by P. N. Elrod
“Who did it?” I asked.
“Dreyer—what’re you trying to do, top him?” He pushed the swab of cotton away petulantly. “One of his boys must have followed me around. I’ve never known such a sore loser.”
“I think you’re the one that lost.”
“Walt, be a pal and find me something for the pain.”
Walt obligingly searched the medicine cabinet until Evan made it clear he wanted his painkiller in a glass with ice.
I resumed cleanup on his face. “You want to go home?”
“Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.”
“What about Sandra?”
“Oh, God … tell her I got an unexpected date and went home early. She’ll understand. I hope.”
“You have a way home?”
That stumped him, so I offered him a ride, which he woozily accepted. When Walt returned I told him to keep Evan in one place while I went back to the long hall.
Bobbi was singing “Gimme a Pigfoot” to the raucous delight of the crowd, and Titus Noble’s quartet was attempting an impromptu accompaniment. Sandra was still with Adrian, no longer dancing, but standing on the edge of things and clapping in time to the music. Adrian’s enjoyment looked a little forced, but the hesitant smiles he gave Sandra were genuine enough. I elbowed over and passed on Evan’s message to her.
“A date?” she puzzled. “Who with?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t want you to worry about him, he said.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” commented Adrian, not too helpfully.
Leaving them, I scribbled a quick note to Bobbi explaining I was driving home a drunk guest and would be back for her before the party was over. Since I couldn’t interrupt her, I opted to give it to the cello player, who wasn’t doing too much at the moment. I didn’t trust Marza to pass it along.
Evan was anything but enthused over moving. The bruises were stiffening up, and now he insisted he’d be happy enough spending the rest of the night on the bathroom floor. When Walt offered to check with Reva about the loan of a bedroom, Evan changed his mind. One question would lead to another and eventually involve Sandra. He had no wish to listen to another sisterly lecture on the virtues of moderation and the avoidance of rough company.
Walt guided us out by a side door and would have helped us the rest of the way to my car except for Jannie’s piercing shout. The spare towels were long overdue by now. I told him to go back; Evan was a handful, but nothing I couldn’t manage.
I was wrong.
The pounding on his stomach combined with that last drink ended in a predictable way. The cold night air hit Evan like a bag of cement, he went green, made a green noise in his throat, and doubled over. I was just quick enough to aim him at the flower beds before he lost it all.
“Ridiculous, isn’t he?”
Adrian was in the doorway watching the show and not quite grinning.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said truthfully. “I’m taking him home. Dreyer got to him again and he didn’t want Sandra—”
“Evan never fails to be considerate of others, at least after the fact. Need some help?”
“Yeah.”
When it was over we hauled Evan past the long line of cars and loaded him into the back of my Buick, where he promptly fell asleep.
“You followed?” I asked Adrian.
“Of course. Your story to Sandra didn’t sound like Evan at all. When he falls in love for the evening, one generally doesn’t know about it until the next afternoon. He’s in no condition to give you directions now, I’ll come along if you don’t mind.”
“Hop in.”
I started it up, carefully backed out, and only remembered to turn the headlights on by correctly reading the growing alarm on Adrian’s face. We rolled slowly down the drive to the distant street, and he guided us from there.
“This happen to you often?” I asked.
“If you mean taking Evan home in such a condition, yes. I’ve done it more than once.”
“The guy that found him was looking for you at first. Sorry this had to interrupt your evening with Sandra.”
“We’ll be back soon enough.”
“I had an interesting talk with her about Leighton Brett’s art … do you agree with her views?”
“I’m not certain what they are.”
“I thought his stuff was too perfect, she said he planned it to be that way.”
“No doubt she is right. Leighton insists on a great deal of control in his life, there’s no reason why his art should be different.”
“Doesn’t that limit creativity?”
“That depends on your approach. All good art requires control, the real skill is not letting the control itself show.”
“It should look easy? Like anyone could do it?”
He glanced over once, approving. “Exactly. You end up with a thousand students going in for art. It looks easy, especially the more modern schools. That’s how Evan got started. He thought that anyone could slop paint over a canvas and call it art, but he surprised himself and a few other people. He’s one of the few with a true talent for the expression of an idea as well as the work.”
“But what about Brett’s control?”
“He paints what the public wants to see and he does it so well. Not many of them notice what’s missing.”
“What’s that?”
“Leighton Brett.”
“Yeah?”
“Art is often a process of self-revelation, but he’s a careful and private man, and his work reveals nothing of what is within him. He paints what’s popular and saleable and enjoys the honors involved, such as they are. All you’ll know about him from his paintings a hundred years from now was that he was a competent draftsman with a streak of bogus sentiment.”
“What will people know about you a hundred years from now?”
“Probably the same thing, but without the sentiment.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen your work—nothing bogus there.”
He looked at me sidewise. I’d meant it to be a compliment; he decided to take it as such. “Are you an artist as well?”
I hesitated, considering his past associations with reporters. “I write a little, so I can understand the creative process from that angle.”
“What do you write?”
