The Con Artist
Page 17
“What do you think it means?” I said without greeting.
She barely glanced my way. “It’s that famous photo from the end of World War Two.”
I laughed. “When I first saw it I thought you’d think it was a monument to lack of consent. It’s not like these two know each other. She’s not resisting, but she’s not exactly embracing him. It does kind of look like he’s putting her in a chokehold.”
“Really?” She frowned. “I think you’re missing the point.”
“And what is the point?”
“It’s a statue. It’s not real. So it can be what you want it to be.”
“Okay, Christine. I am an artist, you know. I understand the concept of interpretation.”
“You’re not acting like it.” She turned to look at me, her expression serene. “If you want it to be about peace, an expression of love, then it’s about that. If you want it to be a permanent celebration of lack of consent, then it’s about that. I would ask, what inside of you makes you need it to be about lack of consent?” She pointed at the statue. “That thing is made out of metal. It doesn’t have any darkness in it. The only darkness it has comes from you.”
I’d had enough bullshit college coursework in my life to keep arguing with her, but I didn’t see the point, particularly since I preferred her perspective anyway and the last thing I wanted was round number infinity of me versus Christine, so I dropped it.
She turned her slight smile on me. “But it’s more interesting that you think that’s the first thought that would go into my head. You sure you know me as well as you think you do?”
“Probably not.” I let the breeze wash over me. “Where’s Sebastian?”
“Who cares?” she said, much to my surprise, then added quickly, “I think he’s at the Ice Bar at the Absolute Zero immersive thing down the street. He said he might join me later.”
Making a point to look contritely at my feet, I said, “I’m really sorry that last night—”
“I know,” she said, cutting me off.
“No, seriously, what happened to me was crazy, but still—”
“Really, it’s all right.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just…I don’t know what the point is of us continuing to talk. I love you. I really do. I always have and I always will. And just the little bit I’ve seen of you this week, all these feelings come rushing back of all the amazing things we did together, and what a great life we had. But the truth is, when you stood me up last night it just…reminded me that for us, no matter how good the times were, they’d always get overwhelmed by the bad.”
“Jesus, Christine,” I murmured.
“Just hear me out. And I’m not just putting it on you. I give you a hard time but I’m not a total fool. I know a lot of the blame is on me too. You just spent all your time at the drawing table, it made me feel like a second-class citizen in my own house. But I, you know, I think I expected you to give me some purpose…I was expecting you and your career to give meaning to mine. I never…” She squinted past me, as if she was trying to bring something in the distant past into focus. “I never figured out what that was while I was with you. It’s almost like your success was throwing shade onto me. To the point where I couldn’t see my way to my own life.”
“And now?”
“Now—I just kind of fell into this thing with Sebastian in L.A., you know? And it feels like another start. So I’m going to try and make it work. I know that must be a little hard to take. You’ve never been his biggest fan.”
Stab, stab, stab in my heart. “Who, me? No, Sebastian’s great. Really. I’d put him easily in my top three Toxic Narcissists.”
“Yeah, okay, I get the point. Anyway. In your texts you said you had something you wanted my help with? I hope it’s more Mike M comics. We need more Mike M comics. I wish you hadn’t stopped. It’s one thing you walked out on me when you caught me and Danny. It’s another that you never came back home. But comics…if I thought you had given that up because of me…well, then, for that I really couldn’t forgive myself.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. I just haven’t felt inspired is all. I’ve just been…numb. In some kind of in-between state. I can’t muster the effort to draw anything other than what people tell me to. Con commissions are good for that.”
“So what do you need me for?”
“It’s about Ben K’s stolen art. I could use some advice.”
She looked at me for what seemed like a long time.
“Okay. I think I can help you. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Absolutely! Where to?”
“Someplace quiet. How about your room?”
Pound, pound, pound in my heart. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, why not. Let Sebastian chase me around for once. I may go so far as to admit that as a boyfriend, he’s only slightly less terrible than you.”
“Damning with faint praise, but I’ll take it.”
“Wait here, I just need to say goodbye to some people.”
“You got it.”
She strode away in her high heels, past a pregnant woman waddling toward me in a truly retina-melting one-piece orange plaid dress: Katie Poole.
I hailed her over even though she was headed my way anyway. “You want to sneak onto the bridge and figure out a way to sail this thing to Mexico? We’re close enough, I guess we can just drift—”
Giddy with the conviction that I was about to score a decisive victory for the forces of good against the forces of Mod, I didn’t register her dour Greek-tragedian mask until she threw her drink in my face.
* * *
– – – –
An ice cube bounced off my left eyeball and the lid jammed shut. I was half-blind, sputtering and confused, when she hissed:
“I know.”
“You—know what? What do you know? Makes one of us. Katie, what’s wrong?” I was rubbing my eye trying to get the Sprite out of it.
