Drawing Dead (51 page)

What half do you know?

I told him what I knew.

He laughed. Then you know all you need to know, he said.

No, I don’t, I said. I don’t know who the fuckers were behind this shit.

Aw, Ricky. I thought you were a smart guy.

I thought I was, too. Till I woke up naked, strapped to a contraption. Then I didn’t think I was so smart.

Bruno let out a large laugh.

Then it worked, he said.

Oh, fuck, I said to myself.

So it was you, I said.

Me and Evgeny, Ricky. Guys you don’t mess with. C’mon, man. We were fucking with you. You deserved it.

What’d I do to Evgeny?

You don’t remember?

I thought about it.

Shit, you mean that little diss? The ‘you lose’ thing?

Evgeny don’t forget, man.

Jesus Christ on a stick. So this whole job thing, the package, Yugo, all that shit.

All part of the game, man. Jesus, you got no idea how hard we were all laughing. It was great for Yugo. Probably added a week to his life.

Oh Christ, I said.

C’mon, man. We’re all even up, now.

I guess so. Seems to me you guys are a little more even than me, though.

Fuck, Ricky, you shot me. I still can’t even lift my arm over my fucking shoulder. It’ll be months before I can do presses.

Yeah, I said. I guess that was kind of mean.

Get a sense of humor, man.

I resolved to take Bruno’s sage advice.

Listen, man, I said. You got to be straight with me on the other thing. This is really important.

What other thing?

Brendan.

Oh shit, man, I don’t know dick about that.

And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me.

Probably not.

But you don’t.

I don’t, man. Talk to Anatoly. I don’t know what the fuck happened.

I’d talk to Anatoly if I could find him.

Can’t help you there either, man.

Bruno was finished talking. We could try the kneecap thing, I supposed. But it probably wouldn’t be prudent.

I got up to leave.

Ah, Ricky? Bruno said.

What?

That money you just took off me?

Yeah .

I’ll take ten grand back now.

What the fuck?

You owe it to Evgeny. I’ll give it to him.

You are one sweet motherfucker, I said, handing over the two banded stacks of hundreds.

I shouldered my bag of humiliation, got the hell out of there.

B
UTCH WAS AT THE BAR
, chatting up Hector. I took a stool next to him.

You learn anything? I asked.

Not much. You?

I told him the latest developments. Some Eloise stuff. Nothing on Brendan. I left out the practical joke stuff. My humiliation. Save that for ten or twelve drinks later.

By the way, I said, any word on Anatoly and Andrei?

Not yet.

Fuck.

Yeah, fuck. They gotta know something.

You would think.

Good reason for them to get the fuck out of town.

Yeah .

We drank for a while in silence. Hector kept a respectable distance. She could see it was a business meeting.

All right, I said, it’s time to get to the heart of the matter.

Which is?

The other matter.

The heart in question, I was convinced, resided in Louise. We split the joint. Outside, on the sidewalk, I called her. She answered. I was mildly surprised. I didn’t know why. She sounded sad. I thought I knew why.

Can we meet? I asked.

Where?

I’ll come there, if it’s okay.

Where?

Wherever there is.

Okay, she said. Come here.

Where’s here?

I don’t know. Give me a second.

I heard some shuffling, muffled talking, faint laughter. I assumed the laughter wasn’t hers.

I’m at the funeral home, she said.

What?

I knew you wouldn’t get the joke.

You’re right, I said. I didn’t get the joke. Was that a joke?

I guess it wasn’t. I’m trying to cope. Don’t worry about it. I’m at a place called the Sirocco. It has something to do with a southwest wind.

I think I knew that. Or Volkswagens. Does it have an address?

I’m sure you can find it.

I’m sure I can.

I closed the phone.

All right, I said to Butch. I got her. I’ll get what we need to get.

You are one deluded drunken asshole, he said.

You’re probably right, I said. But I wish you’d stop saying it.

It was okay. I’d proven him wrong before.

He headed back to the Strip. I flagged a cab. The driver knew where the Sirocco was.

