Artist's Proof

by Gordon Cotler

  I led him toward my pickup. I said, “I suppose the police have been to see you.”

  “Yeah, Chuck Scully showed up to bawl me out for hassling that fat cop the day Cassie was killed. Walter. Then he grilled me on what I knew about, you know, the situation. I didn’t know a damn thing except that Sharanov had the hots for Cassie.”

  “Is that a guess or did she tell you something?”

  “She didn’t have to. I’d see him sometimes when I came to pick her up. It was all over his face.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He gave her presents. A sweater, a box—must have been a good five pounds—of candy. Other stuff. What the hell else was all that about?”

  We were climbing into my pickup. “Was Cassie bothered by the attention?”

  “No. And that ticked me off even more. She said he didn’t mean anything by it, it was just kind of a father thing. Yeah, like ugh.”

  It was hard to believe that Paulie was well into his twenties. His emotions were writ as plainly on that handsome face as they must have been when he was fourteen. I said, “Paulie, were you and Cassie lovers?”

  He reared like a spooked horse. “Were you?”

  “Absolutely not.” As I said it, my heart tapped lightly against my chest. Once.

  “I know that,” he said disdainfully. “And neither was I. So where’d you get the idea?”

  “It seemed logical. Almost inevitable.” Like water running downhill. He was more than likely lying to protect her good name.

  Stubbornly he said, “She was my girl, that’s all. Beautiful, inside and out. Every day she’s gone I miss her more. But if you mean were we doing it, no way.” He seemed to be challenging me to prove him a liar.

  “Because she was too young?”

  “Hell, no. I’ve been with girls younger than sixteen. Anyway, Cassie was no special age, you know what I mean?”

  “So, what then?”

  “She promised her mother, can you believe it? Swore to her. And swore if she was ever thinking of changing her mind she’d come and speak to her first.”

  “That’s a hard promise to keep.” Water saying, I promise not to run downhill. “Very hard.”

  He said, “Not when you’ve got a mother like Cassie’s putting the fear of God in you. The woman’s something.”

  “Is that why I didn’t see you at the wake? Mrs. Brennan doesn’t approve of you?”

  “Approve of me? I’ve been in this town almost a year. Mrs. Brennan doesn’t even know I’m alive. I was never allowed to meet the lady. Can you figure that?”

  “So you and Cassie had a secret romance. How did you manage it?”

  Tight-lipped, he said, “We managed.” But he knew that wouldn’t satisfy me. “Sometimes she’d come over to my place. I have a room in a house owned by this old couple? They wouldn’t let Cassie go upstairs, but we’d hang out in the parlor.”

  “Where did Mrs. Brennan think she was those times?”

  “Working. Cassie had a lot of part-time jobs. Even if she didn’t trust her daughter—and Cassie said she did—there was no way the old lady could keep tabs on her. Mrs. Brennan puts in a long day, but Cassie’s were longer. She was out of the house before her mother woke up. Anyways, four days a week.”

  “Doing what?”

  “The breakfast shift at Mel’s—six to ten A.M. Monday through Thursday. That’s where we met. Sundays her mother got her up for early mass. Fridays and Saturdays were the only days she got to sleep in a couple of extra hours.”

  It was beginning to dawn on Paulie that he was doing most of the talking, and that any information that passed between us had been from him to me and was likely to continue that way. He glanced at his watch. “Why did you look me up? What did you want to see me about?”

  It was a moment of truth. I spoke slowly. “The day Cassie was murdered, Paulie…”

  He shifted uneasily. “Jeez, don’t remind me of that day.”

  “You showed up at the Sharanov house in a Huggins tow truck. The bad news had spread. It must have gone through the village in ten seconds flat and you had jumped in the truck and driven hell for leather to the Sharanov house. You were in pain, keyed up, emotional. Understandably. And you fought with the cop out front. Walter.”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was out of my head. I already apologized for that.”

