Angel With a Bullet (15 page)

She beams. “Really?”

I laugh. “When I tell them how cute you are and … let's face it, how
naked
, they'll be fighting for the job.”

Aurora grins and skips to the studio door. “I better get back. I still have a lot of work to do.”

With a wave, she crosses the hall to her own studio. At the door, she turns back. “If I find anything, I'll call.”

“Do.”

She drops the robe off her shoulders and back-heels the door closed.

_____

I return to my search of the studio, but don't find anything else out of the ordinary in the mess of paint, wood, canvas, and brush. I am just about to leave when the unfinished collage draws me in again. It is close to four feet in length, the canvas stretched and fastened to a rough wood frame.

The last time I took my eye off a valuable painting, it vanished. This time, I decide to take it with me. Once Diego's family shows up, I can either turn it over to them or to the Gimcrack.

With the painting under my arm, I glance around for a phone to call a cab. There isn't one.

I suppose it's time I join the digital age and sign up for an iPhone, but the idea of always being reachable seems like a large commitment.

I cross the hall, knock on Aurora's door, and enter.

Aurora stands against a backdrop of painted white brick, eight large floodlights illuminating the eeriness of her painted transparency. As I watch, she contorts and stretches for a snapping, medium-format Hasselblad. She controls the camera with a miniature remote, and I know a lot of professionals would be jealous that technology has deprived them of the job of photographing her.

The longer I watch, the less I notice her lithe nakedness. Instead, the waves of color that shimmer on her skin and the movement of her muscles enrapture my senses.

When she notices me, she reaches over to switch off a CD player that is pounding out dance hits from Prince and Pink. Strangely, until she turns it off, I hardly noticed it.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I say. “But do you have a phone?”

“We use the last studio on this side at the end of the hall as a communal office. There's a phone in there.”

“Thanks. Also, is there another door out of here? I don't think I used the right one coming in.”

She laughs. “You found the right one. We haven't got around to fixing up that half of the warehouse yet.”

I thank her again and let myself out. Someone releases a lustful cry as Aurora switches the music back on.

Twenty-two

The taxi drops me
in front of the Dog House and I'm surprised to hear laughter behind the iron door. I skip down the short flight of steps and push my way inside with Diego's collage tucked awkwardly under my arm.

The usual assortment of pensioners and hard-drinking cops fills the hovel, but it's Frank who has been the main source of laughter. The after-effects have left him tilted dangerously on his stool, his face beet red, and coughing up a half-chewed peanut. Bill is standing behind the bar with a madman's grin, his massive belly still quivering with delight. He doesn't notice that the dripping wet dishrag in his hand has left an embarrassing stain on the front of his pants.

I prop the painting against the bar and take my usual stool beside Frank. He uses a napkin to wipe his eyes while Bill reaches into the fridge, pops the cap off a Warthog Ale, and places it in front of me.

Frank catches his breath and heads to the washroom as I take a long swallow from the bottle before the frosty vapor has a chance to leave its slender neck.

“Tough day?” Bill asks as I place the half-empty bottle back on the bar.

I shrug and tilt my chin toward Frank's retreating back. “What's he laughing at?”

“A story Al told me.”

“Frank saw Capone?”

“No.” Bill shakes his head as if I'm the crazy one. “You know how Al is. It was this morning before opening. I just told Frank.”

I take another sip of beer and rise to the bait. “So what's the story?”

Bill grins wide and leans across the bar. He has recently finished smoking one of the cheap American-made cigars that he claims Al brings him, and his breath knocks my head back. He doesn't take offense, but the whiplash sends a stabbing pain through my neck.

He starts. “Al was telling me about this dame he was seeing, right?”

I nod and rub my neck.

Bill bares his yellow-brown teeth that always remind me of a post-apocalyptic skyline. In the ring, he had sported a sharp set of lethal, pearly white gnashers, complete with built-in spurting blood capsules for the full, ear-ripping effect. The trouble with real teeth, however, is you can't soak them in a jar while you sleep.

