Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  It looked like a nice raincoat. Long. Down to her ankles. Double-breasted. A nice teal color. Wide collars. Slightly retro. Way too classy, in fact, for the surroundings.

  Speaking of the surroundings, she was wearing a raincoat. In the desert.

  I stood over her. She didn’t move. I couldn’t tell, behind the shades, whether she was awake. Hell, I couldn’t tell if she was alive.

  The coat was buttoned. Her feet were bare. Tanning the feet, I guessed.

  I cleared my throat.

  Her head lifted an inch.

  Excuse me, I said.

  Who are you? she asked in a low voice, slurred with recent sleep, or possibly barbiturates. She was strangely calm. As if accustomed to unknown men showing up poolside unannounced. Which contributed to the barbiturate hypothesis.

  Rick Redman, I said. I’m an investigator.

  I see, she said, shifting herself up another inch.

  The raincoat appeared to be sticking to the lawn chair. She tugged at it. The lapels fell open. The view was promising. Pale, freckled skin. Enough to make me wonder. Whether she had anything on underneath. No evidence of it. Which could be good. Or bad. There was only one way to find out. And this was not the moment to try it.

  I averted my eyes. A little late, but I hoped the gesture would curry me favor.

  Ms. Eloise, or whoever she was, gazed at me through the shades. Or at least I assumed she was gazing at me through the shades. Hard to tell. Through the shades.

  I thought about that expression. Curry favor. What did Indian food have to do with goodwill? I made a note to look it up.

  There was something floating in the pool. It looked like a dead rodent. I wasn’t sure. The sun was too bright. It kept flickering in the blue, appearing and vanishing. Maybe it was a live rodent.

  Maybe it wasn’t there at all.

  And what, she said at last, might you be investigating?

  Well, I said, you, actually.

  She gave a short laugh. It seemed to exhaust her last reserves. Her head plummeted back into the comfort of the slatted plastic chair.

  Me? she said.

  She fished in the pocket of her raincoat. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Pulled one out. Lit it with a Zippo.

  Mind if I cadge one of those? I asked.

  Sharing vices is good for establishing rapport with the subject. It’s in the manual.

  She tugged her coat around, searched the other pocket. Pulled out a pack of Gitanes, tossed it to me.

  You can have these, she said. I don’t smoke them.

  I got a friend who does, I said, putting the pack in my shirt pocket. Meanwhile, do you mind if I have one of those?

  You’re a pushy bastard, Mr. Investigator, she said, flinging a Benson & Hedges at me. I’ll give you that.

  Thank you, I said. I lit the smoke. Took a haul. I almost gagged. They were full strength. No ultralights for this lady. Ah, I said to myself. Instant black lung.

  Anyway, I said, once we were each ensconced in our respective cloud of haze, yes, you. If you’re who I think you are. And I think you are. Your sister asked me to find you.

  Louise? she said, still languorous. You’re kidding, right?

  Why would I be kidding? I asked.

  Listen, Richard—

  Rick, I interrupted.

  Rick. Ricky. Dick. Listen, you just appeared uninvited in my backyard. You claim you’ve been hired to find me. You found me. I gave you a cigarette. Now get the fuck out of here. Okay?

  This seemed uncalled-for. But she’d said it in the same calm, slow monotone, and something about the contrast between the words and the voice gave it a gravity hard to resist.

  Nevertheless, I gathered up my gumption. Prepared to protest.

  Can I just ask you one thing? I said.

  She turned her head. I could see in her shades the sharp elliptical reflection of my face. Hey, I thought. Not that bad. Could pass for a pretty handsome guy. If the world were convex.

  She nodded. Almost imperceptibly.

  Do you mind if I tell your sister where you are? I continued. She seems genuinely concerned.

  I got the short sharp laugh again.

  I took it as a yes.

  So, I said. I can tell her you’re all right? Everything’s okay?

  You can tell her anything you like.

  Okay. All right. I guess I’ve done my job. Is this your place?

  She said nothing.

  You live here? I insisted.