Nothing so far, but you don’t say that to people. I decided on the truth and if he didn’t like it, too bad. “I used to be a journalist, a paper in New York, but I had to get out.”
“Had to?” he asked after a long pause. “Why?”
“I didn’t like what it was turning me into so I stopped and became something else. I’m free-lance now.”
His voice would freeze fire. “And is this an interview?”
“No. We’re just two guys driving another home and having a talk about art.”
I don’t think he took it at face value, but then he had no real reason to trust me. Except for his terse directions, conversation lagged, but he wasn’t ready to bolt from the car yet.
We ended up in a lower-class neighborhood of tired brick buildings, cheap rent being the only obvious asset of the area. We dragged Evan from the car and got him up the steps of his house. Adrian struggled with the keys while I kept us more or less vertical.
Inside the narrow entry hall were the usual doors and stairs, which we went up, or tried to; Evan was so far gone as to be a danger to our collective balance. I had Adrian stand back, then hoisted Evan onto my shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“The strength of youth,” he said, and led the way up to the second floor and opened the door of the Robleys’ flat.
The front room was obviously a work area, its length running along one wall to take advantage of the north-facing windows. Two large easels were set up, one with a light cloth covering a work in progress, the other with its colorful canvas on display. The place was stuffy with the smell of linseed oil and harsh turpentine. The furnishi
ngs were sparse and unpretentious: some simple chairs and a table with a lumpy bronze sculpture as its centerpiece. A few unframed paintings clung to the walls, mixed in with a family photo or two. One of them was of two young men grinning like devils, hamming it up at some kind of carnival. A slender girl stood between them and their arms were around her. It was Sandra, a young teen just starting to bloom into a woman. One of the men was Evan, who hadn’t changed much in looks or attitude. The other was Adrian, who had. A lot of years and life had come between the carefree face in the photo and the solitary, saturnine man who stood next to me.
Adrian turned on the lights and pointed me toward the back, where I found Evan’s bedroom. I eased him onto the bed and threw a quilt over him. I was just debating whether to remove his shoes when I heard an oddly familiar slap-and-grunt combination and hurried out to investigate.
Adrian was doubled over, holding his stomach. A man in a cheap, gaudy suit stood just inside the front door and had apparently just walked in and punched him. A second, much larger man bulled his way past, grabbed Adrian’s elbows from behind and hauled him upright with a sharp jerk. Cheap Suit laughed and landed another fist before he noticed my presence.
I grabbed the larger man from behind in his turn and pried his arms free. Adrian all but hit the floor, still trying to get his lost breath back. The big one shook an arm loose and swung it backhanded at my face. A couple of months earlier I’d have been flattened, but now I was just annoyed. I was about to let him know just how annoyed when the suit jumped in between us waving a knife under my nose.
He was grinning because he knew he had me cold, a wild-eyed maniac with bad skin and cartoon eyebrows. I released my hold on his friend. They were moving slowly now, but only because I was moving that much faster. His mouth dropped open in sluggish shock when I plucked the knife out of his hand and snapped the blade and handle in two like a dry twig. By the time he started to recover, Adrian grabbed both his shoulders and spun him around to pay his own respects.
The big one tried hitting me again. He was a solid piece of muscle and had had some sparring experience. His punches were short and controlled but I wouldn’t let him get close enough to connect. This put him into a bad temper, but I wasn’t feeling too kindly about things, either. I stepped into his right, trapped his arm under my own, and much to his surprise wrestled him against a handy wall, thumping his head for good measure. When we locked eyes I went in there as well, feeling righteous satisfaction when his expression went blank.
“Fall on the floor and stay there,” I told him, and stepped back out of the way. He landed hard, like a tree trunk, without putting his arms out to cushion the impact.
Adrian was too busy to notice. I’d gotten peripheral glimpses of his fight, but nothing really clear. Now it was obvious he had one hell of a temper and had just lost it. He held the man up by his loud necktie and was systematically hitting his face and gut with hard, vicious punches. His teeth were bared in a parody of a smile, and breath hissed between them each time he connected. He backed the man up to a wall, then caught his throat and started squeezing to kill.
I had to step in then or end up with a pop-eyed corpse. Adrian ignored hearing his name, but I managed to work his hands loose without breaking anything and pulled him away. The suit, considerably rumpled, sank to the floor, too battered to even moan.
Adrian suddenly became aware of things and shook me off with a muted growl. He glared at the man, puffing from the exertion, his lips peeled back wolflike, as if he’d welcome an excuse to start over again. He glanced at me, his eyes bright. The barriers were down for a moment and I wasn’t sure I liked what they’d been hiding.
“Who are they?” I asked.
He checked both faces carefully, contemptuously. “Damned if I know. Probably more of Evan’s friends.”
“Dreyer again?”
“Perhaps.”
I stooped and felt around for Cheap Suit’s wallet. The Illinois license identified him as Francis Koller. He was carrying nearly eight hundred dollars, which I showed to Adrian in passing. Adrian searched the pockets of the other man.
“His name’s Toumey. What’s the matter with him? He looks like he’s in a trance.”
