, she’d given herself the tag for a total unknown—a name that’d go from sarcastic to ironic if she got famous.

  But then again, “JaneDoe” would also make a perfect fuck-you nom de guerre for a killer.

  Nah. The fuck was he even thinking.

  • • •

  JaneDoe opened the door and they looked at each other. Looked. That first-time-in-four-years moment of paralysis, each soaking up and speed-reading the other, and competing to do the better job of faking being cool.

  First one who’s able to speak wins.

  Mark said, “Hi.”

  JaneDoe countered with a kiss on the cheek and silence.

  Score tied.

  She was wearing a black long-sleeve T-shirt over frayed, paint-stained gray tights. No bra.

  “You look good,” Mark told her.

  “I know,” JaneDoe replied, just like Janvier would’ve. Asked if he wanted coffee or something.

  Mark followed her to the kitchen. This place was a big step up from her student pad. It was a loft in a renovated factory a block off Halsted. And maybe she’d matured or maybe it was the larger space and the high ceiling, but the fusty after-scent of pot wasn’t as massive as in her old place.

  “Cool apartment,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, wasn’t from dealing,” she replied, tamping coffee into an espresso machine. “In fact I’m so busy I’ve had to start paying for dope.”

  “Progress.”

  As the machine hissed and burbled, JaneDoe caught Mark up on her amazing four years.

  While attending the Art Institute she’d been painting, making collages, waitressing and dealing dope. Six months after graduating she was still doing those same four things. So she got a job with a woman in Evanston who had a business designing and building foam-rubber mascots for sports teams and fast-food chains.

  “And then, I know the bass player from The Intermittent Wipers, and they—heard of them?”

  Mark nodded. “I ain’t dead yet.”

  “But way over thirty. So, the Wipers ask me to make costumes for a Halloween gig. Next thing, Flaming Lips is on the phone and they want a herd of dancing creatures. Soon as that tour starts, my commissions go ballistic—Lips fans wanting costumes for Burning Man and Coachella, nerds who don’t wanna dress up exactly like the other nerds at Comicon, and then, money money money, sex freaks bored with standard fetish gear.”

  Mark gave her a thumbs-up. JaneDoe poured double espressos, handed him one and headed to her work table, explaining, “I gotta get Robo-Zeeb built and boxed for a 7 A.M. Fedex pickup.”

  “Robo-Zeeb?” Mark inquired as he followed her to the table, on which was the body of a shiny zebra-stripe robot, plus a mane, a tail and two hooves.

  JaneDoe held up a helmet that looked like a sci-fi mechanical zebra head. “It’s for a wealthy dude in Milan who just had a La Scala-sized break-up with his boyfriend,” she explained. “Can’t face the world yet, so he needs a costume so he can go clubbing anonymously. But fabulously.”

  “You designed a Robo-Zeeb who can drink without removing his head?”

  “There’s an intake port in the muzzle that allows him to drink or smoke through a straw. But he can’t snort—I could drill nostril holes in the visor, but that’d look like shit, and the customer didn’t specify snortability… Don’t know if my costumes are high art or low art, but they’re sold art, more than you can say for my paintings.” JaneDoe grinned. “Okay, one more brag. Last year I had two of my more bizarro costumes in the New Chicagart show at MCA—and when the show closed, a collector bought ’em. Five grand. Apiece.”

  “Way to go.” Mark took off his jacket; JaneDoe kept the place warm.

  “Gets better—this year the collector passes away, and her kids put her collection on consignment at Marla Kretz—you know the place? Hottest gallery maybe in the city.”

  “Take your word for it.”

  “Some detective. Anyway, last month, anonymous buyer scoops ’em up—nine grand apiece. Marla now has my three newest ones but wants more—she’s telling collectors I’m ’redefining sculpture’ and they’d better get in quick.”

  “The Praxiteles of our age. Compliment, not sarcasm.”

  JaneDoe blew a kiss Mark’s way and picked up the zebra tail, which, like the mane, was made of fiber-optic filaments. She held the tail against the robot’s butt, studied it a moment, then began making trims to shape the tail to a point. As she worked, she asked, casually as she could manage, “How your last four years been?”

