Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom (13 page)

“Keep it,” she said. “But at least move into a place fit for humans.”

The door slammed open. Pris stormed in. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a yellow collared blouse. Her hair was tied in a long pony tail. She wore no make up. She tore the cloth off the painting and stared at the canvas.

“Pris …”

She brushed between Fiona and Woody and obtained a butcher knife from a drawer in the kitchen. They watched in fear and fascination as she slashed the painting to tatters. If not for her vengeful eyes and the knife in her hand she would have looked like a college girl instead of a homicidal maniac. She threw the knife to the floor between Duncan’s feet. It stuck in the wood, twanging like a cheap tuning fork.

“I decide who paints me. Not you. And if I ever do decide to let you paint me I expect to be paid for it. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Pris turned to Fiona and Woody. “Please forgive the interruption.”

Then she was gone. Fiona and Woody looked at each other in bewilderment.

“What the hell was that?” Fiona asked.

“That,” Duncan said, “is one reason I’m reluctant to go home.”

“Well,” Benjamin said, “she left the door open for you to paint her in the future.”

Duncan smiled. “She did, didn’t she?”

“Who is she?” Fiona asked.

“Her name is Pris. She works across the street.”

“Pris what?”

That took Duncan by surprise. “You know, I never thought to ask.”

“What was she so mad about?” Woody asked.

“Hard to say.” Duncan yanked the butcher knife from the floor and put it away. “I guess the painting didn’t appeal to her.”

Fiona watched Pris enter the Hollywood. “What does she do?”

Benjamin’s face assumed the aspect of a man who, at the onset of an attack of Tourette’s syndrome, had just realized he forgot his medication. Duncan sat on the couch, picked up the check, and shook his head.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“She’s a fucking stripper!” Benjamin blurted in deranged glee. “Your boy’s in love with a goddamn exotic dancer! How do you like them apples, Fiona?”

Fiona took the check from Duncan’s hands and tore it into small pieces. She dropped the bits on the floor at his feet and walked out.

“I’ll talk to her,” Woody said. “A stripper, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Woody turned to go. “We’re at the Beverly Hills Hotel if you need us.”

“Hey, Woody!” Duncan called. Woody stopped. “How did you find me, anyway?”

He shrugged towards Benjamin. “Fiona had him followed.”

“Wait just a minute. I lost those morons in Vegas. I know I did. Hell, I can spot a car tailing me from fifty miles.”

“Who said anything about a car? Fiona hired a Cessna, too. One mile up and two miles off.”

“Air support!” Benjamin slapped his forehead, surprised at the expense to which Fiona would go to find her baby. So that was how Lomo and Kern located him time and again. “Damn if I didn’t underestimate the bitch.”

Woody laughed. “You never had a chance.”

Fiona waited at the curb beneath Duncan’s studio, staring across the street at the Hollywood Bar and Grill. Woody joined her.

“Ever been to one of those places?” she asked.

“Once or twice.”

“What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. Dark mostly. Dark and loud.”

Fiona stepped across the gutter into the street.

“Where you going?”

“To talk with that girl.”

“Duncan won’t like that!” Woody yelled as she crossed the street. She opened the door and went inside. “Oh lord,” he groaned.

He crossed after her. Inside the bar, an imminently naked girl swayed half heartedly on an oval stage to a blaring rock song. The girl smiled at him. Woody blushed and looked away. He spotted Fiona handing a check to Pris at a table in the back. Pris folded the check and put it in her shirt pocket. She stood and went back stage.

“That went well,” Fiona said when Woody sat beside her. A waitress set a beer before her. “Thank you, dear.”

The music stopped. The girl picked up the bills scattered at her feet and retreated behind a curtain. Woody looked around. Fiona was the only female in the room not clad in lingerie and thigh boots.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“What?” Fiona looked distracted. “After I finish my beer.”

The music commenced anew. Misty emerged from the curtain, strutting to a salsa beat. She wore a vinyl skirt, a white blouse, and high black leather boots. The shirt was the first to go. Fiona watched, her breathing rapid and shallow. She rubbed Woody’s thigh.

“Fiona!” he hissed.

“Hush! No one can see us.”