“Well, this dame was a looker, a
real
looker, you know? Long, tanned legs; big, firm tits, face like a cover model. A real wet dream, but high class too. This was no tug it for a fin, suck it for—”

“I get the picture, Bill,” I interrupt.

He flashes anger, but it doesn't stick. A wild grin twists his mouth out of shape again. “So Al kinda likes this broad and he's treating her alright, you know? Flowers, furs, bangles, rings. But she's not happy. She keeps harping on Al for a commitment; she wants to know what their future is together. Finally, Al can't take it anymore—”

I lean forward and my elbow almost knocks my bottle off the bar. Bill flashes another annoyed look.

“Are you listening?” he barks, slapping the bar with one of his huge hands. A puddle of spilled beer sprays in a hundred directions, one of which finds my eye.

“I'm listening!” I yell back and grab a napkin to wipe my stinging eye.

“Well, sit still, then,” Bill orders.

I continue to dab at my eye until the grin returns to Bill's face.

He continues. “So Al sits the girl down and begins to tell her his philosophy on life. About how he rewards his friends and slays his enemies. Then he gets on one knee, a goosedown pillow underneath it first of course, takes hold of her hand and looks up with doe-eyed innocence.”

Bill tries to imitate the look, but his face is too much like Boris Karloff to get the proper image across. “Then,” he continues, “Al says to her: ‘I want to make you a promise.' So this dame is a puddle. She's thinking this is it. The big proposal, you know? And Al, who does a much better Humphrey Bogart impersonation than I ever could, takes a deep breath and says, ‘Stick with me, kid, and you'll be farting through silk.' ”

I thought a B-52 bomber had just flown a low-level pass above the bar as Bill's laughter reverberates around the room for a second time. The look on his face, rather than the story, makes me join in.

As the laughter subsides, Frank comes back and orders another O'Doul's. Bill immediately pours one before heading down the bar to serve other customers.

Frank turns to face me and sticks a limp, S-shaped cigarette between his lips.

“When are they going to invent waterproof cigarettes?” he grumbles after unsuccessfully trying to light it.

I shrug as he throws the ruined pack onto the bar. The question is on my lips, but I manage to bite it back, deciding I really don't want to know how the pack has come to be in such a sorry state.

“You're in early,” I say.

“All quiet on the homicide front.” He sighs. “I just know there's going to be a triple murder-suicide and the accidental death of a politician while humping his secretary as soon as I get settled in front of the TV tonight. It's in the air, kid.” Frank takes a swig of nonalcoholic beer. “How's your day going?”

“I found a few things.”

“Any more trouble with cars?”

I shake my head as Frank's face creases with concern.

“I'm being careful, Frank, OK? But there's not much I can do. I told you, I didn't catch a plate. I also haven't received any threats, so it might not even be about me. Kids go joyriding through Chinatown and spot a couple of white faces, think it would be hilarious to scare the crap out of them. It happens.”

“It happens,” Frank agrees. “But when it happens to you … let's just say I don't believe in coincidence.”

We both take long pulls from our beers.

“Anyway,” I start again. “What did you find out about our Sleeping Beauty?”

“Not much.” Frank digs into his pocket and produces a thin notebook. He flips through the pages until he finds the right patch of chicken scratch.

“Paul Gibson. Criminal record for possession of marijuana in college. Paid a $250 fine. Must have scared him straight because that was the end of his run-ins with the law. He's worked at the same place, an accounting firm, for the last eight years. No outstanding tickets. Nice and boring, just how I like them.”

I smirk. “You hate boring.”

“Says who?”

“You do, with every breath. You need the action. It's what gets you up in the morning and puts you to bed at night.”

“You sure that's me you're talking about?”

I slide my empty bottle across the bar and nod for another one.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm sure.”

Frank's mouth twitches. “So what else you got?”

“You know the cocaine found in Diego's autopsy?”

Frank nods.

“I asked his agent about it. Not the weasel trying to get his mitts on the blood painting, by the way, but his
current
agent at the Gimcrack Gallery. According to him, Diego's asthma would have prevented him from taking drugs. Cocaine could have killed him.”

“It did,” Frank points out.

