SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  There was a dark green Crown Vic parked in Tommy’s favorite spot. Two guys in the front seat who were nothing but plainclothes cops. Both of ’em looking at Tommy.

  His heart hammered and bile danced up the back of his tongue. He fought an urge to turn and go back into the alley. Don’t draw attention, heh. Keep going. Just a dumbfuck meter-reader on his dumbfuck route.

  He passed JaneDoe’s door, turned the corner and headed north. His mind on fire: Why the cops sitting on her? They know she was his next target? How would they?!?! Maybe they put protection on every artist in Chicago? No that’s fuckin’ ridiculous.

  Tommy kept walking. Took off the ComEd helmet and ID. Zigzagged back to where he was parked. Got in his car. Put the key in the ignition. Almost gagged up his breakfast.

  Forty-One | 2012

  Four hours later, Tommy, wearing a suit, was parked a half-block behind the Crown Vic. Had to find out if it really was JaneDoe the cops were watching.

  JaneDoe’s red Forester pulled out of the alley.

  The Crown Vic followed. Tommy followed the Crown Vic. Motherfuck. The cops were all over JaneDoe.

  Tommy had been turning his head inside out trying to think how the cops coulda found out she was his target. Came up with squat.

  If the cops weren’t tailing her to protect her, then what?

  The Forester headed north on Halsted. Followed by the cops. Followed by Tommy.

  The Forester turned west on Adams. North on Racine. Then parked. By the 12th District police station.

  The Crown Vic parked down the block.

  Tommy kept driving. In his rear-view he saw JaneDoe walk into the police station.

  • • •

  Tommy cancelled his flight to Brazil. Spent a long serious night in his trailer. Red wine and coffee.

  What was JaneDoe doing in the cop shop? The cops like her for something? Or was she there to discuss her security detail?

  Question is what’s the smart move for Tommy here. No way can he clip JaneDoe with cops babysitting her. Does he wait, see if they give up and go home? Or does he right now fuck off to Brazil? His safest move.

  But if he doesn’t kill her he’s blowing off the profit he’d make on those two fucking costumes of hers, heh, costumes he’d laid out eighteen grand for. Small change compared to what he was gonna make off Gilson and Voorsts, but shit, whatever he earns on this play has to last the rest of his life… And it works better if he whacks three artists instead of two. The media goes more nuts, the value of each dead genius goes up.

  So question is, how long’s it take the cops to back off of JaneDoe?

  Even bigger question, how much longer can Tommy risk staying here? He hadda figure by now the Mastrizzis know it’s him. Hadda figure they got guns looking. Gianni fucking Mastrizzi and his smug little cunt of a son—wait—shit!

  If Tommy doesn’t kill JaneDoe he doesn’t get to leave the psycho note saying he’s going to kill some huge artist in Europe. If he doesn’t leave that note, he hasn’t fucked up Gianni’s last huge play.

  He could mail the note.

  Nah. Cops couldn’t be certain who sent it. Only way they know for sure is they find it on dead JaneDoe with a toy Cubs bat in her mouth.

  Tommy fell asleep thinking, heh, he was gonna hang in a while.

  • • •

  Tommy woke up thinking, get real. Time to get the hell outta Dodge.

  Yeah. Something this fuckin’ important, this calls for a morning decision. Rested, calm, your brain’s back between your ears steada drooped over your balls.

  He called the airline. Fly outta Milwaukee that afternoon, catch a red-eye from Miami to Sao Paulo.

  He made coffee. Turned on the tube. Discovered the cops sitting on JaneDoe’s place had been joined by a herd of fucking TV news crews. And gawkers. Must be a hundred cocksuckers surrounding JaneDoe’s place.

  Every channel, reporters were saying JaneDoe was The Art Critic.

  Giving her all the credit for Tommy’s fucking work.

  Forty-Two | 2012

  Detective Mark Bergman wasn’t a happy man when he walked into the interrogation room at 4:47 A.M.. Didn’t like that some twit tried to crawl in JaneDoe’s rear window. Didn’t like that his fingers still smelled faintly of Assistant State’s Attorney. Didn’t like that the white male on the other side of the table was a five-nine, hundred-sixty-pound, twenty-year-old twit and not a large fat serial killer.