  More silence.

  You know, I said, we couldn’t find any records of you anywhere. Made it kind of hard to track you down. If you don’t mind my asking, did you change your name?

  Silence.

  Do you have something you need to hide from?

  She didn’t move an eyelash. Or at least, that was my impression. I couldn’t see her eyelashes. Behind the shades.

  Uh, I guess that might be kind of personal, I said. I’m sorry. But do you mind if I ask you one last question? Then I’ll leave. Promise.

  She raised her sunglasses. Turned her gimlet eye to mine. It was more than a little disconcerting. I mean, I love a green-eyed girl. I really do. Add some copper-colored hair, and I’m in instant love. But this eye. This was a splintered eye. It was mostly green, but there was a sliver, a narrow wedge, of red in it. Like a splinter. A splintered eye.

  For some reason it scared the hell out of me.

  Um, I said, please tell me if I’m being intrusive. Again. But I was wondering. Well, I was wondering about, I was wondering, why the raincoat? In the desert. I mean, the shades, of course, make perfect sense. It’s the desert. But a raincoat?

  She raised that eye again. Her disinterest was growing more palpable by the second.

  Have you ever heard of lupus? she asked.

  Right, I thought. Allergic to the sun, Louise had said. I’d meant to do some research.

  No, I lied.

  She lowered the shades.

  Well, I hope you’re doing well, I said. Your health, I mean. Your sister will want to know.

  I’m fine, she said.

  Another long silence ensued.

  I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. Hey, I’d been paid to find her. I’d found her. What else did I have to do? I wasn’t being paid to take on the Cyclops, after all. Or was it the Sphinx? The one with the riddles.

  While I was thusly ruminating, Ms. Chandler or some other name, possibly of Russian origin, pulled her raincoat tightly around her promising self, slipped on a pair of brightly colored and clearly designer-designed sandals, and walked languidly to the back door of the trailer she, to all appearances, called home. She turned. Gave me a Look. The Look said: Go away.

  I followed the instruction. As I turned the corner, I glanced back.

  She hadn’t moved an inch.

  In the car, I reflected on what I’d seen. Not much, given the costume. Kind of odd, that. I mean, if you’re allergic to the sun, or whatever it was, why be in the sun at all?

  And how far she’d fallen, it seemed. That fancy house in Henderson, to this? There surely was a story to tell.

  It was her, though. I didn’t have a doubt. The chin. The mouth. The manner. The calves. It was all Louise.

  So I’d done it. Found the sister.

  Life wasn’t all that bad after all, it seemed.

  39.

  ON THE WAY BACK TO TOWN, I called Louise Chandler. Told her I had some news. We should meet, I said. She suggested a baroque little faux bistro on some street I’d never heard of. It was becoming clear that she knew Vegas better than I did. I wasn’t sure that this was a good sign.

  She was late. I wasn’t surprised. I took a stool at the bar and spent the time downing a few glasses of fairly potable wine.

  After a suitable half-hour interval, she made her entrance.

  She was wearing a black silk dress with a keyhole neckline, the aperture just big enough to allow me to confirm it again: She had curve. She took the stool to my right. I liked that she w
asn’t averse to sitting at the bar.

  After the usual informalities, I came to the point.

  I found her, I said.

  Yes?

  She seemed almost disappointed.

  I did.

  Where?

  Out in the sticks somewhere. North of Red Rock, like I said. A trailer park. Crappy Desert Homes. Bacon in the Sun. Something like that.

  Are you serious, Mr. Redman? You don’t remember the name of the place?

  It’ll come back to me. Don’t worry. And anyway, I have it written down somewhere.

  Somewhere?

  Sure. Somewhere. And anyway, I know how to get there.

  Mr. Redman, I’m not finding this very reassuring. How many drinks have you had?

  Please, call me Rick. And I’m only drinking wine. Better for the digestion.

  Is that your first bottle? she asked, nodding towards the half-empty vessel at my left elbow.

  I guess it’s the second, I said, unwilling, for once, to tell an unnecessary lie. You were late.