The cab smelled of bad champagne, and disappointment.

Probably redundant, I thought.

Take me there, I said.

You’re the boss, he replied.

If only that were true, I thought. Life might be bearable.

With Louise, I was determined, I was going to be the boss. It was what she seemed to respond to. I knew I had some work to do. I’d always known there was hidden stuff. She’d even said so herself. Before, it hardly mattered. But when there’s a murder involved, hidden stuff can start getting a little inconvenient.

At the Sirocco she was ensconced at a red and black bar. The place had a Parisian air. Shiny silver-colored tin ceilings. If vintage, very valuable. If new, very expensive. Black leather chairs and red drapes. Deep carpets. That hushed dark wood thing going. I liked it.

I suggested we move to a corner table. If indiscreet things were going to be said, it was better to say them discreetly.

She uncoiled herself from the bar stool. Her eyes were dark. Perhaps it was the lighting. Maybe something else. She was dressed in black. Black dress, simple and elegant. White pearls. Very classic. A classic mourning outfit.

If I hadn’t gotten to know her better, I’d have thought she was very proper.

I pulled my chair close to hers. Leaned forward.

You look beautiful, I said.

She shook her head. No. It wasn’t appropriate.

Interesting, considering some other things she’d thought appropriate.

Louise, I said.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were red.

Emotion. So she was capable of it.

Or maybe she’d just been smoking a little reefer.

Louise, I said. I need your help. I spent some time at the police station. And not voluntarily. They suspect me of involvement in this. Or at least knowing more than I do.

How can I help you? she said weakly. She took a small sip of some extravagant-looking pink drink.

You could start by telling me everything you know.

You could start by giving me my money back.

Oh, Jesus, I said. Of course. Of course I’ll give you your money back. After what happened—

No, Rick. I don’t want my money back. Keep it.

But you just said—

A grieving sister is allowed her little jokes, Mr. Redman.

I wasn’t going to argue. I had more important things to talk about. And anyway … I didn’t have the dough.

So, I said, can you tell me what you know?

About what?

My sympathy for the grieving sister was not too slowly turning to suspicion.

About Eloise, I said. What do you think?

Oh, she said, turning her head away. It was a good simulacrum of someone attempting to hide her tears.

And maybe there were tears. For whom, that might be a question.

You can start with this Vladimir guy, I said. Wouldn’t he be suspect number one?

There was a long pause. She took out a long thin cigarette. Lit it. Blew pretty smoke in spiraling rings to the ceiling. Turned to me.

No, she said.

No?

No.

Louise. If you think the answer to that is no, then clearly you know something more than I do. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d share it with me.

Don’t be harsh with me, Rick, she said. Her voice was trembling.

Sorry. But you didn’t have to spend four hours in a tiny overheated locked room at downtown cop heaven. Maybe I’m a little impatient.

I’m sorry that had to happen, she said, with apparent sincerity.

I wasn’t at all sure that it had to happen. But I wasn’t going to argue the point.

She sighed. Blew some more pretty smoke around the room.

I don’t know, she said.

What don’t you know?

I don’t even know that it was murder, Rick, she said, turning to look me straight in the eye.

I sat back. Took a large slug off my scotch. Tried to reconcile what I’d just heard with everything I knew.

It didn’t compute.

What do you mean? I asked. She was bludgeoned. Bruised. There were ligature marks on her neck. Someone had tried to attack her in her home just a week before. If I hadn’t been there, he probably would have killed her right then.

Oh, Rick, she said, shaking her head. Oh, Rick.

I was missing something. I was missing something big.

We were sisters, Rick, she said. Sisters share things.

I thought you weren’t close.

You don’t have to be close to share some kinds of things.

Like?

She lit another cigarette. Her lighter was platinum, had a blue, insistent flame. It took up too much space in the room.

She didn’t answer the question.

Ah, I thought. A test. A game. Fill in the incomplete information.

You know all you need to know, she said quietly.

It sure didn’t feel like it.