  The kid, however, was delighted to be under arrest. “I’m a journalist!” he proclaimed as Mark sat down, not waiting for a question.

  “You’re Kenneth Nazarian of Glendale, California, journalism undergrad at Northwestern. Which professor taught you to use a bolt-cutter on the security grate over someone’s window?”

  “Thomas Jefferson! A total access free press is democracy’s proctoscope.”

  “Yeah, I remember reading that one on his monument. Thing is, reactionary legislators went and made breaking and entering a felony.”

  “If the mainstream press had done its job I wouldn’t have had to take it to the next level. Media gave up on her, dude, else I never would’ve been able to sneak into that alley.”

  That last part was true. The camera crews and gawkers besieging JaneDoe’s building began to drift away after twenty-four hours of her refusing to show herself. After forty-eight hours, the last two crews left to cover a Vince Vaughn premiere. The remaining the gawkers went home, there being no chance of getting their faces on the news.

  Only the police surveillance remained.

  “How’d you get past the cops?”

  “Easy,” Nazarian preened. “From where your guys are parked they can see the entrances to the alley, but they can’t see into it. So I scammed my way into the apartment building across the alley from JaneDoe’s building. Went up to the roof. Laid low. Around 2:45 I saw her lights go out. Waited half an hour, climbed down the fire escape and walked across the alley to JaneDoe’s rear window.”

  “Expect to get an interview if you got inside? ’This isn’t a home invasion, Ms. Alleged Serial Killer, it’s Tom Jefferson’s proctoscope’?”

  “Dude, you’re thinking old school,” Nazarian scolded. “She was asleep. I was gonna shoot infra-red, inside a serial killer’s pitch-dark lair, maybe get footage of her sleeping. Blair Witch goes paparazzi—I’da been famous. Still will be, thanks to getting busted. Bet you a hundred I am viral—could we take a quick look at your phone?”

  Mark stared at him.

  Nazarian sighed, annoyed. Then, hunting for details to use when he was allowed to start blogging: “How’d I get caught? Was she not asleep?”

  Not for long. JaneDoe had been jolted awake by the racket democracy’s proctoscope was making with his bolt cutters. She called 911. Before the operator could dispatch a patrol car, the Feds tapping JaneDoe’s phone had alerted the surveillance team.

  Mark said, “Your attorney will have access to the incident report after you’re booked.”

  “Excellent. We do that now? Can you video the booking?”

  Mark stared at him.

  “Oh, dude, welcome to the 21st century. My trial’s gonna be huge”—Nazarian mimed a gigantic headline—“First Amendment versus tight sphincter letter-of-the-law! Hey, you’ll be in my video—when the trial’s over you can say how you feel about being forced to bust me.”

  Mark said, “First Amendment? Doesn’t cover the intent-to-distribute amounts of grass, coke and X we found in your car. Mandatory fifteen. On each count.”

  “Wha—my ass! There was nothing in my car,” Nazarian shrieked, in a whiny falsetto. “Two cans of Red Bull in the back seat! There were no fucking drugs in my car!”

  Mark stood. “Welcome to Chicago. Dude.”

  Which was bullshit. But Mark couldn’t slug the little shit. Making him spend twenty-four hours in a cage freaking out over nonexistent drug charges would have to do.

  “I want a lawyer!”

  “Gonna hire a good one, or one who looks good on came
ra?”

  The question stumped Nazarian.

  Mark started to leave. As Mark reached the door Nazarian wailed, “Why you picking on me?! She’s the one who murders artists, she’s the one being an asshole not engaging with the press! She brought this on herself!”

  Mark turned. His expression made Nazarian flinch.

  Then the realization hit Mark. He gave the kid an evil grin.

  Nazarian thought that meant the beating was about to begin, so he started screaming, “Help! Help me!! Somebody please he’s killing me!!!”

  Mark left the interrogation room in an improved mood. She brought this on herself. Idiot, why you been shielding her when you should’ve been using her?

  Forty-Three | 2012

  When Lieutenant Husak got to his office that morning, Bergman and Doonie were standing by his desk. Couple of big dogs with their leashes in their mouths, begging to go for a walk.

