SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  “Sure,” Mark agreed.

  Ray of hope, her not wanting to talk in the store, where her staff could overhear.

  As they strolled, Mark told Lila, “We’re doing background on people who knew both victims. JaneDoe’s one of them.”

  Lila stopped. Said, “Uh-huh.” As in, a suspicion confirmed. She dropped the glowing butt, crushed it beneath her faux-tigerskin ankle boot, lit another and resumed walking. Said, “No way JaneDoe’s a murderer. What else you wanna know?”

  “How did she get along with Gilson? And Voorsts?”

  “Fine, I think. She didn’t talk much about either one.”

  “Never mentioned having a thing with Bobby Gilson?”

  “Nope. If it had been a serious affair, I would’ve heard about it,” Lila said, pointedly eyeing Mark.

  Mark asked, “When was the last time you communicated with her?”

  “Maybe a month.”

  So Lila didn’t know Mark had recently slept with JaneDoe. One item he wouldn’t have to worry about Lila giving away.

  Before Mark could get to his next question, Lila asked, “Have you, uh, questioned her yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh,” Lila grunted, gazing at him thoughtfully.

  They went up a side street. Came to a pocket park. Lila sat on a bench. The detective joined her, waited for her to resume interrogating him.

  “Way back when, she told me you were a good guy.” A pensive drag on the Dunhill. “Took it a little hard when you two split. Wasn’t blaming you—not more than you deserved. JaneDoe knew it was about her drugs. So she enjoyed the shit out of setting up a weed bust to help you make that witness talk.”

  Mark said, “You’re the first person I’ve met whom JaneDoe confides to about her private life.”

  “I’m the big sister she never had. So yeah, she does open up to me—not about every casual quickie, just the rare guy who means something.” Lila let Mark chew on that. “She was a bit hurt when she did you that favor, then you came back from L.A. with some gorgeous rich girl… How’s that going?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Yeah, well, falling in love ain’t that hard, but finding a tolerable roommate’s damn near impossible,” Lila commiserated, with rueful authority.

  “For some of us even the falling in love part isn’t a piece of cake.”

  Lila pulled out a fresh cigarette, studied Mark as she lit it off the one she was smoking. Said, cautiously, “It’s weird, you working these murders.”

  “Luck of the draw.”

  “I didn’t mean weird you caught the case. I meant weird you haven’t told your superiors about you and JaneDoe.”

  Mark made no comment on Lila’s comment.

  “I’m wondering why you’re keeping that secret,” she went on. “You’ve questioned JaneDoe, so she knows you’re working these murders, but she obviously hasn’t given away anything about you and her, which would have gotten your ass kicked off the case… She must think you’re on her side.”

  Mark, in a serious official tone, replied, “This is an ongoing investigation. It’s important you not tell anyone about this interview. Especially her.”

  Lila nodded. “Got it.”

  “That needs to be a no exceptions no-shit fully adult ’Got it’. “

  “Honey, my dad was a Streets & San supervisor. And a precinct captain.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Mark said, meaning it.

  “You’re welcome,” Lila replied, meaning it. “Last thing I want,” she explained, “is for it to come out the detective and the murder suspect are hiding the fact they once spent months fucking each other cross-eyed. You’d look pussy-whipped and she’d look like the bad girl who’d done it.”

  Lila put a hand on Mark’s thigh. Gave it an appreciative squeeze. Sighed, “Lucky her.”

  Lila removed her hand and let Mark and his thigh get back to work.

  Twenty-Nine | 2011

  Walk he fucked your mother, he fucked your mother, don’t look around, heh, just keep moving out the door he fucked your mother, he fucked your mother.

  In the car, turn the key he fucked your mother. Drive he fucked your mother. Motherfucker fucked your mother and you didn’t kill him, sitting there letting you know he­fucked­your­mother­he­fucked­your­mother­he­fucked­your­mother.

  Driving, driving nowhere except away from Lou Mastrizzi’s house and Lou Mastrizzi’s father he fucked your mother, he…

  Shit. That had been Gianni’s price for saving Tommy from that B&E beef back when.

