The Midnight Tour bhc-3

by Richard Laymon

  He hurried away. Once again standing behind his easel, he squinted at her. “Now, look toward me, darling. Stare intently over my left shoulder as if perhaps you see something far down the beach. Yes. Exactly.” He squinted at her for a while, then frowned. "No.”

  "What?”

  “It’s simply not the way I... You need to look more...done in.”

  “Want me to sprawl on the sand?”

  “Not that done in. We need to maintain the illusion of movement.” He frowned at her for a few moments. Then he said, “Don’t move,” and scampered back to her. “I’m afraid we may have to ruin your lovely dress.”

  “Whatever works.”

  He pulled out a Swiss Army knife, pried open one of its blades, and slit the left shoulder strap of Sandy’s gown. The soaked fabric still adhered to her breast, so he peeled it down. “Much better,” he said. “Now, you look distressed.”

  “I feel a lot better,” she said, glad to have the clammy fabric off her breast. “Maybe we should take it all off.”

  “No no no. I already explained.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “This will be brilliant.” He started trotting back to his position behind the easel.

  “Blaze?”

  “Yes?” He glanced back.

  “How about this?” Not waiting for a reply, she reached down and tore a slit up the front of her dress, baring her right leg all the way to her hip.

  Blaze beamed at her. “Perfect! You’re a genius!”

  “That’s how come you give me twenty percent.”

  “No no no. I give you twenty percent because you gave me no choice.”

  “Feel free to dump me any time.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  She knew he couldn’t be tempted. The amount of money Blaze was making with his paintings of Sandy, he would probably be willing to part with fifty percent if she gave him no other choice.

  He seemed ready to begin, so she gazed intently into the distance beyond his left shoulder.

  Not that there was much distance to gaze into.

  About twenty feet behind Blaze was the side of a rocky outcropping. Sandy pretended it wasn’t there, and gazed through it as if trying to identify something a few hundred yards away. An approaching stranger, maybe.

  Then she began to wonder how much Blaze would be willing to pay her. Maybe even more than fifty percent.

  Without me...

  At her first sight of Blaze’s estate, Sandy had assumed that he was an enormously successful artist.

  Not so.

  He’d bought the estate with inherited money. His artwork sold only modestly well, earning him just enough income for a comfortable living.

  Until Sandy showed up.

  For the first couple of years, he’d paid her no more than the fifty dollars per session. And she’d been delighted to get it. After posing, she would hurry around to a few stores, buying food and supplies, picking up treats for Eric. Then she would hop into the pickup truck and rush home.

  Near the end of the second year, however, Eric had started spending most of his days roaming the wooded hills. He was often nowhere to be found by the time Sandy returned from town. So she began to wonder why she bothered to hurry back.

  One day, she didn’t hurry back. Instead, she wandered the streets of Fort Platt, exploring the town, dropping into shops that she’d previously seen only from the outside.

  Including the Beachside Gallery.

  She entered the gallery feeling like an intruder. It was so quiet. Was she the only one here? Silently, hardly daring to breathe, she wandered among the paintings.

  She half expected to be discovered and kicked out.

  After all, at her age she could hardly be expected to have enough money to purchase much of anything.

  She was well dressed, though. Blaze, that day, had outfitted her in tennis whites and she’d posed for him on a court behind the high school. She still wore the tennis skirt and pullover. She looked like a rich kid whose parents might belong to one of the nearby country dubs.

  If they give me any crap, I’ll threaten to sick my parents on them.

  Sure, she thought.

  Just act as if you belong here, she told herself. Act like you own the place.

  Taking a deep, shaky breath, she wandered deeper into the gallery. She moved slowly and looked at every painting.

  Many featured the surf crashing into rocky outcroppings. The surf crashed into them in daylight, at sunset, and in the moonlight. There were beautiful ocean vistas. Several underwater paintings depicted whales and dolphins. Sailboats glided into sunsets. She saw storm-tossed seas, a ghost ship with tattered sails, footprints in the sand along the shoreline, seagulls gliding through the pale sky.