  Husak, who’d seen the preliminary report on the alley incident on his computer at home, said, “G’morning. We confirm Nazarian’s alibis for the times of the murders?”

  Mark nodded. “He’s not a serial killer, he’s just the future of journalism.”

  “So what’s the big news you can’t wait to hit me with,” Husak asked.

  “I fucked up,” Mark said.

  Husak raised an eyebrow.

  Mark said, “When I wanted to look into the Desh case, that artist murder from seven years ago? I spaced on the most important fact.”

  “More important than the fact you wanted to violate Langan’s order we only look at JaneDoe?”

  “Much. Loo, in my initial interview with her, back before she was a suspect… It was JaneDoe who told me about the Laurie Desh case.”

  Pointing the cops at the 2005 corpse of her debut victim would fit the FBI’s profile of an arrogant serial killer lusting for recognition.

  Husak went stone-faced and asked, too quietly, “Three weeks. How the fuck’s that slip your mind three weeks?”

  Mark’s theory consisted of, “I…”

  “Had one mother of a big-ass brain cramp,” Doonie explained. “Seven years, it’s about fuckin’ time. Now I know he’s human. The other big change is, starting right now, the only beef Langan is gonna have about us looking at the Desh case is if we don’t get right the fuck on it.”

  Forty-Four | 2012

  The seething troll was hunkered down in his trailer, watching TV. Watching how JaneDoe was cashing in on the retarded cocksucker world thinkin’ she was The Art Critic.

  JaneDoe’s art dealer was telling how she just sold all three weirdass JaneDoe costumes in her gallery. Sticker price had been eleven grand each, no takers, now suddenly they fly out the door for twenty-eight grand.

  Upside, though, those two JaneDoe costumes Tommy bought, nine grand apiece, were now good for twenty-eight apiece.

  This with JaneDoe still alive. So imagine if Tommy could make a visit.

  Heh.

  Fuck the cops. Fuck the Mastrizzis. Tommy would give it a few days, see if he could figure a way to kill the shit out of JaneDoe.

  • • •

  Turned out the reporters staking out JaneDoe’s place had the attention span of a gnat. Couple days and they’re gone.

  Tommy did a drive-by. The cops were still sitting on JaneDoe.

  Got worse.

  That night some college kid YouTube fuckwad gets busted trying to break into JaneDoe’s.

  So now there’s a shitload more cops sitting on JaneDoe. And some reporters are back.

  That was the reality. Wasn’t gonna change anytime soon.

  Unless Tommy got creative.

  Forty-Five | 2012

  Dale was back in the Maserati with Lou. But this time it was Lou who’d called, his voice dark with concern. A first.

  They’d been driving several minutes and Lou hadn’t said a word.

  “What’s up,” Dale finally ventured, hoping he hadn’t committed a life-threatening breach of etiquette.

  “Jay.” Lou spat the syllable. “Jay’s turned six kinds of pussy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dale said. Hoping he was wrong about what was coming next.

  Jay Branko Jr., president of JB Structural, was a brawny big-armed banger who’d single-handedly fought his way up his mother’s birth canal to inherit a major construction company. Like many of the tough guys in the tough business of building things the size of bridges and skyscrapers, Branko’s default demeanor was human bulldozer. Which would swell into enraged sadistic bulldozer if Branko was confronted about his pussiness.

  “You’re going to go calm him down.” Lou’s voice dropped an octave. “’Cause I’m done trying.”

  “Any advice on the best way to do that?”

  Lou looked at Dale. “Make sure Jay understands: I’m. Done. Trying.”

  Christ. Dale had just been assigned to issue a Mob ultimatum to a nasty heavy-hitter tycoon. So Dale hadn’t committed a life-threatening breach of etiquette. He’d been given a life-threatening promotion.

  • • •

  When Dale walked into Branko’s office Branko remained seated behind his desk. Grunted “Hi” and pointed for Dale to take the chair across the desk. In earlier meetings they’d sat by the coffee table.

  Dale got right to business. “Lou said you had some concerns.”

  “What I have is a more sensible approach. Even if Damian Jung doesn’t have a ski accident, our paintings are getting more valuable every day, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So we leave Jung be, stay patient, cash in a painting every three-four years. The profits are a little less, but we won’t be taking a stupid risk.”