“Katie, what’s wrong?” she said in a mocking singsong. “Sitting next to me the whole con, laughing and telling jokes, being all ally-y, when I should have known…” Her voice stuck in her throat and she tried to blink away tears. “Goddamn hormones. You don’t deserve to see me cry.”
I could finally open both eyes. “Katie, I swear to God, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She paced around in a circle, her face getting redder and redder. “It’s just so fucking tiring. Defending yourself every minute of every day. You get so sick of taking it in the ass from everyone, online, in person, all the time, and you hope that just one day you can stop looking over your shoulder, and wham! That’s when they get you, the minute you let your guard down. I should just duct-tape my asshole shut! That’s the only way to guarantee protection.”
“Look,” I said, spreading my hands. “Even if you don’t believe me, could you just tell me what it is that got you so upset? I need to—”
“They’re replacing me,” Katie exploded. “They’re taking me off Mister Mystery because I’m not”—she stabbed at the air with bunny ears—“ ‘moving the needle.’ And you’re moving in before the corpse is even cold!”
“No, no, I swear to God, Katie, no one in Editorial has approached me about this, and I will turn them down if they do.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Once they slot you into their little boxes in their heads, once they stick that label on you, you never get it off. It might as well have already happened.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, risking a step toward her. “Did Sebastian tell you this?”
Katie sniffled. “It doesn’t matter who told me. I heard it from someone who knows. I’m sworn to secrecy. I already knew Sebastian wasn’t happy with me. Ironically, I think that sexually harassing garbage person Danny Lieber was the only person protecting me from him. Thanks a lot for murdering him.”
I led her by the crook of the arm inside a CH-46 Sea Knight, a transport copter with a rotor on each end. Inside, a red bench with a dozen seatbelts lined either side. A couple was necking on one but fled when I killed the romance by giving them my best worst look.
It was impossibly hot inside the helicopter, but at least it was semi-private. “I don’t think they’ve actually made a decision yet, Katie. Particularly not so soon after Danny’s gone. There’s still time to make this right.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “I will do everything I can to help you. I swear.”
“Okay.” She swallowed and looked at me sideways. “You really didn’t know anything about this?”
I put my hand over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“Aw, geez, I am such an ass.” She hugged me. “I threw my drink on you and everything. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I get these awful mood swings from the Rosemary’s Baby inside me. And you know Javier is out of work too. Both of us going down at the same time—”
“I totally get it, I’ve been there. Don’t you worry. I am on the case.”
“Thanks, man. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“Hey, it’s cool. You’d do the same for me.”
“Actually, I probably wouldn’t. But then you don’t need the job as bad as me, Mister Hollywood.”
Katie and I hopped out the back of the Sea Knight and parted ways, and I hurried to intercept Christine. She saw my face and asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah—well. Sort-of-not-really. Here, take my key. The room number’s written on the little paper sleeve. Head to the Bayfront, and I’ll meet you there. I have to run an errand. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You’re going to stand me up in your own room? That’s cold even by your standards.”
“I suck, it is true. But this is really important. It shouldn’t take long.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to go actually murder someone!” I probably shouldn’t have yelled so loudly as I ran for the stairs to the gangplank, but that’s exactly what I did.
* * *
– – – –
The Absolute Zero Nuclear Winter Experience sprawled across a vacant lot on the other side of the train tracks, just behind a large reflecting fountain pool that Cartoon Network had rented. Over its shimmering surface floated large balloons of Jake, Finn, Robin, Starfire, a Powerpuff Girl (do they have names?), all your favorites.
The line was thinning out as it snaked up to the entrance of the large half-toppled casino covered in snow that was, I guess, a central setting of the Syfy show and graphic novel, which is set in a postapocalyptic Las Vegas Strip smothered in subarctic conditions. The main attraction was a 3D VR amusement park ride thing that dumped you in a re-creation of the Lion Clan’s Emerald City home, a nod to the MGM Grand presumably, complete with actors dressed in saber-tooth tiger furs.
I was more interested in the adjacent Ice Bar—a rather literal expression of the show’s nuclear winter setting, in which a building made entirely of ice maintained its structural integrity at a brisk 23 degrees Fahrenheit. The queue here was even shorter than the one for the Experience; it led to rows of lockers where attendants dressed as Lion Clan tribespeople handed me a heavy faux-fur parka and a furry hat in the shape of some mutant beast’s decapitated snout.
I could see my breath as soon as I stepped inside the bar, and the sudden sharp frigidness of the air stung my cheeks. Through the vapor I could see the network wasn’t messing around: Everything in the room was made of ice. The walls were translucent ice, the tables were hewn blocks of ice, the chairs and benches were roughly hewn ice with furs thrown over them for butt protection. Frozen into the walls were tin signs advertising the fictional Absolute Zero casinos on the irradiated strip and the various postapocalyptic tribes they housed. A dozen or so revelers wrapped in big shaggy coats like hopeful singles at a Sasquatch-themed furries mixer carried around blue cocktails in octagon-shaped glasses made of ice. The only real lighting was an ice chandelier flickering with orange and green lights, and the speakers frozen into the ceiling around it throbbed generically terrible trance music.