  And Surfer Boy, which showed a tawny, muscular young man wearing the skimpiest of swimsuits, posed on the beach with his surfboard. The sight of it gave Sandy a twist in the stomach.

  Tyrone!

  Stepping up close to the painting, she found Blaze’s signature low in a corner.

  The price tag showed $450 with a slash through it, replaced by $150.

  Sandy smirked.

  Having some trouble selling it?

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  She jumped, then whirled around.

  A short, round woman gazed up at Sandy through huge round glasses with red plasic rims. Her gray hair was cut to an even dome of bristle. She wore huge, gold hoop earrings and a flowing moo-moo.

  Offering a hand, she said, “I’m Megan Willows, proprietor.”

  “Hi.” Sandy shook her hand. “I’m Ashley.”

  "Ashley. A lovely name. I couldn’t help noticing your interest in our Surfer Boy.”

  She nodded. “it sort of caught my eye.”

  “You must have a very good eye, then. This is an earlier work by one of our fine local artists, Blaze O. Glory. His talent has absolutely bloomed in recent years.”

  “Must’ve bloomed after he did this one,” Sandy said.

  Megan chortled. “You do have a good eye. This is certainly not one of his more mature works. But it does have a certain raw power, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so.”

  “A lovely boy. Isn’t he just scrumptious? Wouldn’t you just like to eat him up?” Grinning, Megan clicked her teeth together.

  “I don’t know about that,” Sandy said.

  “A figure of speech, Ashley. But wouldn’t you just adore having him on your bedroom wall?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or are you considering this as a gift?”

  “No. I’m looking for myself. I got a ton of money for...my birthday.” She had almost said “graduation,” but realized Megan might not believe it. Sandy looked mature for her age, but she might not pass for a high school graduate. She shrugged and smiled. “I thought I might want to spend it on some art.”

  “That’s a very wise decision, Ashley. A good piece of art is not only a pleasure to the soul, but often a sound investment. You certain wouldn’t go wrong, on either count, by purchasing Surfer Boy. And it is a wonderful bargain at a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “I don’t think it’s worth that much,” Sandy said. “Not to me, anyway.”

  "Well...I suppose I would be willing to mark it down to...shall we say, a hundred dollars?”

  “I don’t honestly think so,” Sandy said.

  “It’s a steal at that price. You wouldn’t be able to touch one of his more recent pieces for...”

  Sandy shook her head.

  “Seventy-five dollars. I’m afraid that’s as low as I’ll be able to go. What do you think? That would include the frame, of course. The frame alone is worth fifty.” She blinked behind her goggles and grinned. “So, do we have a sale?”

  “I’m afraid not. You know what? I don’t think my parents would approve of me buying a thing like that. I mean, it may be a just a little too risque. You can dam near see his unit, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well...” Me
gan chuckled. “I suppose so. We wouldn’t want to upset your parents, would we?”

  “Not much.”

  “Maybe I can interest you in something else?”

  “Well, I would like to see some of the more recent work by this guy. Flame?”

  “Blaze.”

  “Right, him. Could I see something else of his?”

  “I’m afraid we only have one in stock just now, and it’s already sold. You’re welcome to look at it, however.”

  “I’d like to. Thanks.”

  Leading her toward the other side of the gallery, Megan said, “We do expect another one in, fairly soon. Perhaps in two or three weeks. We have a terrible time keeping his paintings in stock. Ah. Here we are.” Megan stepped aside, swept an arm toward the painting and said, "Voila!”

  “Oh! That is nice.”

  “Isn’t it? Mmm.”

  Sandy had posed for it only a month earlier. The setting looked great—a clearing in the deep woods, all rich green and shadows and golden pillars of sunlight slanting down through the trees. But there hadn’t been a breath of a breeze. In the shadows and dampness of the sylvan scene, the mosquitos had been nearly overwhelming. Few had feasted on her, thanks to the repellant, but they’d mobbed her anyway. Some had gotten into her ears. One had even taken a detour into her eye.