  “I’m not laying blame on you, Paulie. I’m trying to explain where I’m coming from. After you took care of Walter, you went for me. Remember?”

  “You were in my way. I’m sorry. I wanted to get in that house—to see Cassie one more time. And to beat the living shit out of Sharanov.”

  “So you tried to shove me aside. You put your hands flat on my chest and you pushed.”

  “Yeah. So…?” He didn’t have the least idea where I was headed.

  I said, “I don’t get to the Laundromat that often. If a shirt’s clean enough I’ll wear it a couple or three times.”

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Hey, I’m only allowed ten minutes on a break. Okay?”

  “I’m almost finished. Couple of days ago I reached for the shirt I wore last Friday. To check it for a second wearing. You know what? No grease stains. Not a speck.”

  As if by reflex, Paulie shoved his hands in his coverall pockets. And waited.

  I said, “You had come directly from work. Paulie, there’s no way you can work on cars and keep your hands clean. You hadn’t been working that morning. What were you doing?”

  He stared at me stupidly. If he had been prepared for the question he could have given any of a number of reasonable answers. But he didn’t have one ready. His dark face flushed darker. Like a kid hauled into the principal’s office, he sounded wounded and defensive.

  “I was working. Check the time sheet. I don’t know if my hands were dirty. Maybe they were, and your shirt was just plain lucky to stay clean.”

  When he fell back on the time sheet for his alibi I figured he had been at Huggins’s. But that didn’t mean he was working. “Okay, Paulie, maybe you were at the job. But did you pick up a tool? Or were you too troubled, too bothered by something, to do any work?”

  “You report in, Huggins gives you a car. That’s how it’s done here. Labor’s billed by the half hour.”

  “And you had a car that morning? I can check the billings.”

  “Huggins’s bills? Who says you can?”

  “Okay, then Chuck Scully can.”

  That gave him pause. “That morning?” He reached for the door handle. “I reported in, like I said. But I had a lousy stomach. Something I ate the night before was giving me the runs. I was mostly in the john. Huggins took the car from me, and I got half a day’s pay. But I was here. Ask Huggins. Ask anyone. You satisfied?”

  It was total bullshit. He couldn’t even say it with real conviction. “Paulie, you sure as hell weren’t sick when you showed up at the Sharanov house and took on everyone who stood in your way.”

  “You forget about sick when your girl’s been murdered.” The wounded voice rose an octave. “When she’s raped and killed by some Brooklyn gangster. The only girl you ever loved. What’s my hands being dirty got to do with that? How come that butcher is still walking around while Cassie’s planted six feet under? Why don’t you go after the killer, mister hotshot New York detective, instead of my dirty hands? Why don’t you nail the bastard?”

  He had made his point and he knew when to quit. He flung open the cab door. His voice calmer now, he said, “I can’t afford to be docked again. I’ve got rent to pay. I’m going back to work.” And he shot out of the cab and ran back into the garage.

  EIGHTEEN

  I DIDN’T FIGURE Nora Brennan to be back at work this soon after her daughter’s death, but I had to pass the village hall on my way to her house, so I stopped by there to make sure. No, I was told, Mrs. Brennan wasn’t expected in until Monday. Even that seemed soon to me.

  “Nora’s a strong woman,” the village manager said and shook his head in
wonder. “There aren’t many like her.”

  As I left the building Chuck Scully was going in. His eyes widened when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Did you come to see me?”

  “No, I’ve got a tax problem,” I said; I saw no reason to share my investigative agenda with him. “How’s the case going?”

  “Ask Docherty,” he said, his tone turning sour. “I’m full-time on the bicycle thief.”

  I had forgotten that the county had shut him out of the murder. I offered what comfort I could. “Looks like the trail’s gone cold. You may be better off.”

  “You’re right, I may be. You don’t have television. The local stations ask the same question every night: Why hasn’t there been any action on the Cassie Brennan murder? What do they expect? Where there’s no leads, there’s no action. It’s all Docherty’s headache now.”

  “You know I’ve been subpoenaed.”

