The 56th Man (6 page)

"What people call 'art' these days."

Ari turned to the speaker. The new arrival.
He had thought she wanted to avoid him, for whatever reason, and
was surprised she had so quickly changed her mind and crossed the
room.

"Oh, I don't know," Ari said sagely, turning
back to the smudge. "Notice, for example, the intensity of the
encrustation and the fine brush strokes on the border."

The woman shot him a hooded glance. "You're
joking, right?"

"Do you think these paintings are worth a lot
of money?"

The silver-haired man overheard and spewed
venom from his raised nose. Ari supposed that, outside of an
auction house, money and art did not belong in the same
sentence.

The blonde, on the other hand, did not seem
to think the question gauche. "They are now," she answered. "You
know what happened?"

"To the artist and his family? Yes. A
terrible crime."

She seemed vaguely amused by his response, as
though he had missed a joke.

She knows
me
.

Ari found her unstudied pertness attractive,
but the gum she was gnawing at was unsightly in the extreme.

"You know what they say. The value always
shoots up when the artist...demises."

"Ah. They
were
shot, weren't they?"

"I didn't mean a pun--"

"Of course not."

How can she possibly know
me
?

The gallery door opened. Ari heard a harsh
snap of words from someone on the sidewalk.

"Bill, you've drunk too much. You're
falling--"

The door shut. Ari did not bother glancing
toward the window to see if Bill had gone down face-first. He was
focused on the woman with the girlish face, now turned up at him in
unwarranted sarcasm. He wanted to prolong the conversation, to gnaw
at her identity with the same intensity that she worked her
gum.

Someone loomed up next to him--a large
presence, impossible to ignore. He stopped a foot away from Ari and
swiveled to the wall, facing the orange smudge.

"So...Miss..." Ari perched himself on the
edge of the sentence and waited for the petite blonde to respond.
She stared him, then at the large man next to him, then again at
Ari, as though trying to decide if one or both belonged in a zoo.
He made a modest sliding gesture to guide or accompany her to the
next painting. But this bit of universal body language went
untranslated. The new arrival had obviously put her out. That was
Ari's conclusion, at least. It could not have anything to do with
himself, or else she would not have approached him the way she
had.

"Okay, it's orange." The newcomer spread his
jacket away from his stomach and hooked his thumbs in his trousers,
giving Ari a sidelong leer after delivering his assessment.

"You don't need to be a detective to see
that," Ari smiled.

The man lifted his hands in mock horror.
"Busted!"

"Not at all. I saw your picture in the news
journal."

"'Journal?' You make me sound like Man of the
Year."

Detective Lewis B. Carrington had been
careless with his razor that morning. A fresh scab, surrounded by
small white flecks from a styptic pencil, nestled just under his
jaw. Ari sensed his baseline was bull-headed aggressiveness, that
he was quick on the attack, even when going after his own face.

"So tell me, do you like this stuff, Mr.
Cinnamon?" Carrington jutted his scarred chin towards the orange
smudge.

"As I was telling this young lady..."

But the petite blonde was no longer at his
side. Ari scanned the room. There was a burst of noise and he
turned in time to see her scooting out the door.

"Your girlfriend take off?" Carrington
flinched unconvincingly. "Didn't mean to chase her away."

"Do you know her?"

"You mean you don't? You were just starting
to put the move on her?" Carrington shrugged. "Double whammy on
me!"

He was intentionally putting Ari on guard,
inferring that he was being observed, studied...followed. For what
reason, Ari could only guess. He smiled. "It's Mr. Ciminon,
Detective."

"I stand miscorrected." Carrington again
nodded at the painting before them. "So you didn't say...you like
this stuff?"

"I haven't formed an opinion, yet."

"That's good," said the detective. "Keeping
an open mind and all. I'm no good that way. My mind clammed shut
from twenty feet off. I thought, 'they fire the janitor or
something? When are they going to clean up around here? When does
the show start?'"

"That's what you thought."

"Like a clam. I told Jerry the same thing.
Told him most of his stuff was like ham on rye that's been sitting
around for a couple years. Whoa, I'm sorry. You people don't go in
for ham, right?"

"You knew Jerry?"

