SOME DEAD GENIUS

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SOME DEAD GENIUS Page 17

by LENNY KLEINFELD


  Sixty-Six | 2012

  So I left a copy with my lawyer and one in my safe deposit. And now I’m gonna hide myself as well. This is goodbye, Dorian. Last time we speak face to hideous face.

  No, Dor, this isn’t one of my ’hilarious attempts at humor’.

  No, it’s not a ’failure of nerve, and worse, a failure of style.’ It’s a triumph of logic. There’s a fatal flaw in me playing the waiting game, hoping Lou never finds out the cops questioned me. The flaw being, if Lou does find out, he’s not going to tell me. I will not know Lou knows, and has decided to kill me, until the moment some thug—

  “Dale, my frient!” a large shaven-headed thug exclaimed as he threw an arm around Dale the way an old frient would, except for the way his fingers dug into Dale’s shoulder. “So sorry being late, but is only few minutes and is all Bob’s fault hennyway,” Shaved Head joshed, indicating a tall thin greasy-haired guy in sunglasses and a long black leather coat standing on the other side of Dale.

  Shaved Head whispered, “Grin and say hokay.”

  “Hey, Bob,” Dale managed, with a vaguely grin-like lip-twitch.

  “We should go,” Shaved Head insisted. “Is best not to keep wives waiting, no?”

  The museum guard, the robust African-American woman who’d been shocked by the sight of Dale’s hand and been super-nice to him since, was watching.

  As the three men walked towards her—Shaved Head with his arm around Dale, and Bob directly behind Dale—the guard gave Dale a questioning look.

  “So, Dale,” Shaved Head inquired as they walked, “your kids doing hokay in schoo—”

  The guard stepped in front of them, blocking their exit. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked Dale.

  “Sure,” Shaved Head answered, “we going for terrific lunch.”

  The guard glanced at the hand gripping Dale’s shoulder. “Sir, would you please let go of this gentleman?”

  “Excuse?”

  “Please remove your hand from—”

  “Oh! Sure, sure,” Shaved Head nodded, releasing Dale. “Dale, please explain to this nice lady you and me are frients.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Dale said, his eyes locked on hers.

  “So thank you miss, have nice day.”

  “Just a moment,” the guard said, gesturing with her left hand for them to stay, while with her right she plucked her radio off her belt.

  Shaved Head grabbed the radio out of her hand and gave her a threatening glare.

  She dropped-kicked him in the nuts.

  He doubled over, letting go of the radio and Dale.

  Dale ran.

  Bob started to chase but the guard stuck her foot out and tripped him and Bob did a face-plant on the hardwood parquet.

  Shaved Head slugged the guard in the temple and she went down.

  As Dale dashed out of the gallery he took a sharp left, heading for the stairs, but that didn’t work because he slammed into an old guy in a wheelchair. Dale, the chair and the old guy went sprawling.

  Shaved Head, clutching his groin, ran-limped after Dale.

  Sixty-Seven | 2012

  They’d parked across the street from Pheeps’ building at 6:00 A.M..

  Vuk, the wheelman, stayed in the car. Zerbjka and Slobo went to the front door. The apartment numbers weren’t listed, just the fokking intercom dial codes—if they got in the building they wouldn’t know which place was his.

  They went back to the car.

  The target finally dragged his ass out the door a little before eight. By then there were too many people on the street to snatch Pheeps.

  Zerbjka couldn’t pop Pheeps from a distance; he had to shuff a toy building in Pheeps’ mouth.

  Zerbjka and Slobo tailed Pheeps, with Vuk trailing in car. Pheeps entered Logan Square el station. They followed.

  The platform was too crowded. The train was too crowded.

  Slobo stayed on the phone with Vuk, who was driving, following the Blue Line route.

  Pheeps got off at Lake, in the Loop, where the sidewalks were as crowded as the damn el, and cops all over. Pheeps walked to one of the shiny office towers on Wacker. High fokking security. Visitors had to sign at desk.

  When Pheeps cleared security and headed for the elevators Zerbjka and Slobo were still in line. Pheeps got on elevator, along with ten more fokks. No way to know which floor Pheeps got off.

  Hokay, Zerbjka could find out where Pheeps went by reading the register.

  As Zerbjka got to the desk the security guy flipped the register to a new, blank page.