Woody shuddered. He imagined Duncan walking in. Fiona mistook his reaction and squeezed his leg. Woody surrendered in the darkness as Misty, now down to bra and G-string and young enough to be his daughter, hung upside down from a steel pole.
Lord,
he prayed, as Fiona worked her way up his inseam, knowing as he prayed that he was in the devil’s workshop and that divine intervention would not be forthcoming,
save me from this woman and her twisted ways
.

“So,” Benjamin said, “what did Tiffy’s letter say?”

“Didn’t you read it?”

“Sure. But I was willing to pretend I didn’t.”

“Well, that makes me feel better.”

“Two bikers came by and took your Harley.”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“I figured. Otherwise, I’d have stopped them.” Duncan did not doubt Benjamin would have tried. “Oh,” he went on, “you had a female visitor.”

“I was here.”

“Not your psychotic girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“But you don’t dispute the psychotic part.”

Duncan looked at the shredded canvas. “That would be difficult.”

“Misty.”

“What about her?”

“I told you. She came by.”

“What did she want?”

“You I think.”

“More’s the pity.”

Benjamin picked up his money from the floor and pocketed it.

“Where’d you get that anyway?”

“I won it. Perfectly legal.”

“Uh huh. Stopped by to see your cousins, did you?”

“Yup.”

Duncan changed into fresh, warm jeans and a long sleeved shirt. He gathered his paintings and put on his hat.

“Drive me to Angela’s?”

“Oh, no. I’m not ready to go there yet.”

“Fine. If you’re so yellow you can’t face her I’ll take the bus.”

“Who are you calling yellow, white man?”

“If the color fits …”

“Fine. But you can’t make me go inside.”

“I don’t care what you do. I just need a ride.”

Duncan stowed his paintings in the back of the Purgatory Truck. He covered them with a cloth and tucked the edges around the frames. Benjamin got in the truck. He wore new jeans, new boots, a shirt with factory creases, and a hefty dose of cologne.

“You got prettied up just for me?” Duncan laughed as he slid in beside him. “Is it wrong to love another man?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you damn potato eater.”

“Sure, bring my cultural heritage into it, you bigot.” Duncan was enjoying Benjamin’s anxiety. “Hell, it’s Saturday. She probably won’t be there. Besides, I’m sure she forgot about you. You aren’t that memorable.”

“You seen my pliers?”

“What do you want them for?”

“To pull out your teeth,” Benjamin growled as he pulled into traffic.

Duncan pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Haven’t seen them.”

Sven was behind the reception desk when Duncan and Benjamin arrived. Marie had landed a part dancing in a rock video and, having lost his gallery job, Sven was happy to sit in. He wore white linen pants, brown sandals, and a white silk shirt buttoned to his neck. He was tan, tall, muscular, and blond. He looked the perfect human male.

“How’s the scrotum?” Benjamin asked. Duncan had told him about the ruckus at the gallery.

“Better, thank you.” Sven stood. “I will tell Angela you are here.”

“You asshole!”

Sven stepped menacingly back towards Benjamin. “Excuse me?”

“Not you,” Benjamin said. “Him. He told me she wouldn’t be here.”

“I said she probably wouldn’t be.”

Duncan grabbed Benjamin as he turned to flee. Benjamin contemplated snapping Duncan’s wrist, but before his brain could send the requisite impulses across axon to dendrite, Angela strolled through the door and his neurons ceased heeding his commands. She wore a dark-blue dress cut above the knee, a pearl necklace hanging to her sternum in the vee of her blouse, and precision make-up that enhanced her exotic splendor. Despite believing all history culminated in the moment, Benjamin felt out of his depth. On a western road beneath a wide sky with only the wind to come between them he could handle her, but here? Duncan had not seen Benjamin so nervous since the sixth grade, when he discovered him behind the oil rig showing Stephanie Haskell his organic tomahawk.

“Coward,” Duncan whispered.

“Let go before I damage you. I feel the need for flight.”

“Angela,” Duncan said as he released him, “you remember Benjamin.”

“Of course. How are you Benjamin?”

Benjamin breathed deep and stood straight. “I am as a man standing in awe before a goddess,” he said in a deep clear voice.

Angela rolled her eyes. “With a rattler penis as I recall.”

“More like a boa after seeing you again.”

“Do you always come on this strong?”