“Glass jaw,” I said, and shoved Roller’s wallet back in his pocket. He didn’t look in any condition to remember his own name, much less answer questions, so I left him and knelt over Toumey, tapping his mug a few times for effect. “Hey, come out of it.”
It worked faster than I expected. His eyes lost their fixed stare and got wider. He made an abortive attempt to get up, except I got a grip on one shoulder and leaned a knee into his stomach. My fingers were very strong; he winced and tried to writhe away, but Adrian was on his other side and held him down as well.
“Okay, Toumey, you tell us all about it,” I instructed.
He went slack and staring again.
“Why did you come here?”
“Shake ’im up.”
“Who?”
“Robley.”
“Why?”
“Owes money.”
“Give me a name.”
“Dimmy Wallace.”
I looked at Adrian. He shook his head. “Who’s Dimmy Wallace?”
“Shut up, Toumey.” This from Koller, who was still flat on his back and trying to talk through battered lips.
“He must be the brains of the outfit,” I commented to Adrian. “Toumey, you stay right where you are until I say otherwise, got it?” Toumey nodded, his eyes glazed. Adrian had begun to notice something odd going on, but if necessary I could fix that, too. We switched to Koller. He was just starting to roll over to get to his feet so we each slammed him flat again, and none too gently.
“Dimmy Wallace,” said Adrian. “Talk.”
He told Adrian to go somewhere and do something. I grabbed Roller’s chin and forced him to look up at me. “Think about it, Francis, it’s two to one now and you’re already bleeding on the canvas. You want I should let my friend here finish the job he started on you?”
“Don’t call me Francis,” he muttered, but contact was established and he was under my influence for the moment.
“Who’s Wallace?”
“My boss, best in the city.”
“What does he do?”
“Big man, does it all.”
“Gambling?”
“The works.”
“A mob?”
“The biggest, the best there is.”
“One can’t fault him for his loyalty,” Adrian remarked. “So Evan owes money to Dimmy Wallace, the one mobster in Chicago who hasn’t made the papers yet.”
“To judge from his hired help, I doubt he ever will. My guess is these saps don’t even know what Evan looks like.”
“You mean they mistook me for … ?” his lips thinned with disgust. “Now that is adding insult to injury. What do we do with them?”
“Kick ’em down the stairs?” I suggested.
He considered it. “What about informing the police?”
It was a little surprising that he would want to drag them in, especially if he still had a cloud over him because of his wife’s death. To me, the cops meant charges, arrests, court appearances. Daytime stuff. “Hardly seems worth the trouble,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk him into it.
“Perhaps you’re right. Let’s throw them out.”
“Hey!” was all Roller had time to say before we hauled him through the door and downstairs. I made sure he was shaken up, but not seriously hurt when we finally dropped him in the gutter outside. He started up with the obscenities again along with dire threats against the Robleys and everyone that knew them. While Adrian watched from the doorway I picked Koller up by his necktie and pushed him backward over a handy car hood.
“You got a bad mouth on you, boy, so shut it before you lose it. Go back to your roach hole and tell your boss to use the phone the next time he wants to collect on a bill. You or Tourney show up here again and—”
I didn’t
finish the threat, it was unnecessary. Koller saw exactly what he never wanted to see in my eyes. I gave him just enough to scare him, then let him go. He stumbled once, regained his footing, and ran down the block like hell was after him. He never looked back.
Adrian’s expression was closed and watchful again. “I wish I had your way with people.”
I shrugged. “Let’s get the other one.”
Tourney was more quiescent than his partner, content to be led to the exit and shoved out, again with the instructions never to return. We got back to the flat and checked on Evan, who had slept through the party.
Adrian stripped away the quilt, picked up a bedside carafe, and poured what was left of the contents on Evan’s face. What all the rough-house and noise failed to do a half cup of water accomplished: Evan shot awake, flailing and spitting.
“You’ll drown me!” he wailed.
“Not unless I strangle you first. Wake up.” Adrian went to the bathroom off the hall and brought back a towel for him.
Evan vaguely blotted at the water, confused and muttering. “First there’s Dreyer, then Sandra, then Dreyer, and then you. What’s the matter with everyone tonight?”
“We’ve all had to deal with you. Who’s Dimmy Wallace?”
“Who?” he said, a little too innocently.
“Two of his people were just here,” I informed him. “And we both took a beating that was meant for you, so you owe us.”
“What?”
I repeated the story until he said he understood things, but his comprehension might also have had something to do with Adrian refilling the carafe.
“All right,” he grumbled, “but Sandra won’t like me showing the dirty laundry.”
“That’s never bothered you before,” Adrian pointed out.
Evan snarled blearily at him. “In your ear.”
The carafe began to tilt.
“I didn’t mean it! Dimmy’s my bookie, sort of.”
“We’re listening.”
“That’s it—really. He gave me some credit on my losses, said he’d wait until I sold something. Well, I sold something, but then he said I owed him interest as well. I told him to wait until I sell another painting, but he’s not the patient kind—”
“And the longer it takes to pay, the more your interest increases?” I put in.