  Hour later Pheeps comes out, walks to LaSalle. Goes into fine old building, stone walls with big brass bars over the windows. A bank.

  Zerbjka strolls in. Spots Pheeps being buzzed through fancy brass gate to marble staircase that goes to basement—to safe deposit. Zerbjka can’t follow.

  Pheeps leaves bank, walks east on Adams. Crosses Michigan Avenue. Trailing at a discreet distance, Zerbjka and Slobo step into the street as the light turns red, have to run like madmen through eight fokking lanes of traffic. They get to other side alive and follow Pheeps into giant old mooseem. Art Institute. Huge fokking building.

  Sixty-Eight | 2012

  Zerbjka and Slobo went up wide stone steps and into lobby, in time to spot Pheeps flashing membership at uniformed guard. The guard waved Pheeps through checkpoint into mooseem.

  Zerbjka and Slobo went to checkpoint and the guard asked for their tickets. Zerbjka pulled out a fifty. The guard pointed to long room on their left where there were ticket counters. Fokking American boy scout.

  Zerbjka saw Pheeps walk past this huge three-story zig-zag staircase, under huge skylight. Pheeps walked past huge zig-zag stairs and into small lobby on far side.

  Zerbjka and Slobo went into ticket room—was this long fokking line. Sheet. Branko said Pheeps had small office, only a receptionist. If the lazy fokk would go there, they could kill both, bim-bam, all done. Why didn’t Pheeps go to his office? Had he made them?

  Slobo’s phone vibrated. It was Vuk, saying Art Institute was gigantic, two whole blocks, and only street parking was on rear side, on Columbus Drive. Vuk waits there.

  Zerbjka took the phone and told Vuk—in Serbian—keep engine running, they were going to grab Pheeps.

  Slobo muttered, in Serbian, “Here? With all these people? We have the rest of today and all tomorrow.”

  But Zerbjka didn’t have tomorrow. Tomorrow was his wife’s niece’s wedding. If Zerbjka doesn’t show at wedding, this confirms wife’s suspicion he’s banging her sister’s daughter.

  “If you’re too pussy to handle this shrimp,” Zerbjka sneered, “you should leave, go buy yourself a pretty dress.”

  • • •

  They grabbed maps of mooseem—place was size of fokking palace—and hustled past huge zig-zag staircase to the small lobby Pheeps entered. There were three goddamn galleries off it: left, right and straight ahead. Straight ahead was biggest gallery, very long, like tunnel. Zerbjka checked map—tunnel led to whole other section of palace, and on the end is—fokk!—exit to Columbus Drive.

  They hurried through the tunnel-gallery. There were two aisles, one on either side of a row of glass display cases that ran up the middle of the room. Zerbjka and Slobo each took an aisle. No art crap in this gallery—was loaded with old-time armor and weapons. Big-ass swords, daggers, axes. Zerbjka scanned the gallery, hoping to spot Pheeps. All he spotted was Slobo looking at the fancy bootcher tools with hungry grin, dreaming what he could do with one of those.

  They exited into a wide corridor that was perpendicular to the tunnel-gallery. Either end of this corridor connected to other corridors.

  Zerbjka checked map; left corridor went to exit. They rushed down it and out onto Columbus. Pheeps was nowhere. Sheet! Only hope was Pheeps stayed inside.

  They returned to wide corridor, the one perpendicular to the tunnel. At the south were two small staircases leading up, and between them a staircase leading down. All the stairs went to bunch of
galleries. This place was nightmare.

  Where would Pheeps go? Branko said Pheeps was modern art consultant. Zerbjka consulted map. Small staircases went up to American Modern Art 1900-1950.

  Zerbjka and Slobo climbed the half-flight of stairs to a mezzanine: a rectangle of four corridors, overlooking a small interior courtyard below, which was full of statues. The sides of the mezzanine were lined with wide entryways to gallery after gallery. They headed for the nearest.

  Sheet, talk of nightmare—first thing they see in gallery is painting of this horrible gray zombie monster—

  And Pheeps. Staring at zombie.

  Pheeps was so in love with this zombie puke he didn’t notice Zerbjka was there until Zerbjka put a grip on “Dale, my frient.”

  They start to leave, old frients having nice chat—

  Mooseem guard is in their face, fat black beetch giving Zerbjka this Dirty Harry face.