  “Okay,” Mark shrugged.

  With that subject covered in sufficient detail, Detective Bergman moved on to the topic that brought him here. “So, you and Robert Gilson?”

  They both went to work, Mark interrogating his ex-lover about her affair with a murder victim, while she efficiently grafted a tail, mane, and hooves to a zebra robot. It was more than efficient. It was graceful. Almost hypnotic. JaneDoe’s hands were independent creatures with personalities of their own, doing what they’d clearly been born for, not at all distracted by the sex and death questions their owner was answering.

  After JaneDoe took Mark through the details of her two-night stand with Gilson, Mark showed her a photo of the JaneDoe/Barbie and Gilson/Ken as they’d been posed in Gilson’s cabinet: Gilson/Ken was pressing a lit cigarette into JaneDoe/Barbie’s bicep.

  JaneDoe gave a dismissive snort. Pushed up her sleeves. “See any burn scars?” she scoffed. “Bobby got that shit out of his system in his painting, and obviously also through those Barbie totems. Never told me he was making erotic action figures,” she complained.

  “So Gilson wasn’t all that kinky? Didn’t do things that might piss off his partners?”

  “Ah shit, Mark, Bobby didn’t do enough to make you want to come back for seconds, forget inspire you to knife him. If anyone wanted to kill him it’d be other major male artists—Bobby Gilson was destroying the myth that being a great artist means you’re a great cockster.”

  “Cockster.”

  “Sounds better than cock-star, which is just totally high-school porno.”

  “What would you think of a guy referring to you as a great cuntster?”

  “Depends which guy.” JaneDoe inserted a battery into the Robo-Zeeb’s power module, flipped a switch, and colors began to course through the two glossy translucent hooves. “Okayyy.”

  “Y’know, if I were some suspicious homicide detective, this is where’d I’d point out: You don’t seem all that broken up about Gilson’s murder.”

  “Cried for hours. And I am gut-sick, enraged, and very much looking forward to you and Doonie nailing this son of a bitch. But I have work to do.” She toggled a switch, turned a dial and now colors also pulsed through the fiber-optic mane and tail. She pulled Robo-Zeeb upright. Grinned. “Wanna try it on?”

  Mark held up photos of the unidentified Barbies. “These anybody you know?”

  “No—wait, the natural redhead in the denim jacket might be Chayenne Tiger. Chay’s a videographer, shot a doc about Bobby.”

  Mark wrote down the name.

  “So,” JaneDoe wondered, “you gotta run off now and question Chay?”

  “Little late for contacting a witness—at least one I don’t al
ready know.”

  “Witness? Suspect. All us Barbies are.”

  “C’mon, Janv—Jane—Doe—I know you didn’t murder anybody.”

  “You do? How?” she demanded.

  “Ms. Dunstan, do you have an alibi for the morning of the murder?”

  “Nope,” she crowed, “I was here working, all alone.” She moved close to Mark. “I’m done. You done? Can I pour us a drink?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “So you still think there’s some tiny percent of a percent of a mini-chance I could be the murderer,” JaneDoe declared, delighted.

  “Nah.”

  “But I haven’t got an alibi.” She moved closer. Much. Her breasts touching his chest. “Wanna grill me?”

  He felt her nipples rise. Wasn’t just her legs, she also had incredibly long… Step back. Now. Leave. Now.

  Instead, Mark asked, “If it’s not his wife, or any of the Barbies, why would anyone kill Robert Gilson?”

  JaneDoe shrugged and so did her nipples.

  “Know any artists who’ve been attacked, maybe didn’t report it?”

  “No… Buu-u-t…”

  “But?”

  “Six, seven years back, someone killed Laurie Desh—amazing painter—kind of a bitch, but amazing painter. You should also go catch whoever did that. Pleeeease,” JaneDoe implored, dragging eloquent fingertips across the bulge in Mark’s pants.

  Mark gripped her wrist, removed her hand.

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Mark stepped back so their chests were no longer touching. He let go of her wrist.