It didn’t take long for me to identify Sebastian, with his red-and-blue fogged-up shades, tucked away in a secluded alcove that was mostly out of the bar’s sightline. He sat on the furs of a throne made entirely of ice and fawned over a shag carpet with legs that I assumed was a woman. I took a seat at a fur-covered ice slab where I had a pretty good view of the two of them. When she excused herself by carefully stepping across the slippery floor in the direction of ladies’ room, I moved in.
Sebastian had somehow liberated his phone from the layer of pelts heaped on his body and was flipping through his Twitter mentions as I approached. He didn’t see me until I was almost on top of him, and he didn’t recognize me until I stuck my face in his, which in my defense was the only way to make myself heard over the bad dance tracks.
“Don’t—” Sebastian said. He backed up and his different-colored shades slid down his nose so I could see the fear shining in his eyes. “Don’t!”
He slipped on the frigid floor and dropped to his knees. At that moment I sort of realized what was happening. I could have retreated, I could have stepped back, but here’s the thing:
I didn’t want to.
I balled my hands into fists and did not retreat. Instead, I moved forward.
“Don’t what?” I hissed.
“Don’t,” Sebastian croaked again. Was he tearing up?
I leaned in real close to the trembling Mod.
“I need to hear you say it,” I whispered.
“Don’t,” Sebastian croaked again.
“I’m going to need to hear you say the whole thing.”
Sebastian swallowed and licked his lips before whispering:
“Please don’t kill me.”
For the first time I didn’t have the impulse to protest when someone accused me of murder. Instead, I peered down on Sebastian as a hawk might consider a field mouse:
“Why not? What’s in it for me?”
Sebastian’s tongue loosened, and the words started spilling out of his mouth. “Look, if you want me to break up with Christine, I totally will. The thing between her and me, it’s not a big deal, it’s just a—you know, we’re just dating, it’s not serious, yet. I don’t mean to say I’m using her, but if I had known you felt, well, that’s why, you know…I’ve been ghosting her a little bit this week. It’s awkward, seeing you two together, you know? So you give the word, and it’s over. I will kick her to the curb, I swear.”
I was less delighted than I thought I would be: Mod was just a little kid, always craving validation, desperate to please. He had a big black hole where his self-esteem ought to be. His imposter syndrome had imposter syndrome: It thought maybe it was genuine victimhood.
“Don’t break up with her if you don’t want to,” I said.
“Well, yeah, thanks, except I kind of really do. It’s not—I don’t know. It’s not her, it’s me. I have ADHD when it comes to women. Lord, I was born a rambling man, you know?”
“And you’re not going to fire Katie Poole off Mister Mystery. Got it? That’s the price you have to pay for never worrying about me again.”
“You’re sleeping with Katie now? Oh my God, are you the father of her baby?”
“No, I’m not—we’re just friends, okay? Can’t you just be friends with a woman?”
Sebastian Mod looked baffled. “Why would I want to?”
“What were you doing before you showed up at Christine’s birth
day karaoke party on preview night?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you care?”
“I’ve added it to my list of reasons not to kick your ass.”
“Wait a minute.” Sebastian wiped his eyes. “You—you think I killed Danny?”
I looked at him.
Sebastian stood up and straightened his coat. “That means you didn’t. Nice try. I’m not telling you shit. And your baby mama can kiss her ass goodbye.”
Comics nerds, bullied and abused, subjected to slights both imagined and all too real, do what all victims do, in one degree or another, whether they resist or not: They internalize the brutal logic of their oppressors and look for opportunities to revisit abuse on others. The most sectarian fanatic in the terror camps of the Middle East has nothing on the comics fan, who is constantly hunting for the Other, purging the unworthy, the unproven, those who love the wrong things too much or don’t love the right things enough. Exclusion from the group is as defining as inclusion. Schoolyard bullies grow up and move on because the blows they landed were on soft targets and thus did not bruise their knuckles overmuch; the subjects of the bullied have lasting scars. They grow up and apply the experience of adults onto what the bullies taught them: Find weakness. Attack. Attack. Never apologize.
So I punched Mod in the nose.
As I said earlier, I’d never gotten into a real fight before. For one thing, as a person who literally earns his living with his hands—well, my right hand, specifically—I can’t afford shattered fingers or busted wrists. But I had spent my entire adult life drawing people punching other people, so it was all but effortless to inform my fist to ball up and my arm to snap forward. It surprised us both—the punch—and with the thoughtless exactitude of beginner’s luck, I found my target perfectly. My fist caught the connecting piece between Sebastian’s duo-chrome lenses, and the cheap strip of metal snapped in half. Then Mod’s nose collapsed with a satisfying pop, like bubble wrap being flattened, and he reeled away with a cry. Though he tried to wrap his arms around a column to keep from falling, that too was made of ice, so he just slid all the way down with a comically painful squeak.