by Jeff Johnson
Sketching is a hugely important part of art. It’s a loose idea in hundreds of lines, some good and some not, and the eye finds and guides the emerging image. As the image you’re looking for begins to form, you press harder and the line darkens. When you’re done, you have a version of what you set out to draw, but something better, sometimes, because the madness of the curves dances in your mind’s eye, and new facets and options are born. There was no better metaphor for how an artist’s mind toys and tinkers in the medium of apparent chaos. This skill was easily my greatest, and perhaps only, advantage in life.
The best curves followed the most natural, easy motion. For a right-handed artist, it looks like a C. I always stretched that curve so it felt good under the pencil, and I stretched it in a way that triggered some deep programming inside of me. The curves that resonated the most for me were the curves of a woman’s body. Those lines are lovely. Everything good began with them.
I drew, in one perfect stroke, the line of Suzanne’s hip, and that almost stopped me. Miro could reliably pull off stunts like that, but not me. It captured more than the feel of firm. It spoke of hard, of contained energy, of kinetic glory. I wanted to tear out the piece of paper and eat it. But I didn’t. I made a few more strokes and turned the book sideways. My hand hurt, but not very badly. I began to relax. My mind started to wander. I snapped a curve sharply, and low: a duck bill.
Delia thought I should buy the building and rebuild. Fight the monsters like Oleg one battle at a time. I liked part of that idea. I liked the thought of owning the Lucky outright, of being my own landlord, and I didn’t even really mind the concept of being Gomez’s landlord. He could handle most things himself, and anyone was a better landlord than Dmitri, even me.
And I had money. As beaten as I was, physically, I was far from broke. But it probably wasn’t enough. I’d liquidated what I considered to be a small fortune in uncovered T-bills awhile back, but it had taken about 40 percent of their value to turn them into cold cash. The cash itself was in a gun safe in my storage space, along with the crappy art I’d found the bills hiding in. Now I had Cheeks’s and Ralston’s wads, but even with everything put together, I’d still be short. Plus, I’d worked hard for that money in my own way. I felt like I’d earned it. I didn’t particularly want to spend any of it on a building, even if that building was going to be mine. It just didn’t seem right.
I began shaping the head of the duckling. A little tuft on the top gave it wind and extra character. Wide eyes with big pupils and non-avian eyebrows for a splash of startled concentration.
Dealing with Oleg wasn’t impossible. There were ways to get rid of him. But Dessel was watching, and it was clear that he understood on some cop-intuition level that something was going to happen, soon, and that I was going to be involved. He was pretty much sitting right on top of me. I knew he hadn’t gotten anything out of Suzanne except that we might be getting something going, which was good. He would get the impression that I was distracted, which was unfortunately true.
The part of Delia’s plan that I didn’t like at all was dealing with the Olegs of the new Old Town one by one. Eventually, one of them would take me down. Just finding Oleg in the first place had nearly killed me, and he was only the first in a long parade of coming developers.
But it had to be done soon. Dmitri was so shattered that he’d sell instantly at this point, and though Oleg couldn’t have guessed that he was dealing with such a wrecked maniac, the Russian would move soon. So I had to do the following: find the money to buy the Lucky, buy it, get past the Mexican Conan and remove Oleg without killing him and thus bringing Dessel down on me, and—what else? Send a message to the other developers, and maybe hire some muscle of my own.
I drew several arcs for the duckling’s brave chest. Then the front edge of the wings, wild and hungry for sky. He’d be skittering across the water, on the verge of taking his first true flight.
A plan took shape as I moved on to the webbed feet, toes splayed, pushing off the still water. Short. Some brutality, but not a totally senseless amount. I’d need some drugs, but any number of people could help with that. And I’d need to call in a favor with the Armenian, which was sure to be expensive. And I’d need to borrow Delia’s human dildo boyfriend’s band, Empire of Shit. I could trust those scumbags. And I needed to use some of Delia’s secret rich-girl know-how to navigate my entrance into the now-unavoidable world of the legit. She’d like that, because she’d be able to rub my face in it. Forever.
“What are you drawing?” Suzanne was standing in the doorway, hip cocked, sleepy eyed, holding a steaming cup of coffee. I held up my sketchbook and she tilted her head.
“Cute,” she said, admiring it. “Come back to bed.”
Women have preferences in all things. Some women are glamorous, with stiletto heels and deep red lips, diamonds and one-color dresses. Sometimes the diamonds were fake and the clothes were knock offs, but it didn’t matter. It was the look. On the other end were the women who dressed like college lesbians, who themselves dressed like thirteen-year-old boys. In between were the trillion variants, but a look in the end had absolutely nothing to do with sensuality. The same could be said of men, I suppose, but since I’d never fucked any of them, I couldn’t say with any real conviction.
Naked, Suzanne was still a mystery. I followed her into the bedroom, distracted, mentally forming a to-do list, and somewhere in my trance she became naked. And she wound up lying on the bed. Looking at me. Her expression was neutral.