  “No more grilling?” JaneDoe protested.

  “No.”

  They looked at each other.

  Mark sank to his knees.

  “Steaming,” he explained, then pressed his mouth to her crotch, and exhaled a long, warm, damp breath through the thin stretch fabric.

  JaneDoe quivered.

  Mark inhaled a scent he still recognized.

  Nine | 2005

  Could be a coincidence, Dale told himself.

  Laurie Desh got killed. Got killed two days after Dale gave Laurie’s canvas to Tesca and said something about prices jumping when artists die. Doesn’t mean it was Tesca. Odds are it wasn’t. Sick fucks break into houses and kill women all the time.

  Ah, shit. Who’s he kidding. No way it’s a coincidence.

  Except if it is.

  • • •

  Midmorning, the cops issued a statement. Break-in, signs of a struggle. Cause of death strangulation, probably by garrote. Also theft of some valuables. No sexual assault.

  Sounded to Dale like a junkie burglar. Except for the garrote. Do junkies carry garrotes?

  Fuck it. Not his problem.

  Three days. Six thousand.

  He needed to find the right moment to work Soosie. Soon.

  • • •

  A few hours later the concierge rang Soosie’s apartment and said two police detectives were at his desk; they’d like to speak to Mr. Phipps.

  While waiting for the cops to make the journey to the 34th floor, Dale nearly fainted; sagged into a chair, head between his legs. Soosie took it as a sign of how deeply he was grieving.

  • • •

  Detectives Adams and Winokurov had only a few questions.

  Did Dale know anyone with a reason to kill Laurie Desh?

  None.

  Is it true he and Ms. Desh had parted on bad terms?

  Yes, but they’d made up; it was just business, kind of thing happens all the time.

  Still, just to dot the i’s and cross the t’s—where was Dale last night?

  “With me,” Soosie said, decorating it with a salacious grin.

  • • •

  A reporter called. He’d heard Dale was Laurie Desh’s first dealer and longtime friend. Asked Dale about Laurie, her work, her place in the art world.

  Dale was eloquent, despite having to fight to control his emotions.

  Soosie, touched and impressed, sat beside Dale, leaning against him. Whenever he said something awesome she squeezed his thigh and cooed.

  When Dale hung up he looked at Soosie and let the tears come. She flurried his face with kisses. They rolled onto the floor. Ripped clothing. Went total an-nee-mull.

  Afterward, in the post-coital float, Dale gazed mournfully at Soosie and whispered, “I have to leave tomorrow.”

  Soosie let out a startled whimper.

  Dale raised his bandaged hand. “Man who did this is coming after me again, in three days.” He caressed Soosie’s cheek. “I refuse to be anywhere near you when that happens.”

  Ten | 2005

  Side street off of Taylor. Authentic neighborhood Italian restaurant.

  Dale liked the vibe, first glance, before he got out of the cab.

  Inside, no tourists. Only trace amounts of yuppies.

  Little cramped, little noisy, smelled like momma.

  Autographed black-and-white glossy of Our Tony Bennett Of The Immaculate Tuxedo, hovering above the register.

  Minor imperfection: Tommy Tesca, seated with his back against a wall. Smiling. Waving Dale over.

  • • •

  “Amarone,” Tesca boasted, filling Dale’s glass, then lifting his own in salutation.

  Oh God. We toasting Laurie’s death?

  Dale murmured, “Your health,” and gave his glass a wave that stopped short of a physical, karmically binding clink. Took a sip. “Really good.”

  “No shit.” Tesca took a big swallow. Pushed a basket of breadsticks at Dale. “I ordered. All stuff you can eat one-handed,” he grinned, glancing at Dale’s heavily bandaged left hand.

  “Thanks.” Dale took a longer pull of the hefty red.

  Tesca asked, “You bring it?”

  “Every penny.”

  “No it ain’t.”

  Don’t panic. No panic. No. “Exact amount.”