  “Yeah, well…” He looked sheepish.

  “Well what?”

  “You can’t blame them for riding that horse.” He had ridden it himself. “Though I don’t know what it’ll get them.”

  I said, “Do I have to tell you? The next time someone sticks a camera in Docherty’s face he can say, ‘The grand jury is talking to a key witness. I can’t reveal any more at this point in time.’” I chalked up one more good reason for not owning a TV. “In the end he’ll look like a horse’s ass.”

  He said, “I guess.” But his heart wasn’t in it.

  * * *

  A PICKUP WAS parked in the Brennan driveway. I pulled mine up next to it and hopped out just as Jack Beltrano came out of the house. We were equally surprised to run into each other.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, before I could.

  “Same as you, I suppose. Paying my respects.”

  He looked as if he doubted that; my last visit hadn’t brought the grieving family much comfort.

  He said, “I’ve got my mother next door with her arthritis, so it’s no big deal for me to drop in on Nora. I can kill the two birds with one stone. What else have I got to do, construction’s still so slow?”

  Who cared how he spent his days? He was telling me more than I needed to know. Something made me say, “Are both the Brennans at home?”

  “Nora’s in. A couple of neighbor women were visiting till a few minutes ago. You just missed them. Jim?” His eyes slid off me. “You’ll have to ask Nora. If he’s on a toot, can you blame him?”

  He headed for his car, and now he was talking with his back to me. “Sorry to cut out, Sid, I’m expecting a prospect. A long shot, but that’s the business today. You can walk right in, the front door’s open. So long, see you around.”

  At his car door he turned to face me once more. “Say, maybe you’ll give us another drawing for the volunteers’ auction this year. Think about that. The guys would sure appreciate it, Sid. Okay, ‘bye now.”

  I’d never heard him so mindlessly chatty, or seen him so herky-jerky. He hopped in his car and seemed to wait for my permission. Not until I waved did he back up and take off.

  The Brennan front door was closed but unlocked. I opened it, rang the bell, and called, “Mrs. Brennan?”

  Her voice came strong and clear. “In the kitchen.”

  * * *

  SHE WAS SITTING at the kitchen table, starchily erect, dressed in black pants and a high-necked magenta blouse. A good-looking woman about to slide into middle age. Her color was ghastly. A long thin hand lay on a household ledger open in front of her, and the light through the kitchen window flooded one side of her face. She could have been sitting for a Flemish genre painter; all that was missing was a pitcher and a bowl of fruit. She looked at me expectantly with her daughter’s eyes. Her mouth was a shut purse.

  “The door was open,” I said.

  The purse opened briefly. “I know.” This was not going to be easy.

  She didn’t invite me to sit. I stood in the kitchen doorway and said, “I’m used to that—an unlocked door where there’s a death in the family. I’m a Jew. During the mourning period—seven days—nobody’s supposed to ring your doorbell. I forget why. Maybe I never knew.”

  She said nothing and I pushed on. “After my father died—he was murdered, shot to death in the taxi he drove—a neighbor thought to tie the front door open. The cabdrivers who came to pay their respects—more than fifty of them—included Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists, and Christians, and they mightn’t have known not to ring.”

  Still no reaction. But she hadn’t stopped me, so I kept going. “It takes an outsider to think of the practical things when the death is sudden. And my mother was grateful for the company. She appreciated the respect it showed, even when it looked like the walls were bending out from the crowding.” I was running off at the mouth, waiting for some give from the other side.

  Nora Brennan’s mouth softened slightly. “The door’s open because I didn’t want to keep jumping up. I’m trying to get my accounts straight. Among the unexpected consequences of sudden death is the expense of the burial.”

  She blinked, possibly shortcutting a tear. She said, “Why did you come here? You said your piece at the wake. You did your duty by my daughter.”

  “I owe your husband an apology. He was grieving and I made things worse. Back there in your yard. I’m sure you heard. Is he at home?”