  Half an hour, she said.

  Forty minutes, I cleverly retorted. And anyway, the first one’s just a warm-up. Gets me normal.

  She looked at me for a while. Thinking, she seemed to be.

  I see, she said slowly.

  I tried to read her. Couldn’t do it. Inscrutable, she was. Hard to scrute.

  I was just beginning to wonder why my drinking habits seemed to be of more interest to her than her long-lost sister, when she got back to the topic.

  How was she? she asked.

  That’s hard to say.

  What do you mean?

  I told her the tale. The pool chair. The hat. The shades. The raincoat.

  That seems a bit strange, she said.

  A bit, I replied. Yes. Eccentric, at least.

  She always liked to be different.

  She seems to be succeeding.

  Was her … friend there?

  If he was, she wasn’t letting on.

  She sank into thought. I sank into my Chardonnay. The waitress came by and lit the little candle in the glass. Once she’d left, Louise bent over and blew it out.

  Not in a mood for atmosphere? I asked.

  She ignored me. Or didn’t hear. She was looking at the bottles neatly tiered behind the bar. Lost in a thought. Or many.

  I watched an old couple at the next table. Neither of them had said a word to the other. The old man was folding his napkin into what looked like an origami moose. The lady was staring into her drink.

  So, I said to Ms. Chandler after a while. Job over?

  I suspect not, she said. I need to think about it.

  Ah, thinking, I said. I used to have that luxury.

  Sometimes, Mr. Redman, it is appropriate to have feelings.

  I’m not sure I follow you. And it’s Rick. Please.

  Mr. Redman, we may not have been close, Eloise and I. We may be estranged, or whatever is the proper term. But she is my sister. She is family. And what you are telling me causes me concern. There is something wrong. It is obvious, is it not?

  Well, I don’t know. But I apologize if I seem too frivolous. It’s just my way. I understand your concern.

  Apology accepted.

  And anyway, it depends on what you mean by wrong. She’s alive, it appears. She isn’t chained in some basement being tortured by a sadistic clown. Or at least she wasn’t this afternoon.

  Mr. Redman, she said sharply. Please.

  Anyway, the place for sure didn’t have a basement.

  That’s enough.

  Sorry. Can’t help myself. Sorry.

  It is all right, Mr. Redman. I’m getting used to your ways.

  She said it with a small smile.

  I appreciate that, I said. But anyway, I can see what you mean. She’s gone from that nice house to a trailer park. Not normally a sign of—what’s the word? Progress.

  The smile was gone as fast as it had appeared. I wondered whether I had imagined it.

  We need to have a plan, she said.

  A plan?

  Yes. A plan.

  How about you plan to go out there and talk to your sister? Ask her if everything’s okay. Kiss and make up.

  I can’t do that.

  Why not?

  Ms. Chandler inspected the scotch section behind the bar for a while.

  There are things I haven’t told you, she said.

  Oh my, I replied. You shock me. You mean there are … secrets?

  All right. All right. I know you’re not naïve.

  Thanks for that.

  Of course you knew I wasn’t telling you everything.

  I had a hunch. But nobody’s paying me to follow it up.

  It’s about Vladimir.

  Ah. Then you do know him.

  I know his name.

  Cherchez l’homme, I said.

  I’m afraid of him.

  Ah.

  He’s not a pleasant man, I understand.

  Few of us are.

  Yes, she replied with a bit too much alacrity. But he is less pleasant than most.

  Ms. Chandler, I said. I love your company. The wine is … well, it’s potable, anyway. But I must admit I would prefer it if you … how to put it? … got to the point? Saves so much time, you know.

  All right, Mr. Redman.

  Is there any way I can get you to call me Rick?

  No.

  All right, then.

  Mr. Redman, do you remember the Joel Steinberg case?

  Who doesn’t?

  The man who beat that woman nearly to death, killed their child, and still she clung to him?

  Yes, yes. Sort of a Stockholm syndrome thing.