  “The profits would be exponentially less. And the gentlemen you’ve invested with don’t take stupid risks.”

  “Did they catch Tesca?”

  “They will.”

  “Yeah? You know this because?”

  “The cops aren’t looking for Tesca. They think JaneDoe is The Art Critic.”

  “Maybe. You wanna play maybe? Maybe the cops do get to him first.”

  “Tesca can’t give them your name.”

  Branko shot Dale a threatening smirk. “He can give them your name.”

  “At which point our friends—or you—would make me disappear,” Dale replied, unfazed, outlining a business contingency. “If I were worried the cops might grab Tesca, I’d be making myself disappear, instead of sitting here talking to you.”

  Not what Branko expected. His smirk wavered. “Even if the cops never find Tesca we got problems,” Branko countered, in a pouty snarl. “He’s a moron. He’ll leave a money trail, the cops will find out he was buying and selling work by the artists he killed. The cops will be onto the scam.”

  “So? We’re not morons, we haven’t left a trail.”

  “So, you fucking moron idiot smug turd, from then on when Jung—or any bigass artist—dies, the police will be all over it.”

  “Swiss cops won’t link a knifing and a shooting in Chicago with a seventy-eight-year-old having a ski accident in Zermatt.”

  “More fucking maybes! Jung’s seventy-fucking-eight, we do the sensible fucking thing, we just stay patient!” Branko yelled.

  “Not practical. Because, A) Jung could live to a hundred, and, B)…” Dale enunciated slowly, making clear this was a warning, “…That is not our deal.”

  Branko’s eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed. But instead of leaping across the desk, picking Dale up and throwing him through the 60th-floor window, he snarled, “When it’s my five million, the deal is what I say it is. And tell Lou this is the last time I discuss this with an errand boy—no!—you stay the fuck out of this. I’ll tell him.”

  “Jay,” Dale said, a kindly uncle attempting to demystify one-plus-one for a slow nephew, “Lou’s trying to protect you. Which is why I’m here, repeating everything Lou is really fucking done explaining to you. Might not be the best idea to keep bothering him, let alone issue an ultimatum, because…” Dale gave Branko a cold look.
“Ever met the Old Man?”

  Branko glared.

  Dale held Branko’s glare. Waited for the big bad stud to think it through.

  Would Gianni kill me for arguing to change the plan? Is this little Halloween-face prick yanking my chain?… This little Halloween-face prick has planned and pulled off a bunch of murders… I never have.

  Branko blinked.

  Forty-Six | 2012

  Damn, that was fun.

  More than fun. Much, much more.

  Dale walked the fifteen blocks to his office. Too stoked to sit in a cab.

  Oh man. Jay Branko throws down. Dale smokes him.

  More important, Dale wins his personal bottom line: The Damian Jung project stays alive. Long as that stays alive, Dale stays alive. Gives him years to refine his disappearing act. Which will work.

  Because Dale Phipps was for motherfucking real. He was a winner. Didn’t matter at what. Being good at anything, succeeding at anything, made you a man. Whether that thing was noble, or it was eczema-stoking barbarism, didn’t count for shit.

  Dorian Gray was gonna be unbearable when he heard poor naïve Dale finally arrived at that simple truth.

  Yeah, well, fuck Dor and the Victorian parable he rode in on. Dale took out his iPod, inserted the buds, goosed the volume to Primordial Brain Massage and dialed up some Muddy Waters pile-driver whomp.

  Bah-wadda, thonk-thonk-thonk! Bah-wadda, thonk-thonk-thonk!

  Right down State Street, thonk-thonk! To Tree Studios, thonk-thonk! That cool old building, thonk-thonk! Old dark wood doors, thonk-thonk! With frosted glass, thonk-thonk! Right through his door, thonk-thonk! Into his lobby, thonk-thonk where his receptionist, Kylie, said something Dale couldn’t hear, as she gestured at the two men waiting for him.

  A tall handsome one in his thirties and a beefy fiftyish slob. Dale figured them for middle management drones from some waste disposal firm that had been ordered to hire him.