  Tommy could see it. Mom would do anything for her son. And Gianni knew Mom musta been—hungry. Tommy’s bastard dad had run off while she was pregnant. Then alone all those years. With men looking, wanting. Face like a horse, but that body. Ugly girl with great tits, we all been down that street, ’course Gianni would want—

  God! I wanted…

  Out of nowhere, that memory. It’d been gone, hadn’t come around once this last twenty years.

  He’s twelve. Playing basketball, goes down hard, head smacks the blacktop, wakes up in the Emergency. That night at home, Mom’s sitting on his bed, all weepy-happy her boy’s still alive, she’s holding him to her, got his face pressed against those… And his hand, his hand is just nuts to know what it feels like, and the hand reaches up and touches—Oh fuck Mom shoves him away hard, gives this insane look, hauls off and smacks—

  A barrage of fast loud thump-thump-thumps shuddered the Caddie, which was no longer on pavement and Tommy stomped the brakes, the car screeched and yawed and came to rest with the front right wheel in this drainage ditch along this goddamn suburban forest preserve road and Tommy was thinking, Gianni fucked my mother and made me remember this shit, and he stole my business and I didn’t kill him.

  • • •

  Tommy drank. Beat himself up for not breaking the Old Man’s neck then and there.

  But that would’ve been suicide.

  Tommy drank some more. Beat the crap out of some guy in a bar.

  Beat the crap out of a couple of deadbeat clients. Guys who were a couple of bucks light.

  Made Tommy feel better. For a couple of hours. Then he’d go back to trying to figure a way to whack Gianni Mastrizzi.

  Best go old school. Show nothing. Let Gianni think you’re a pussy, he got nothin’ to be afraid of.

  Fuck.

  The Old Man did have nothing to be afraid of.

  Only way Tommy could see to get to Gianni was strap on a bomb and go Al Qaeda. And hope it worked. Tommy would die not knowing whether he’d killed the motherfucker.

  He could hire it done.

  Have to be serious shooters. Badass Colombians. Who would charge Tommy every penny he had, to take on Gianni fucking Mastrizzi… Then turn around and sell out Tommy’s ass to Mastrizzi. Which would be the only safe thing for the shooters to do.

  Fucking Colombians.

  Thirty | 2011

  Tommy is in a studio apartment. Spiffy renovated warehouse in River North. He’s there to school a deadbeat. Young yuppie fuck. Soon’s Tommy walks in he knows the kid’s got no excuse. Tommy’s pretty sure the painting over the couch is worth the four grand the kid owes.

  Trying to stall, the kid asks does he want a brew and goes to the fridge. Tommy follows. Looks at the sink. Flashes on that time he used the disposal on Dale. Back before Dale had Mastrizzi protection.

  The young yuppie fuck goes to hand Tommy a Duvel. Tommy grabs the kid’s wrist, yanks him to the sink and jams his hand into the disposal. The kid screams and pisses himself…

  …Tommy doesn’t hear, doesn’t smell, is barely aware of the young yuppie fuck. Tommy is elsewhere, gone inside a moment like nothing he’s ever—The thing just appears in his head, complete, he SEES, sees all of it, everything he hadda do, and how it would play out—it’s like the inside of his brain is all bright, lit up like a stadium for a night game, and his gut, his gut knows the glow in his head is right. This is better than Gianni dead, this
is Gianni alive and eating shit—and Tommy grabbing back his business, and turning a profit… And then Tommy’s gonna have to disappear, forever. Which he is okay with. He would retire a satisfied man.

  Tommy grins. The young yuppie fuck faints. Tommy takes the painting from over the couch and marches off to war.

  • • •

  Tommy informed Dale he wouldn’t be putting money into this last project. Gianni Mastrizzi would take that to mean Tommy was such a weakling he’d let his hurt feelings get in the way of a big score.

  • • •

  Tommy studied the files of possible targets Dale had assembled over the years. Only one was any use—the first Dale ever made, way back when. Because that was the only list that had Chicago artists. Tommy’s plan would only work if he could move fast; so all the hits hadda be in one city.

  This would violate Dale’s—and now the Mastrizzis’—rule: No hits in town. Heh. Tommy was gonna show those cocksuckers what their candyass rules were worth.

  Tommy only liked one name on Dale’s 2005 list. Tommy made Robert Gilson Target Number One, then started researching today’s Chicago artists.