  Yes. Well, my fear is that Eloise is involved in that kind of relationship.

  She seemed rather self-confident, I said.

  Meaning?

  Hard to see her being in thrall to someone who’s abusing her.

  Be that as it may, Mr. Redman—

  Rick, please.

  I have my reasons.

  Such as?

  When I first met her friend, he seemed—

  Oh, so you have met him?

  —very nice. He had a Russian accent, but he dressed very well. He was always talking about this business he was starting. He was very enthusiastic.

  What kind of business?

  Investments, he said.

  What kind of investments?

  He didn’t say.

  Hmm. Kind of like import-export?

  What do you mean?

  Well, first of all, it doesn’t mean anything, investments. All that says is somebody’s putting up some money for something. It could be women’s shoes. Or truffles from Saudi Arabia. Could be cocaine from Colombia. Same as with import-export. That used to be code for: ‘I’m with the CIA, by the way.’ Or something of that nature.

  Truffles from Saudi Arabia?

  Long story. Didn’t work. Too much sand.

  I think you’ve lost me.

  In the truffles. Sand in the truffles. Couldn’t get it out. I suppose we should have figured that might be a problem.

  We? You were involved in importing truffles from Saudi Arabia?

  I told you, long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime. What can I say? I met a guy at a poker game. Armenian. Full of ideas. He was looking for investors.

  Investors to import truffles from Saudi Arabia. And you trusted this man?

  Trust, but verify, as me and Brezhnev always say. Well, he used to. He’s dead. It’s just me now. There really were truffles. And they were way cheaper than the Italian. Anyway, see what I mean? Import-export. Never know what it means.

  Was there an export part?

  Dollars. To an offshore account.

  My, Mr. Redman, you do seem to know a lot of things.

  It’s my curse, I said, contemplating the long lean line of her thigh as she recrossed her legs.

  Why is that?

  My brain never shuts off. It’s always making another connection. Even in
my sleep. I have the weirdest dreams …

  I put my hand lightly on her leg. A little test case.

  She let it stay there for a beat or two. Enough to tell me something.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, though.

  Perhaps we’ll leave your dreams for another day, she said, pulling down her skirt, which, incidentally, or not so incidentally, served to brush my hand away. She reached for her purse.

  Ms. Chandler, I protested. We haven’t finished talking about Vladimir.

  Yes, yes, she said, standing up. But you know enough for now. He’s an unsavory character. I want you to find out if Eloise is still with him. And if not, where he is.

  You can’t just drop by and ask?

  No, I can’t, she said, heading for the exit.

  As she walked away, I thought about how much she hadn’t told me. Why she thought Eloise was in thrall to this guy. Stockholm syndrome. That was a prisoner thing. The captive becomes emotionally attached to the captor.

  Eloise hadn’t looked particularly imprisoned.

  No more than anyone else living in a trailer park.

  And she was awfully feisty, for someone supposedly susceptible to thralldom.

  Louise Chandler swept through the door.

  From the rear, she still made a good impression.

  40.

  THE PHONE RANG. I stuffed a pillow over my head. It didn’t do a thing. I’d been spoiled by down pillows. Down pillows muffle sound. Polyester doesn’t.

  I told the phone to stop.

  It wouldn’t listen to me.

  I rolled over with a groan.

  I picked up the phone.

  Redman, I gargled.

  Daddy!

  It was my Kelley. The fog lifted immediately.

  How are you, beautiful? I asked.

  I’m great, and better yet, I’m here.

  Here?

  In Las Vegas! With Peter!

  You’re joking.

  Would I tell a joke?

  Of course not. What are you doing here?

  We came to keep you out of trouble, Daddy, what do you think? And help out with all your exciting investigations.

  Strangely enough, I actually do have an investigation going.

  Wow. Peter’ll be thrilled.

  And very useful too, I’m sure.

  Does it have anything to do with old movies?

  Not that I’m aware of.

  ’Cause that’s where he’d be really helpful.

  Okay, if an old movie angle comes up, I’ll let you guys know.