  Zerbjka made nice but she pulled out walkie-talkie, and he grabbed it from her, but she kicked his balls halfway up his neck, Pheeps ran, Slobo started to chase but fat beetch tripped Slobo, and Zerbjka, bent over, his balls screaming for revenge, whipped a roundhouse right to her temple—

  A big crashing noise from corridor, and yelling—

  Slobo tried to stand—got far as his knees—gasped and grabbed his nose. Broken, gushing blood.

  Zerbjka staggered forward, each step a stab of pain.

  Sixty-Nine | 2012

  “Grandpa! Grandpa!!!” shrieked the young woman who’d been pushing the wheelchair, as Dale frantically disentangled himself from Grandpa, who’d landed on top of him. Dale shoved the frail old man off, too hard for the young woman’s taste—she yelled “Son of a bitch!” and kicked Dale in the chest, knocking him on his ass, as—

  Shaved Head lurched out of the gallery—

  Dale, seated on the floor, managed to pull his gun—

  Shaved Head paused—

  The girl saw Dale’s gun and flung herself protectively on Grandpa, who moaned, “OWW! Godammit!” as—

  Shaved Head reached into his jacket—

  Dale fired—

  Shaved Head grabbed his left arm and dropped to his knees—

  Dale scrambled to his feet and rushed to the stairs, where something smashed into his leg from behind, sending him sliding and tumbling down the short flight, accompanied by the wheelchair, which Shaved Head had flung at him.

  Dale was aware of screams and panic erupting around him, but his concentration was on getting upright, while watching the top of the stairs, where—

  Shaved Head, huge gun in hand, peeked out from where he was pressed against the wall at the top of the staircase, and—

  Dale fired—Shaved Head drew back but stuck his hand around the corner, aiming down in Dale’s direction and squeezed off two quick rounds—

  Dale scrambled into an alcove right next to him, where there was an elevator and a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor.

  Dale was halfway up the stairs when he heard thudding feet entering the alcove, so he fired two shots down toward the alcove, then resumed climbing. At the top of the stairs was a right turn onto another, broader staircase—

  BLAM! BLAM! Two shots from Shaved Head below, reaching around the alcove wall and firing blind in Dale’s direction—

  Then someone down there was bellowing—“Police! Drop the gun! Drop the fucking—”

  More gunfire—Dale’s heart leapt: Cops!

  But as Dale ran up the broad staircase and into Europe Before 1900, he heard a heavy grunting creature pounding up the stairs.

  Seventy | 2012

  The route to Dorian Gray went through Gunsaulus Hall, which 13-year-old Mark had thought of as Gunslaughter Hall, because of the ornate wheel-lock pistols and blunderbusses in its display cases. And those Three Musketeers firearms were the least of it. The bulk of the gallery was devoted to more venerable goodies, the Age of Chivalry’s most romantic achievements: armor with spiked elbows, broadswords, daggers, maces, axes, hammers, pikes.

  Doonie did a subtle double-take as they entered Gunslaughter Hall. He slowed, came to a halt at a display of pikes. Dark wooden shafts about twelve feet long. Some tipped with two-foot long blades that sprouted vicious barbs. Some tipped with an axe head topped by a foot-long serrated spike.

  “Now that’s art,” Doonie ruled.

  “Yeah, one of those, you could gut a man easy as gutting a trout.”

  There was a distant clatter, followed by a woman’s shocked yelp.

  Then a gunshot—the hell?—frightened shrieks, and people were running into the far end of the Hall.

  Mark and Doonie pulled their guns and began running toward them—

  Another clatter, more gunshots and screams—

  A panicky mass of people poured into that end of the Hall, desperate to flee the gunfight, but the ones in front saw the two armed men running at them, screamed and jerked to an abrupt stop. The crowd behind crashed into them and the surge of bodies tumbled like a wave hitting a shore.

  “Police! Stay down, stay down!” Mark yelled, waving his badge, as he and Doonie picked their way through—

  As they reached the east end of Gunslaughter Hall there were two more echoey bangs, off to the right. The cops flattened against the wall next to the exit, Doonie calling in a Shots Fired as Mark peeked into the corridor—

  Caught a glimpse of a man—bear-thick, shaved head, black leather sport coat, gripping a gun in one hand and his balls in his other, bloody hand—lumbering into an alcove.