  Found a great Number Two. Gerd Voorsts.

  There was no clear winner for Number Three; only some half-assed possibilities, none especially profitable. But Tommy needed three, to make sure it looked like a serial killer. That would piss on another rule: Only ever whack one artist at a time. Tommy would kill three—and prove it was a fuckin’ advantage, ’cause the cops would think serial and look for some freak.

  And also, heh, there’d be the big fuck-you. On the third corpse Tommy was gonna put a note, cool psycho shit like, “I’m bored here. Going to Europe to kill a real artist. And this time you won’t know it was me, or even a murder.”

  Heh. Probably the Chicago cops keep the note secret, and warn the European cops to dig heavy into every artist who dies. So Gianni will end up busted for his big-ass multi-million score.

  Or the cops do publish the note, which means Gianni’s big finale is fucked, he has to call it off.

  Either way, the Old Man will know it was Tommy who fucked him. Who else would kill three artists in Chicago, and know to give away the Mastrizzis’ big Europe operation? Gianni would know this was Tommy’s revenge for stealing his business.

  As far as revenge for Gianni fucking his mother… Well, that had been the other huge part of Tommy’s amazing brain flash: There’s nothing Tommy could do, or, more important, had to do, about Mom spreading for Mastrizzi. That had been her own decision.

  Just like her slapping Tommy that time for what his hand did.

  • • •

  Tommy sold everything, house, car. Left town without telling anyone. Which he knew the Mastrizzis, heh, would take to mean he was so humiliated he couldn’t even live in the same city with them.

  Tommy moved to Indianapolis, where nobody knew him. Nobody who knows anybody lives in Indianapolis.

  Legally changed his name. Got a passport.

  Set up offshore accounts and started buying art, anonymously.

  Flew to Brazil. Rented a nice little apartment in Sao Paulo.

  Flew back to Indianapolis. Snuck into Chicago time to time, to tail his artists, plan his hits.

  Settled on his third and final target. Since he couldn’t find another big-money score, Tommy picked the artist who’d be easiest to clip. Hot young bitch called herself JaneDoe.

  Thirty-One | 2012

  On her way home from the interrogation JaneDoe drove more carefully than she had since, oh, ever. Not so much as a pump-fake at a stop sign. Couldn’t risk a traffic ticket. Like somehow that would make her look nervous and guilty. Of murder. Shit. Being an actual suspect wasn’t amusing. She wondered how criminals put up with paranoia of this density. Ten minutes of this was worse than a year of being an unknown artist. Well, six months.

  JaneDoe quit kidding herself she was gonna get anything done. Called Kate and Greg, her best friends from art school, told them she required a night of dancing. Said she didn’t wanna talk about why.

  JaneDoe spent the night at Kate and Greg’s. Had a nostalgic three-way. Followed by a blissfully irresponsible breakfast at Ina’s. Whole wheat oatmeal pancakes with blueberries, and a side of andouille sausage. Happy density.

  By the time she got home JaneDoe knew what her next piece was gonna be. Got busy.

  Marla Kretz called; cops had been around, asking about JaneDoe’s connections to the Art Critic victims.

  Ice crusted JaneDoe’s innards, until she asked the names of the cops, and Marla said, “Dunegan and Bergman. Why?”

  The ice thawed. “Same guys talked to me. They’re checking on anyone who knew Bobby and Gerd, ’cause they don’t have anything else to go on.”

  “What it sounded like,” Marla agreed. “Ignore those clowns and get back to work. Bring me more pieces, schnell!”

  “Jahwol, mein Fuhrer.”

  JaneDoe hung up. Okay. Mark and Doonie being the ones investigating her was a relief. No way those two are gonna let me get framed. In fact one of those cops is totally into me, even if he can’t admit it yet.

  JaneDoe grinned and plunged back into assembling her new creature: Foam Mark, her interactive bio-kinetic tribute to poor overqualified underemotional Detective Bergman.

  Foam Mark was coming together fast, easy. Like the best ones do.

  Phone rang. It was Drago Djanovic, the MCA curator who’d put JaneDoe’s sculptures in the New Chicagart show, back when they were mere costumes.

  Drags told her detectives had been to see him. They were interviewing everyone who, like Drags, had been at that dinner with Bobby and Gerd. But they mostly asked about JaneDoe.