  “No.” She wasn’t exactly adversarial, but it still looked as if I was going to have to do most of this by myself.

  I had drifted into the room. Still uninvited, I pulled out the kitchen chair opposite her at the table. When she didn’t object I sat down. “When do you expect him?”

  “I don’t.” Her fingers stroked the open page, then lay still. Waiting for more, I found myself looking at the table, grainy hardwood, tightly joined, probably made by the carpenter Jim Brennan in happier times.

  And then the logjam broke.

  “You’d find out anyway,” she said, “because I want everyone to know, but you happen to be here, so you’re among the first. Brennan and I are separating. Not that we haven’t been, for many years, mostly separated. But I am more or less formalizing the situation.”

  I was less surprised than she expected. “With a divorce?”

  She made a face. “No divorce. Not even a legal separation. But Jim Brennan is no longer welcome here. Not even on those infrequent occasions when he has been accustomed to showing up. I want as many people as possible to know that, to avoid any misunderstanding. This has been a long time coming. So if you’re looking for him, you’ll have no help from me.”

  I had zero interest in finding Jim Brennan; he was my excuse for getting my foot in the door here in hope of stirring something up. This news was better leverage than I had any right to expect. I said, “You say it’s been ‘a long time coming.’ Why is it happening now? Because Cassie is gone?”

  “That didn’t take much insight, did it?” she snapped. She had pulled back into her shell.

  I proceeded with caution. “That’s true, but maybe this does. What I’m about to tell you. You’d know if I’ve guessed right, because you told me—and so did your daughter—that she shared everything with you. All her thoughts.” Not quite, but what the hell, I was treading on delicate ground.

  Nora eyed me warily, her long hands now pressing the edge of the table.

  I said, “When I did those nude drawings of Cassie—”

  She thrust her body forward across the table and bit out the words. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. It was a job, and she did it well. Professionally. She wanted to do it, she told me, because she was trying to wipe out an unpleasant memory. Exorcise it.”

  I waited a moment to see if Nora would throw up more flak. But she said nothing; she was curious to hear where I was going with this.

  I said, “Cassie told me that once before a man had seen her without her clothes on. You must know about that, it had been an unpleasant experience. Deeply disturbing, by
the look of her when she told me.”

  Nora didn’t have to say anything; I could read on her face that this was not news to her. But eventually she said, “Yes, I know about that.”

  “That man was her father, wasn’t it?”

  The hands gripping the table retreated to her lap. “It was a year ago,” she said. “He was drunk. He didn’t touch her. But his look—the look on his face—she didn’t like it one bit. She couldn’t forget it.”

  “If you were going to cut relations with Jim, why didn’t you do it then?”

  “I wanted to. I would have that day, the day she told me. But Cassie said no, she would be more careful in the house from then on.”

  “She didn’t want to lose him? Because she loved him?”

  “She despised him. But she said please, he was the only father she had.”

  “And now…”

  “Cassie is gone.” Her voice grew stronger. “I wasted no time doing what I had intended all those years. This was not the first time Jim inflicted pain on his daughter.”

  “I know that he left her in charge of your younger daughter the day she was run over.”

  “Will God ever let me forget my Cassie, dissolved in tears at her loss, this ten-year-old child, overcome with shame at having failed her sister?” The words rose from someplace deep in her being. “And her father shaking her in anger because she hadn’t seen the accident and therefore couldn’t help the police find the driver. Retribution was what was on Jim Brennan’s mind, showing his he-man muscle, never mind the support and love his surviving daughter needed.”

  I said, “It sounds to me as though you’ve made a wise decision. But you’ll be all right without Mr. Brennan? I mean, financially?” I knew where I was headed. “It’s none of my business, but when I came in you were expressing concern about money. Will you be able to manage?”

  “Jim was never a pillar of strength when it came to money. However I managed before, I’ll manage now. Better. Cassie saved whatever she’d earned.” She fought back another tear. “Toward her liberation, she called it, from small-town life.”