I sipped my coffee. To some degree, almost every muscle in her long body was visible, and she’d been blessed with tendons of a Shetland pony. No tattoos. A few faint scars. I licked my lips. She licked hers. Evidently she enjoyed my inspection.
I put my coffee down on the dresser and tore my clothes off, then stood there, erect, and gave her the once-over again, this time looking for a place to start. She stretched, but made no sign. My call.
My eyes traced the lines of her body. Some women were all about foreplay and some considered foreplay concluded by the time they were naked. Last night had only left me with the impression that she was a passionate, womanly woman. So I decided to do what any sensible man would do in that situation. It was time to eat pussy.
I seldom dreamed about sex, but if I were to have a nightmare about it, there would be a hairy muff and a Joni Mitchell song involved. In the late afternoon silence I licked my index finger and then pulled Suzanne’s legs apart. From there, I used the cunnilingus skills I’d honed, remarkably, at the behest of my previous girlfriend. She’d been in the feminist, former English major, bisexual vegan camp. Essentially a tad bossy. She’d been a real stickler about it and, according to the whimsical justice dispensed by the Scales of Cosmic Irony, the governing force of my existence, right when she’d been satisfied that her unpleasantly graphic and often arduous tutorials were finally paying off, I dumped her for cheating on me with another woman.
So after I had Suzanne tied into a shuddering, convulsive, heaving knot, I considered smacking her on her upturned ass and telling her where she could send the thank you card, but I didn’t. Sodomy two nights in a row was out of the question, so I pulled her around to the right angle and entered her in one smooth stroke. The resulting spasm and the aftershocks gave me the rhythm and I followed it, riding the peaks and lulls, lost in her animal. I don’t know how long it went on and I have no idea how we wound up on the kitchen floor, but when I finally fell panting against the refrigerator door I was spent, done, empty of everything but soft bluish light. Something like electricity played over my molars.
Suzanne made a noise of some kind, part sigh and part something else, the low of an elk or the opening note of a European police siren. I opened my eyes. She was pulling herself up the cabinet in front of the sink. I groaned and climbed to my feet.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” I said. “I realized that earlier.” She looked at me sharply, eyes glazed, without comprehension.
“What?”
She made it all the way upright and looked down into the sink.
“Jesus,” she said quietly.
Conversation was always a little hard to get started right then. The suggestion of playful banter set a tone. Occasionally, the women I’d known could be distressingly serious after sex, and even veer straight to the dark side and blast you with something they normally wouldn’t say and you didn’t really need to know, and that generally gave way to some level of embarrassment later that could sometimes last for days. It struck me as I wobbled over to the counter and poured myself a small shot of Jameson’s that I was being entirely too calculating in regard to Suzanne, and being the smart woman she was, she was bound to notice, if she hadn’t already. Act natural, I thought, but the notion itself seemed contrived. I had no idea how to behave.
“I have no idea how to behave right now,” I confessed. I downed the shot, reached out, and smacked her on the ass. She jumped a little. “I think I’m developing gnarly feelings for you and whatnot. Fucked in the head because of it. But please, don’t start talking about anything dark and heavy, and don’t start in on the whole drinking, smoking, maniac thing. I’m gonna sit down.”
I went into the dining room and sat down at the table, lit a cigarette. It was true I was naked and I hadn’t turned on the heater yet, but I was hot as hell and I was never truly naked. Not really. I rubbed the part of my abdomen where it said ‘Run’. Might have sprained something right underneath it. I took a physical inventory as I smoked. My eye was a little puffy, but getting better every day. The ringing in my ears was back to what I considered almost normal. All new scars were checking in as pink and itchy, but OK. The goddamned boot heel was still a week away from beginning to fade. Ribs stiff, but no longer Advil-worthy. That happened all the time and fell into the who-cares category. My hand had just drawn a duckling. Still a month away from holding a tattoo machine, but since I didn’t have one, that didn’t matter. All told, not bad.
I was going to need to get Delia some of the nasty cash, and fast. I needed to call a meeting somewhere Dessel wouldn’t notice and get Nigel going on my drug list. I’d put Delia on getting the Empire boys fitted for waiter clothes and pray they didn’t fuck it up. Hide Big Mike in the background as reserve cavalry. Also call the Armenian and set up the meeting, once again under Dessel’s radar. Plus, I’d have to get the Armenian a present of some kind, considering what I’d be asking. Strong-arming Dmitri was going to be easy considering how furious I was with him. My list formed to the post-orgasm genius glow that never, ever lasted. I sighed.
“Whatcha’ thinkin’?” Suzanne sat down across from me. She was still naked, too, and she’d poured herself some Jameson’s.
“Just letting my mind wander and then listening to it. S’how I think.”
“Ah. As in don’t ask.”
I rolled my eyes and she raised her palm in the universal gesture for stop. I cleared my throat and smiled.
“If you must know, I was thinking about tying up some loose ends so I could take you on a trip of some kind. Maybe the coast for a few days, or even this mountain you seem so fond of. Room with a fireplace. Big bed. Bath salts. We could buy a hibachi and live off barbeque. I’m even thinking I could buy you some more flowers and get real corny about the whole thing.”