“Only in the face of overwhelming beauty.”

“You don’t seem overwhelmed.”

“I’m so nervous I could shit.”

Angela laughed. Duncan leaned his paintings against Sven’s desk.

“I’ll just leave these here. You can tell me what you think later.”

“Would you like a beer, Duncan?” Angela had purchased a case after their first meeting.

“No thank you.”

“Benjamin?”

“I could sorely use one.”

“Sven, two bottles and two glasses in my office, please.”

She was three inches taller than Benjamin despite his boots. But, as Benjamin was fond of saying whenever his stature was questioned,
height don’t mean nothing when you’re lying down,
which was equally applicable, though in differing senses, when either a man or a woman was doing the questioning. Sven took two bottles from a refrigerator. Duncan was a card-carrying heterosexual but he could not help but notice Sven’s great physical beauty. He was a male version of Pris on a modified steroid diet. Duncan envisioned Sven on his couch across from Roscoe, two men from disparate planetary ends, creatures of light and darkness.

“Hey, Sven,” Duncan said, “would you pose for me sometime?”

“I would be delighted.”

Duncan reflected on his life’s peculiar course as he waited downstairs for the bus. He had sold a painting and his prospects were good for more sales. His best friend had joined him. And despite the inevitable conflicts, he was glad Fiona had found him. Though he resented it, he knew her meddling was motivated by love. And if necessary, he would pay Pris to pose, as often as it took, until his money ran out. He smiled. The world seemed right. A bus stopped with pneumatic flatulence and a diesel smell. Duncan got on and sat beside an old woman who stunk faintly of urine. She wore a dirty shawl and a stained dress and battered athletic shoes. She bobbed her head like a water witch in tune to an internal rhythm. Every so often she threw her head back. Her shoulders shook and her jaw worked but no laughter erupted from her lips.

Well,
Duncan thought as he changed seats,
most of the world anyway.

Nine

Duncan’s door was open when he returned home. Despite having become inured to surprise visits by a menagerie of characters, he approached the door cautiously. He hoped Pris awaited within, but feared that it was Sheila who lay in ambush. He peeked inside. Two men in suits, their backs to him, sorted through papers on the desk beside the typewriter.

“Can I help you?” Duncan asked.

They turned. Both had mustaches, military haircuts, and bodies sculpted by long hours in the gym. Duncan smelled
Old Spice
. The taller of the two pushed back his coat to reveal an LAPD badge and a gun on his belt.

“I’m Detective Randolph. He’s Detective Phillips. Who are you?”

“Duncan Delaney.”

“Can’t be,” Phillips said.

“Why not?”

“Because Duncan Delaney is dead,” Randolph said.

Duncan sat in the back of the unmarked car Randolph and Phillips drove down a nameless street.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Do you want to be?” Phillips asked.

“Well,” Duncan asked, “do I need a lawyer?”

“Did you do anything wrong?” Randolph asked.

“Can’t I get a straight answer from you guys?”

Phillips laughed. “Apparently not. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

“If I’m not under arrest, why did you tell me I had to come with you?”

“You got it wrong,” Randolph said, “we
asked
if you wanted to come.”

That was not the way Duncan remembered it, but he did not challenge the deceit. Instead, he said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Too late.” Randolph stopped behind a big white building. Two patrol cars and three ambulances were parked near the entrance. “We’re here.”

Duncan trailed them inside the building, down an elevator to a cold basement, and along a protracted corridor paved with tiles. He followed Randolph through the doors at the end of the hall. Fluorescent lamps lit a clean, barren room. It smelled of formaldehyde and was colder than the hall. Steel doors, three feet wide and two feet high, covered the walls. Each had a handle and a frame the size of a business card. Some held tags, others did not. Phillips led him to a steel door on the far side of the room.

Delaney, Duncan,
the tag there read.

Randolph turned the handle and pulled out a long table. A covered body lay there. Two skinny feet poked out from under the sheet. A red tag hung from the right big toe.

“If you’re Delaney,” Phillips pulled the sheet back, “then who is this?”

The body was thin and scarred and white like death. The skull’s weary smile had fled along with the body’s brittle soul. All that remained was skin tight over bone and a hollow space in the open eyes. An expanding vertigo touched Duncan’s brain and he had to look away lest he fall.