  Mark went to the alcove—

  Shots sounded inside the alcove—

  “POLICE! DROP THE GUN DROP THE FUCKING—” Doonie bellowed from behind Mark as—

  Bullets crashed into the wall next to Mark’s head—he dropped into a crouch as—

  Behind him, Doonie’s gun roared—

  Mark looked left, saw a tall thin long-haired man with a bloody nose retreating up a short staircase—Mark and Doonie threw shots but the tall guy was gone—

  Mark and Doonie traded a quick look—hadda go after both these fucks.

  Doonie started edging toward the short stairway up which the second shooter had disappeared.

  Mark eased into the alcove. As Mark started up the stairs there was an eruption of crowd-panic shrieks from above. Mark swung into a broader staircase, his gun aimed up at—

  A clutch of terrified museum-goers rushing out of a wide entrance to the third-floor galleries—the museum-goers saw Mark and froze—

  “Police!” Mark yelled, lowering his gun and pointing at his badge, which he’d hung on his breast pocket, “I’m a cop! Easy!”

  There were only eight or ten people, so this time the ones in back managed to stop before they bashed into the ones in front, fortunate, because the ones in front would’ve been knocked down a flight of steps.

  Mark raced up the stairs and flattened against the wall alongside the entrance. Look backed to check on the museum-goers—they were frozen on the stairs, staring up at him.

  “Go to the alcove—and stay there!”

  They obeyed, except for a teenage boy who scampered back up the steps and flattened himself against the wall on the other side of the entrance, across from Mark. Scared, but in a fun way, buzzed about being in this video game.

  Mark’s new partner held up two fingers and stage-whispered, “Two guys, both male.”

  “Thanks get your ass outta here.”

  “Big one chasing a small one. Both have g—”

  Shots blasted somewhere up ahead—the teenager flinched, clutched his abdomen and slid to the floor.

  “You hit?” Mark asked.

  The teenager shook his head. Not wounded. But wanting to die. His bowels had let go.

  “Welcome to the club,” Mark told him, and swiveled through the entrance to EUROPE BEFORE 1900, snapping into a combat stance and scanning the gallery. Nobody.

  But he could hear shit happening up ahead.

  Seventy-One | 2012

&nbs
p; There is a craft to displaying art. EUROPE BEFORE 1900 was a long series of connecting galleries. Some were single large rooms, others were divided down the middle to create small side-by-side galleries. And the entryways feeding visitors from one gallery to the next were asymmetrical—some wide, some narrow, some set in the middle of a wall, some set in the right or left corner of a wall. This gave each gallery a distinctive configuration, and imposed a meandering pattern on foot-traffic that’s more interesting than walking a straight line from one identical room to the next.

  The layout wasn’t kind to Dale Phipps, whose only concern was speed. Dale ran into the first gallery, skidded to a halt, made a 90-degree left turn and ran into the gallery alongside this one, then made a 90-degree right. Those two galleries were empty, because the sound of gunfire had inspired everyone to flee. The problem was most had run in the same direction Dale was running, but not as fast. He caught up the with tail end of the crowd in the third gallery, a cluster of slow-moving oldsters shuffling through the entry to the fourth gallery.

  Dale shoved past the oldsters—some canes but no goddamn wheelchairs—and into the fourth gallery, which was—

  Worse. On the other side of the room a tangled scrum was competing to shove their way into the fifth gallery. Shit!—the galleries at the far end of this section held the Greatest Impressionist Hits—Van Gogh, Monet, Seurat, Lautrec—always fucking mobbed—must be a traffic jam backed up all the way from there to here—but it was Dale’s only way out, unless he wanted to turn and shoot it out with Shaved Head.

  Dale shot it out with the ceiling, firing a round to get people’s attention, then yelled for them to get the fuck out of his way. Dale charged into the fifth gallery, which was—

  Much worse. His gunshot had thrown the art lovers into full-on bestial panic. There were few in Dale’s way when he ran in because almost everyone was jammed in the left-hand corner of the far side of the room, clawing to get into the sixth gallery—the narrow entry was blocked by a writhing pile of the fallen. People were fighting to scramble over the pile, but the seething mass of bodies grabbed and kicked at them, so more people fell and made the pile higher—

 

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