"Sure I knew him. Him and his wife were good
people. I get the guys who killed them, they'll end up looking a
lot worse than this." Carrington winked at the smudge. "But this is
America. People can do pretty much what they like. And do."

"You're speaking about the paintings."

"Oh...yeah." Carrington grinned. At least his
teeth looked lean. "Told ol' Jer right up, this isn't anything but
shit on a shingle. Give him credit, though--at least he didn't make
pictures of crosses soaking in piss."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Say, Cinnamon, now that we've been properly
introduced, why don't we go out for a drink. Whoa! There I go
again! You people don't go in for alcohol, do you?"

"A cup of tea would suit me," Ari said.

"Tea?"

"But first, please excuse me for a
moment."

"Well, sure, but--"

Ari made a rapid tour of the gallery. There
were no other artists on display to distract him. The show was
devoted entirely to Jerry Riggins. And since the deceased had
limited himself (or been limited by his talent) to smudges of
various shades and hues, the exhibit did not hold his attention for
long. He concentrated mainly on the small plaques and the dates of
composition, with brief glances at the paintings. By the time he
rejoined Carrington he had fallen into a speculative mood.

"They were right," he said to the detective
as they emerged onto the street.

"Who about what?"

"Two women I overheard. They said Mr.
Riggins' paintings had grown darker towards the end of his life."
Ari ran his eyes over the street, but there was no sign of the
petite blonde. "And indeed, starting two years ago, his style grew
increasingly darker."

"Maybe he changed his brand of paint."
Carrington was smirking, as though the subject was inane.

"That's possible. It's also possible that he
was becoming depressed."

"You forget, I knew him. He had the perfect
life. It was just the ending that screwed him." The detective
released a long, philosophical breath. "But I guess the same
applies to all of us."

"Yes, indeed. Where is it you want us to go?
I'm parked under those railway tracks. I can follow you."

FIVE

Omar was preoccupied, overseeing the removal
of the prisoners. Their hands were bound. Two of them had lost
their balance and fallen in the truck bed. The Bongo driver took an
automatic rifle from off the passenger seat and trained it upwards
while the guards lifted the prisoners by their wrists.

"AK-74," Ghaith nodded sagely. "A good
journeyman weapon, although I prefer the old forty-sevens."

"You won't be so lucky." Idiot's sneer came
all too naturally.

"Of course he won't shoot me," Ghaith said
conversationally. "I told you, Idiot, he plans to ram me up the
ass. But you see...Omar and me...well, you heard. We have a history
together. For an old friend, I would want to do what's right. You
see, when I stuck it to him, he was quite dry. I won't lie to you.
I didn't get much pleasure out of the experience. It was like
fucking sandpaper. So I was wondering...when I'm bent over, and my
good friend has his cock all stiff and ready...do you think I
should advise him to lick my asshole first? You know, give it a
good slathering? That way, he'll have a nice, smooth ride. I'd be
doing him a favor, believe me. I walked with a limp for a whole
week after I banged that dustbin of his. My dick looked like a
roasted pepper, and you imagine how it felt. I wouldn't want the
same thing to happen to him. But you see the problem, don't
you?"

" Abid Ali!" Idiot shouted frantically.

"What!" There was trace of hysteria in Omar's
response. He assumed was going to live to see the dawn, but that
scarcely made this night any easier.

"This blasphemer! What he's saying!"

Omar gave the cab of the pickup a cursory
scowl. "Let him blaspheme," he barked before focusing again on the
three prisoners.

Idiot puzzled over this a moment, then
nodded. "Yes. You keep talking like this. You're going to
Hell."

"Why Idiot, you're beginning to sound like a
yid. A little less intelligent, maybe--"

"You shut up!"

Ghaith raised a hand at the windshield,
pointing at Omar. "You see what good friends we are? 'Let him
blaspheme.' You don't meet many like him. That's why I need to warn
him. But how can I tell him to give me a good, slathering rim job
right at that...you know, that delicate moment? It's not very
romantic. And if even a blockhead like me can see that, what about
Omar? Ah, I can see it now! Poor Omar! Going limp just when--"

"God be praised!"

Omar was waving towards the police truck.
Idiot opened the passenger door.