  The girl in the painting sure didn’t look distressed, though. She seemed carefree and contented like a kid on the first day of summer vacation.

  And a bit like a monkey.

  She’d actually been standing on a stool, but the stool was nowhere to be seen.

  She looked as if she’d been hiking through the woods, happened upon a likely limb, and leaped up to swing on it just for fun. She dangled crooked below the limb, hanging on with her right hand, her left arm waving, her left leg kicking out wildly to the side.

  You’re a tomboy frolicking in the forest, Blaze had told her.

  A barefoot tomboy wearing cut-off blue jeans and a short-sleeved red shirt. The cut-offs were very short, faded almost to white, and torn at the sides. The red shirt, also faded, looked too small for her. The way she dangled, it was pulled up halfway to her ribcage, showing her midriff and navel and how her shorts hung so low they looked ready to fall down. Partly unbuttoned, the shirt showed the bare slope of her left breast.

  Blaze had called the painting, Huckleberry Fem.

  Below the sticker reading SOLD, Sandy saw the price tag.

  $5,800.

  “Holy smoke,” she muttered.

  “If you ask me,” Megan said, “it’s a masterpiece. I absoludy adore it. Look at that girl. So...fresh and innocent. And yet so...alluring. It’s as if Blaze has captured the magical blend of childhood innocence on the verge of blossoming sensuality.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Sandy said.

  “Wouldn’t you just love to take her home with you?”

  “Yeah. Sure would. Too bad it’s already sold.”

  “As I said, we’ll probably be getting another one in fairly soon.”

  “Are they all this good?”

  “Oh, yes. The new ones most certainly are. Ever since he’s been using Electra.”

  "Huh?”

  “Electra. That’s the name of his model.”

  “He uses the same model in all of them?”

  “Oh, yes. Isn’t she a find? She’s simply devastating.”

  Sandy almost slipped and said, Thanks. But she caught herself in time.

  “She’s Blaze’s niece, you know. Such a beauty! She comes all the way up from San Francisco twice a month to pose for him. I’ve met her myself, and she is just the most charming creature.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Well,” Sandy said, “I’ve got to be on my way. Maybe I’ll come in for a look at the new one.”

  “Try us early next week. Of course, we never know for sure when Blaze will come in, but we are the only gallery he deals with. If you want an Electra, this is the place to come. And, as I mentioned, they sell as fast as we’re able to hang them on the wall. Your best bet would be to come in daily.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Thanks again.”

  Sandy walked out of the gallery, amazed that Megan hadn’t recognized her, determined never to return, delighted that paintings of her could be so highly prized, and looking foward to an increase in pay from Blaze.

  A big increase.

  And she’d gotten it.

  She’d decided not to tell him about her visit to the art gallery, but just to...

  “Be a good girl and wet yourself up again,” Blaze said, snapping Sandy out of the memories. “You’re losing your cling.”

  “Wouldn’t want to loose that,” she said. She stetched, then turned around and waded into deeper water. There, she dunked herself to the shoulders. The water felt cold and good. She came up with her dress clinging, her skin shiny wet.

  “Fabulous,” Blaze said.

  She returned to her former position and bent over with her right leg forward, her body turned slightly toward Blaze. She fixed her eyes on the rocks beyond him.

  “Tilt your head up slightly. Good, good. Fabulous.”

  Blaze resumed painting.

  After a while, he said, "This may be our masterpiece.”

  “What’s your asking price?” someone called.

  The man’s voice seemed to come from somewhere in the rocks beyond Blaze.

  Chapter Thirty

  PICTURE PERFECT

  At the snack stand, Owen asked for a Red-Hot Beastie Weenie, fries and a medium Creature Cola. John Cromwell ordered a Double-Decker Monsterburger Deluxe, Beastly Chili Fries with cheese, and a large Creature Cola. Owen paid for both meals.

  "You’re really a pal,” John said and patted him on the shoulder.

  "Well, glad to help.”