Suzanne swirled her drink around, a smile just touching her eyes. She sipped, considering.
“But there are some conditions,” I continued. She arched an eyebrow.
“Really.” She put one hand under her chin and gave me her full attention.
“Totally. For one thing, you have to bring a dress of some kind. Something that shows off your legs. We’ll be dining out, and I’m going to wear my court suit for it. So there’s that. If you don’t have one I’ll buy you one, but I get to pick it out.”
“OK.” Her brown eyes were flecked with gold and green.
“Yep. Also hotels come with TVs and I have rules. Harsh, real ones. If we turn the TV on, we only watch the Food Network, sappy romantic comedies, or shit with robots. I’m deadly fuckin’ serious.”
“What about travel shows?”
“Maybe some,” I replied, “but nothing overtly depressing. Rick Steves swimming around in a giant bathtub in Switzerland hits me the wrong way because I don’t think they’d let me in, so you can see how I might be bummed by that, and that Anthony Bourdain guy can’t open his pie hole without me wanting to stomp the black grease out of his head, so …”
“Charming,” Suzanne breathed. “Dreamy. What else.”
I cleared my throat and looked as uncomfortable as I could.
“This last part might have to wait. I’m not sure we’re deep enough into things yet for me to … Ah. I’ll tell you once we’re on the road to wherever we’re going. It’ll be too late for you to say no by then.”
“You better tell me now,” she purred. “No way I’m going to wait.”
“Eh … no.”
“Now,” she insisted, mock serious. She leaned in closer.
“Well …” I pulled back a little. “It’s the clothes thing. Your clothes. Your whole athlete thing?” I gestured at her encompassingly. “It works on some level in a public setting. ‘Look, that deadly rocked-out dude has a respectable Amazon with a bad-boy complex. Isn’t that cute?’ I can roll with that. Happens all the time. But privately, after a few days I know it’s going to get on my nerves. So when we’re power lounging in the hotel, no clothes. You can wear the bathrobe and maybe even the slippers, but that’s it. Is that OK?”
Suzanne drank her drink and smacked her lips.
“Darby Holland, you simpleminded fool, what in the world gave you the impression I would be wearing clothes?” She reached out under the table and her long hand wrapped around my dick. “You got a deal, mister. But I have rules, too. Laws. No clothes for you either, the coast, because you’re too accident-prone for the mountain, and I’m going to pick out an outfit for you, too, little monster man. I’m going to dress you in loafers, chinos, and a pink yuppie polo shirt, and you’ll look like the perfect little vacationing criminal. And we’re going to go to some crappy tourist bistro”—she squeezed—“and pay way too much, and watch the rain through the windows and fondle each other under the table, just like this. And then you’re going to fuck me in the women’s bathroom.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You dirty foreign hooker,” I said.
Suzanne ran her pink tongue over her teeth. I wondered vainly what she saw when she looked that deeply into my eyes. I could have sat that way forever, but the world never had much time for me and that kind of moment. My new cell phone rang, startling us both. It was in front of me next to the ashtray. Delia.
“Shit,” I said. I could hear the disbelief loud in my voice. Suzanne let go of me. It rang again.
“Just a sec,” I said, picking it up. She mouthed the word “shower” and got up. I watched her walk away, then flipped the phone open as the bathroom door closed.
“Safeway east, security desk,” I answered. “This better be a lawyer.”
“I know for a fact that you can’t go into Safeway, dummy.” Delia smacked her gum. “Whatcha’ doin’?”
I ran my hand over my short hair and picked up Suzanne’s drink. Delia had threatened to kill my last girlfriend, and even though I’d almost thought she had a good idea, I wasn’t looking forward to this.
“I … see, I, there was this woman last night, it was sort of—”
“You boned her and she’s still at your house.” Her tone was flat. I sighed.
“Sort of. I boned her in the bathroom of this wine place, and then again later at her place. But she came over earlier.”
“I see. Slutty?”
“Not especially.”
“Hmm. Did you do anything important? Non-chick-related, I mean.”
“I did. I went to see the Lucky.” I heard the shower turn on. “D
ane Bane was in there picking through everything. I kicked his ass.”
“Good. Did you rob him, too?”
“Delia, fucking get over it. I don’t really rob people and you know it. I will appropriate money if I’ve been seriously fucked with as a kind of special compensation, but there’s a difference.”
“Whatever. So you did or didn’t rob him?”
“I didn’t rob him, but mostly because he probably didn’t have anything, which is why he was robbing us.”
It was her turn to sigh. “So what’d you decide?”
I toyed with the glass.
“I’m going to buy it and rebuild. I need your help.”
Delia was silent for almost a full minute.
“Really?” she finally asked. She sounded far away.
“Yep. Really. It’s time for you to whip out some of your real-world powers. I need an actual business account at a bank, with checks and shit like that, I need a money order or something like it ASAP for ten grand, and I need to call a meeting with Nigel and Big Mike, plus I need to hire Empire of Shit for a day, but the very first thing is I need you to go to some swanky store and get a present for the Armenian’s daughter.”