"Come!"

The Scion was still where Ari had left it. He
sighed, leaned against the door, and waited until Carrington pulled
up in a dark Lexus that seemed completely out of tune with the
man's personality and pay check. The little white car drew another
smirk from the detective. Ari stiffened when Carrington waved for
him to follow, palm up. Getting behind his wheel, he forced the
image of the rude gesture out of his mind. Westerners were
naturally tactless.

They drove about ten blocks to a small
all-night diner on Third Street. Inside, they found an empty booth
near the front. A waitress in jeans and a white blouse brought them
menus and asked them what they wanted to drink. Ari ordered tea.
After a prolonged inward struggle, Carrington took a Coke. He
watched with approval as the waitress walked to the back of the
diner.

"They don't have uniforms in a lot of these
places, anymore," the detective observed. "Good thing, too. Nothing
puts you off your oats more than varicose veins packed like sausage
in support hose."

Ari perused the menu.

"See anything you like?" He glanced across at
Ari's menu, as if he didn't have an identical one already in his
hands. "Must have something veggie in there for you."

"You seem to assume that I'm a Muslim. Also,
that Muslims don't eat meat."

"You aren't? They don't?'

"Beef is perfectly acceptable, and it's
well represented in this
carte
."

Carrington raised his brow. "That's
something. Your English is better than mine. Those missionaries
really know how to cram it down your throat."

Alerted, Ari barely paused as he turned a
laminated page of his menu. "In fact, I ate before going to the
gallery. I'm not at all hungry. The tea will be fine."

"I hate to eat in front of someone who's just
sitting." Carrington seemed genuinely put out by the prospect.

The waitress came back with their drinks.
While Carrington tore the wrapping off his straw, Ari stared at the
cold glass in front him.

"What is this?"

"Why tea, sugar." Then the waitress smacked
her head with her order pad. "Why, I forgot to ask if you wanted
sweetened or unsweetened."

"Do you perhaps have hot tea?"

"What? You mean like in a cup?"

"Exactly."

"Aw, don't be so fussy," Carrington
groused. "Drink up. You know what they say. When in Rome..." The
detective barked a laugh. "Hey, you're
from
Rome!"

"Sicily is far from Rome," Ari informed
him.

"Same country. Hey, I go to Texas, I expect
iced tea there, too."

Completely oblivious to the fact that he had
just reversed his own logic--or not caring--Carrington gave the
waitress his order. Something called a bacon cheeseburger. "And
none of your 'medium rare'. I want my burger black all the way
through. Use a flamethrower if you have to."

Officiously noting all of this on her pad,
the waitress asked, "And for your sides, sir?"

"Fries."

"You get two."

"Then more fries."

She ticked this off and, with more than a
trace of reluctance, turned to Ari. "And you, sir?"

"Nothing," he answered, closing his menu and
handing it to her. "But I would greatly appreciate it if you would
bring me some hot tea. And..." He gestured at the iced tea, palm
down. "You may take this away."

As she reached for the glass, Carrington
touched her wrist. "Say Mabel, is Antonio working tonight?"

"Sure, he's back there."

"Can you get him to come out here?"

She gave the detective a puzzled look, then
shrugged. "Sure."

She left, the ice in the tea rattling with
swishy petulance.

"You passed up free refills with that, my
friend," Carrington shook his head, despairing of Ari's poor sense
of economics. "By the way, don't mind Mabel. She's a local gal.
Never been much for PC."

"PC?"

"Multigarbagalism."

Ari did not inquire further, allowing himself
to slide into a polite reticence. The way Carrington had charged
into the art gallery and blundered into Ari's conversation with the
petite blonde smacked of a perilous impatience. He looked to be in
his early forties. Old enough to have learned the benefits of
subtlety. Thwarted in any way, for any reason, he would back off to
study his intended target, waiting for his next chance. That was
how Ari sized him up, in any event. Men like Carrington always
showed their hand too soon, piling up their self-created
difficulties, but usually persevering. One look at him, and people
would be inclined to get on his good side as soon as possible, if
they couldn't avoid him altogether. Ari noted the gold wedding band
and experienced a moment of sympathy for the Mrs.