  “Most guys wouldn’t do that, you know?”

  "Well...”

  “Good main. Hope I can do something for you some day.”

  "Well, that’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

  Soon, the food was ready. They carried their trays over to a corner table and sat down.

  John stripped off the paper and poked his straw through the split X on the lid of his drink. He sucked up some cola, then sighed. “Know what I’ll do for you? I’ll take your picture.”

  “Ah, that’s...”

  John shoved his chair back and stood up.

  “You don’t have to.”

  "I want to. No, seriously.” Stepping away from the table, he raised the camera to his eye. “Just act natural,” he said. “None of this cheese shit.”

  Owen laughed.

  John snapped the shot, then sidestepped and took another. Then he returned to the table. “I’ll send em to you,” he said, sitting down.

  Send them to me? He’ll need my address.

  What if he drops in for a visit?

  "Ah,” Owen said, “you don’t have to...”

  “Tell you what, pal. Know what I’ll do? I saw you scoping out that guide. Lynn. A real babe-a-roo, huh? How about if I send you copies of the shots with her in ’em, too? Bet you’d like that, huh?”

  “I guess so,” he admitted.

  “You guess so.” John laughed.

  “Yeah, that’d be fine.”

  “It’s done, man.” He stretched his mouth open wide and bit into his huge burger. Juices and melted cheese dribbled off and spattered the paper lining of the basket.

  Mouth watering, Owen picked up his Red-Hot Beastie Weenie and took a bite. The buttery, grilled bun crunched. His teeth popped through the charbroiled skin of the hot dog. Warm, spicy juices flooded his mouth.

  John said something, but his mouth was full so Owen couldn’t understand a word that came out.

  “Huh?”

  John chewed for a while, swallowed a couple of times, and said with his mouth only half-full, "Weenie-eater.”

  “That’s me.”

  For a while, they ate and didn’t talk.

  Owen thought about John’
s offer to send him photos of Lynn. He would be glad to get them, all right. But he wasn’t eager to let John have his home address.

  Even if I give it to him, be probably won’t send the pictures. People are always making promises like that, but they hardly ever follow through.

  Later, John paused in his eating and said, “So, how about what we were talking about before?”

  “What?”

  “Will you take my camera with you on the Midnight Tour? Do that for me, I’ll get doubles made and send you one of everything.”

  Owen shook his head.

  “Come on, man. Please. What’s it gonna hurt?”

  "I have my own camera.”

  “No sweat. Take shots with both.”

  “Do they even allow photography inside the house?”

  “Can’t use a flash. I already checked. But I got high-speed film. Four hundred. You don’t gotta have a flash, not if there’s any kind of decent light at all. So what kinda film you using?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “You’re fucked. Won’t get dick inside the house, night or day. Not without a flash.”

  “I can buy a role of four hundred before the tour.”

  “Hey, come on, man.”

  “Why don’t I take tour pictures with my camera, have doubles made and send you a copy of everything?”

  John grimaced “I haven’t got anyplace you can send 'em to. I’m living in my car, man. I’d never get ‘em. Jeez! Cut me a break, will you?” He suddenly smiled. The crevices between his teeth were calked with white pasty bun. “Anyhow,” he said, “I already got the pictures of you and Lynn on my camera. You want them, don’t you?”

  I’d want them a lot worse, Owen thought, if they were pictures of Dana.

  Dana!

  An idea struck him.

  Stunned him.

  He thought about it for a few seconds.

  “What?” John asked.

  "I tell you what,” Owen said. ”How would you like to go on the Midnight Tour, yourself?”

  “You kidding?”

  Owen leaned to the right and pulled out his wallet. He removed a fifty dollar bill and reached across the table with it.

  John frowned at the bill. “What’s that for?”

  “A down payment on a job.”

  “Who I gotta kill?”

  “You don’t have to kill anyone, but I want you to shoot one of the other guides.” Owen grinned, pleased by his pun, delighted by his plan. “With your camera. Her name’s Dana. She’s probably working inside Beast House right now.”