  A glower. “You and me, we are nowhere near even.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A black hole swirled open beneath Dale’s chair—

  “Fact is, heh,” Tesca rumbled, “I am so fucking far ahead, dinner’s on me—fuck, I ain’t even gonna take that envelope you got in your pocket.” Tesca snorted and smacked Dale’s shoulder. “You, Dalie-boy, are one sad motherfucker. Shoulda seen your face.” Tesca refilled Dale’s glass. “Drink up, red wine keeps off the heart attacks, heh?”

  “So far,” Dale murmured, and downed a serious dose of cardiac vaccine.

  A waiter delivered an antipasto platter that was dinner for four, and promised the rest of the appetizers would be arriving in a minute.

  Tesca tucked in.

  Dale put food on his plate. Took a breath. Asked, “So, the painting brought more than twenty-six?”

  Tesca took his time chewing. Poked his nose in his wine glass, took a lavish sniff, then drained it. Finally said, “Thirty—eight—thousand. You were right, fuckin’ great painting.” He refilled his glass, topped off Dale’s and waved the empty bottle at a waiter. Observed Dale sitting there like a lump. “Look—you tell whatever shmuck lent you that six grand, you gave it to me, heh? You keep that cash. Your lucky night, the fuck you mopin’ about?”

  “Tommy…”

  Go on, ask. Simple question. If only his mouth could move.

  Not necessary. Tesca knew. Gave Dale a world-weary conspiratorial smirk. Explained, sotto voce: “She died. Bad luck for her. Good luck for us… Look. If I’m not the one who clipped her, I’d tell you, Hey, wasn’t me. And if I did clip her, I’d tell you, Hey, wasn’t me. So what the fuck.” Tesca sat back. Gestured at Dale’s untouched plate. Warned, “Don’t insult the cook.”

  Dale speared an olive. Forced himself to place it in his mouth. Couldn’t force himself to chew. The olive sat there, stuck to his sandpaper tongue.

  “So,” Tesca asked, “with your smart taste and this art crap selling so good, how the fuck you go broke, heh?”

  Necessity was the mother of mastication; Dale had to eat the olive so he could a
nswer.

  It was a delicious, calming, possibly life-saving olive. Dale began to pick at his antipasto and explain the gallery biz. How hard it was to stock your place with art you were passionate about, that was also art someone might buy. How easy it was to slide into debt. So then you borrow some super-expensive, kitschy, sure-fire commercial pieces on consignment from a friend’s gallery in New York, so you have a shot at earning some cash. Except these super-expensive pieces get torched in a fire started by idiots free-basing in a gallery next to yours, and of course by this point you’d let your insurance lapse. Suddenly you’re a big six figures down and process servers are laying blue envelopes on you.

  Tesca said weird-ass accidents happen in his line of work, too. Gave a few examples he thought were amusing.

  After dinner, Tesca insisted on giving Dale a ride home.

  • • •

  Tesca didn’t start the engine. Looked at Dale.

  “I was lyin’ before, when I said we were even.”

  Dale blanched.

  Tesca snorted. “Christ you’re easy! Heh!” Tesca pulled out a thin wad of bills and offered it to Dale. “Twelve hundred. I know, you useta get twenty percent. But heh, you didn’t do the heavy lifting here. You did earn ten percent—on the profit.”

  “No, Tommy, that’s, but—I don’t—I’m fine.” Dale tried to push the money away. Couldn’t budge Tommy’s massive hand.

  “Commission on your art smarts, this is how you live.” Tesca tucked the cash into Dale’s breast pocket. “A ’Thank you’ would be good.”

  “Thanks, yeah, of course, but Tommy—” Dale pulled the money out of his pocket, “—I didn’t handle this, you did it on your own.”

  “Fuck the modesty crap. We’re partners.” Then, sidewalk hard: “You set her up. She went down. We cashed in.”

  The sucking black hole re-opened beneath Dale Phipps, while above him the light bulb went on: The money makes me accessory to the murder. If I don’t take the money, Tesca has to kill me.

  Dale slid the twelve hundred into his pocket. “Thank you, Tommy. Thank you.”

  Tesca gave him an approving “Heh,” accompanied by a love tap on the back of the head. “You’re very fuckin’ welcome, partner. So we okay?”