  JaneDoe asked the cops’ names. Drags said Dunegan and Bergman.

  JaneDoe told Drags no problem, the cops are just fishing.

  JaneDoe turned off the ringers on her phones and went back to work.

  Foam Mark turned cranky, stopped coming together fast and easy. JaneDoe took a break. Checked her messages.

  There was a text from Kate: Keep gttg yr vmail. Cops here tdy xing me&G bout u. Re: Art Critic. WTF? CALL ME.

  JaneDoe called. Told Kate, “Those two cops, Bergman and Dunegan, are just fishing.”

  “These were named Hsu and Montero.”

  JaneDoe took a breath, steadied her voice. “Yeah, well, shift must’ve changed. Nothing to worry, really.”

  Except there are cops besides Mark and Doonie investigating me.

  JaneDoe smoked a joint and decided to run some errands. Maybe stop somewhere for a cocktail. Good to get out of the house.

  Hated being out of the house.

  Treated herself to expensive takeout. Cavatelli Di Ricotta Al Sugo Di Caprioli e Funghi. Pasta with venison and mushroom ragu.

  Took it home, washed it down with a 1990 Barolo, a recent gift from the delighted Robo-Zeeb in Milan. A real special-occasion wine. Like the day you find out you’re the target of a serial killer investigation.

  She felt a little sodden after dinner. Almost did some coke, but—eccch! Too jangly. She didn’t even want caffeine.

  Got in bed. Read for a minute and a half; couldn’t concentrate. Turned out the lights.

  Couldn’t sleep.

  Luckily still had a third of a bottle of Barolo, and weed. That’ll cure insomnia.

  Not.

  Ambien time. That’ll cure insomnia.

  Thirty-Two | 2012

  How come I know what you want, but you don’t, JaneDoe asked Mark. Wait, you do know, you just—Chime!—won’t admit it, she growled, frustrated, and punched him, and her fist sank into his chest because his chest turned to foam rubber, which frustrated her even more, they were naked and it felt right except Mark wouldn’t admit what he wanted and when she hit him he kept turning gooey, flashing between Real Mark and Foam Mark—Chime! Chime!—Now she and Real Mark were naked on a giant mirror in an interrogation room with terrible coffee, except the mirror turned warm, liquid, clear Caribbean blue, so the Chime! chime
y thing must be a steel drum—Her sonofabitch doorbell Chimed!

  “Gunnncchh!” JaneDoe heard herself snort, clottedly, as she jerked half-awake, fragments of her annoyingly obvious dream sloshing around in her skull.

  If she opened her eyes she could see what time it was. She tried, but her heart wasn’t in it. Whoever was abusing her doorbell would give up and go away. All she had to do was not move. None of her friends would ring at this hour. Whatever this hour was.

  Chime! Chime! Chime! Chime!

  What kind of fucking goon—? JaneDoe, using her fingers, hauled open her eyelids. Blinked away a gummy blur, stared at the clock.

  8:42 A.M.; the goon was definitely not one of her friends.

  Shit. She could’ve bought one of the lofts on the upper three floors. Those shared a common entrance, which had an intercom. JaneDoe had the lone ground floor unit, which offered the convenience of no stairs to climb, plus a private front door. But the inconvenience of no intercom. So JaneDoe couldn’t pick up the phone, tell the goon, “I’m not home, fuck you and die,” hang up and parachute back into Ambienland.

  Instead she had to haul her butt off her best friend, the first brand-new mattress she ever owned, first mattress that ever truly understood her, and plod all the way to her front door to peep through the peephole.

  The goon was the big burly variety, wearing a suit. She only saw his back—now that she was out of bed and at the door the prick was giving up and leaving—

  JaneDoe was so pissed he’d yanked her out of Ambienland she yelled, through the locked door—“HEY! Who the fuck are you!?!”

  The goon turned—looked Italian and had some club-like thing in his fist—and someone rushed up behind him, with—

  A TV camera?!?!

  “Miss Doe? Miss Doe?” the goon asked, excited, talking into the club. “Al DeNardi, Fox News. Can we—”

  “No!” Ah shit, shit, shit. Only one reason a fucking Fox scumbag would be at her door.