“No,” I say, “a shotgun blast to the face killed him. And if you're going to kill yourself, you don't want to have an asthma attack in the middle of squeezing the trigger. Bad aim could mean walking around alive, but with only half a face. Nasty. Why take the chance?”

Frank scratches his nose and rubs at wide, hairy nostrils with a thick knuckle. “You worry me, kid,” he says softly. “I don't like to be worried.”

“And?” I prod.

“The coroner's report came out this afternoon. I took a look before firing it to Northern.”

“And?”

“Traces of cocaine were found in the stiff's lungs, but there's no signs of asthma mentioned. And I know those butchers. They love to look for that kind of stuff.”

“So somebody's lying.”

Frank sighs and scans the room. “I didn't say that. Right now, the file says a depressed artist got high and blew his brains out. Anything else is circumstantial at best.”

“I'm not arguing,” I say. “I'm just—”

“Arguing.”

“Questioning. There are loose ends here that nobody wants to tie up.”

“Except you.”

I take a swallow from my fresh bottle of beer. The mist has evaporated from the glass, but it's still cool on the back of my throat.

“My editor hates stories with holes. As a large man with failing eyesight, loose ends represent tripwires. And if I make him trip, he'll make sure all his weight lands on me.”

“So you're just covering your ass?”

“With Kevlar.”

Frank laughs aloud, lifts his bottle of O'Doul's in a salute, and clinks it against mine before putting it to his lips.

“OK,” he says after he swallows. “I'll talk to the coroner about asthma.”

“Great. Now, what can you tell me about Chief McInty?”

Frank is surprised. “Why?”

“I had a talk with him this morning about the painting you found in Diego's apartment.”

“And?”

“He told me Diego stole it.”

“From where?”

“He wouldn't say.”

Frank studies his beer. “McInty's the kind of man you don't want on your ass. And if he thinks you're sticking your nose into police business, he just might have it chopped off and framed behind his desk.”

“It's a nice view.”

“What?” Frank says, confused.

“McInty's desk. It's got a nice view.”

Frank shakes his head and orders another O'Doul's. I decide I need a little warmth in my belly and order a scotch.

“Oh, by the way.” I pull Diego's collage out from its resting space against the bar. “What do you make of this?”

Frank leans back on his stool and studies it carefully. “What is it?”

“It's another Adamsky. Only this time, Diego shredded it to pieces and turned it into this.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“From Diego's studio. Met a nice girl there, too, by the name of Aurora. She paints herself from head to toe and poses in the nude.”

Frank's forehead crinkles into a series of deep furrows. “You broke into Diego's studio and took this?”

“Chill,” I say. “The police have closed their investigation. No one has claimed the body. And a close friend of his knows I have the damn thing. I just didn't want this piece disappearing before I find out who legally owns it. Everything's a clue, Frank. You taught me that. Now I have to find out how all the clues fit together, right?”

“I wish you wouldn't quote me after you break the law.” Frank's jaw is tight. “It doesn't sound good.”

He turns to face the bar. “Give me a shot, Bill.”

Bill grins wide, showing all his crooked teeth, and deliberately folds thick arms across a thicker chest. He barely moves his head, but the intent is clear.

Frank's eyes drop to my empty shot glass and then back up to meet my gaze.

“You piss me off, kid.”

I almost choke. “Me?” I sputter. “Why?”

“You make my life too damn complicated.”

“Hey, I took lessons on being difficult from you.”

“Bullshit! You were a pain in the ass long before we met. I'm just been trying to make you a better journalist so you can get a job at a real newspaper and move out of my jurisdiction.”

“Well, you've failed.”

“Damn right I have.”

We're silent for a few moments until we both begin to laugh. With the laughter, Bill relaxes and resumes his bartender duties.

“Oh, by the way, you owe me twenty bucks,” I say.

“What for?”

“I had to pay off your gambling debt with a Sergeant Woods before he would give me the time of day.”

Frank reaches deep into his pocket and throws a couple of bills on the table. I pick them up.

“Hey, this is only ten,” I complain.

“That's all I owed.”