I ordered another scotch. I borrowed a long thin cigarette from my mysterious friend. Client. Lover. Ex-lover, more likely. I blew smoke rings. Mine were intentional. And thereby not nearly as interesting. I drifted to the half dream state.

I love those minutes between wake and dream, that state of utmost imaginative freedom, the mind making any association it liked, following the mystery trains wherever they led. With never a consequence, except forgetting, or waking. Or both. I have my best ideas then.

And always forget them, seconds later.

This time I didn’t.

I sat up straight.

Louise, I said.

Yes, she said languidly.

I …

I paused. I had to think about how to go there.

She gave me a sardonic smile. You think you got it? she asked.

I think I do, I said, a bit defensively. Give me a minute.

Her smile dissolved in the cigarette smoke. She drifted away with it.

The other night, I said.

Yes…

She drew it out.

When we …

Yes.

It could have gone farther. Am I right?

Maybe. If you were man enough.

I ignored the insult. If that was what it was.

You and Eloise weren’t so different, were you? I said.

Silence.

In that way, I said.

More silence. She crossed and recrossed her legs. Stubbed out her cigarette. A bit too forcefully.

Louise, I said. I’m just trying to find out what happened to Eloise. Your sister. I know you didn’t have anything to do with it …

She gave me a jaundiced look.

I guess that goes without saying. So I don’t understand why you want to be hostile about it. Unforthcoming. Let’s just figure out what happened. Get the guy. Get some closure.

I hate that word.

I do, too. But I couldn’t think of anything better.

She sighed. Played with her lighter. Flick, on. Blue flame. Flick, off. Repeat.

Okay, she said. What do you want to know?

Uh, how about … everything?

Do you have a few days?

I got what’s left of a relatively short lifetime.

All right. Get me a Kiss on the Cheek.

What?

The bartender will understand.

Ah. I get it. Like a Dirty Bomb. A Multiple Orgasm. Like that.

Something like that.

I went to the bar. Flagged down the unctuous barkeep. A Kiss on the Cheek, please, I said, almost without flinching. He nodded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Some bleary paunchy white-haired guy asking for a kiss on the cheek. I watched him mix some Woodford Reserve, a bourbon I’d never heard of, but apparently essential to the concoction, grenadine, Rose’s lime, cranberry juice.

I transported the disgusting swirl back to the table.

Louise wasn’t there.

I had a moment of panic. She’d run off. If not to kill herself, at least to transport herself out of my life. Deprive me of vital bits of knowledge. Not to mention those legs. I mean, it’s not that I had a vested interest in solving Eloise’s murder. Apart from making sure that I wasn’t further implicated. But there was something … incomplete, about leaving town without knowing what had happened.

My fears, for once, were not justified. Moments later she sauntered back from the ladies’ room. I saw her purse, a silver and black thing, Dior it looked like, on her chair. I could have saved myself a few skipped heartbeats if I’d noticed it earlier.

She recomposed herself. Placed her hands neatly in her lap. Gave me an expectant look. The good schoolteacher, here for an interview.

I was thinking, I said.

She said nothing.

When you first saw Brendan. And the second time, too. You looked at him … well, not strangely. But longer than seemed natural.

I did?

You did.

Silence.

You knew him, didn’t you?

She sighed. Took a graceful, trembling sip of her ridiculous drink.

Not exactly, she said. I’d seen him around.

In those clubs.

She nodded.

Oh man, I said. Show me a cat and I’ll tell you it’s an armadillo.

Louise raised her eyebrows.

Forget it, I said.

She nodded politely.

I think you were going to say something, I said.

I was?

Yes. I’m quite certain of it. I mean, before you went to the ladies’ room.

Oh.

She lit another cigarette. Held it near her mouth, as though pondering whether to take a drag. Her wrist was lightly angled, her fingers gracefully arranged.

It was a pose. A very nice pose.

But the fingers were shaking.

Cigarettes. They were everywhere. They told stories. What people smoked. How they smoked them. Told you a lot about somebody. I remembered a jury selection once …