The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  There was a rap at the front door. “We’re not open yet,” Charlie said, strolling up to the glass. The man outside looked unkempt, with bleary eyes and a week’s worth of beard. Probably a transient, hoping to scarf some free appetizers and a glass of wine—

  And then Charlie recognized him.

  “Oh my God,” Charlie said. “Jack?” He quickly unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Hi, Charlie,” Jack said. “Got a few minutes for an old client?”

  “Of course, of course,” Charlie said. “We’re having an opening in an hour or so, but I’m free until then.”

  Jack stepped inside. Charlie thought he looked terrible, but didn’t say so. He knew what Jack had been through. “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Charlie said. “How have things been going?”

  “Not so good, actually. I’ve been kind of… adrift.”

  Charlie nodded. “Ah. Why don’t we sit down, have a glass of wine, catch up? Falmi has everthing under control.”

  Jack glanced over at Charlie’s assistant, who returned his look with a smile that bordered on a sneer. “Sure,” Jack said. “That sounds good.”

  Charlie led him into the gallery. A buffet table along one wall was laid out with finger foods: smoked oysters, paté, deep-fried East Indian pakora. Charlie grabbed a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the bar as they passed it and nodded at the bartender. “Open another one and let it breathe, Paulo,” Charlie said. “This one’s ours.”

  Charlie strode to the back of the gallery and sat at one tip of a crescent moon-shaped divan richly upholstered in dark green velvet. Jack sat at the other. A small table with an etched-steel star for a top stood between them; Charlie put the glasses down and poured.

  “You’ve done some redecorating,” Jack said.

  “Business is good,” Charlie replied. “The artist we’re showing right now, he’s local, but I think he’ll do well.”

  Jack glanced around, nodded. Tried to smile, but it was like a swimmer fighting an undertow; it hovered at his mouth and then sank beneath the surface, too exhausted to reach his eyes.

  “And you?” Charlie said gently. “What have you been up to?”

  Jack stared at him. Opened his mouth, closed it again. Looked down at his hands in his lap. “I’ve been doing research.”

  Charlie smiled. That was an old joke between him and Jack—Jack always claimed that since every part of life informed art, an artist should be able to basically write off everything as a research expense. “Keeping receipts, I hope?”

  “Uh…yeah.” The question seemed to confound him, as if small talk was a separate language he no longer understood. He looked at Charlie blankly.

  Charlie sipped his wine. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Nothing, really. I just—” He stopped.

  “Just what, Jack?”

  “I just wanted to …reconnect.” Jack took a gulp of his own wine. “You know?” There was a note of pleading under the feigned casualness of the question.

  “Sure, Jack. You know you’re welcome here anytime. And I don’t mean to pry, but—”

  Jack held up a hand. “Please, Charlie. No questions, not yet. I’ve had enough questions for a while…”

  It was an odd comment, but Charlie let it pass. He noticed Falmi trying to get his attention with an arched eyebrow and sheer force of will. “Just a second—I think my young protégé is feeling a little insecure.” He put his wineglass down and got up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure,” Jack said.

  He sounded anything but.

  Nikki wasn’t sure why she went back to Vancouver. October on the Canadian West Coast was cold and rainy; she should have just stayed in Nevada, or gone to California.

  Maybe that’s why she picked Van. She wasn’t in a sunshine kind of mood.

  She found a decent place in Kitsilano, only a few blocks from the beach. It wasn’t as big or new as her last place in the city, but she didn’t have the same kind of budget, either. She didn’t know if she was going to go back to hooking, and if she wasn’t, she’d have to get used to a different lifestyle—to a whole different life.

  That was fine with her. The last two and a half years with Jack had changed her; all the activities she once used to fill her spare time seemed like pointless distractions now. She bought a futon and some kitchen stuff, but didn’t bother with a TV or stereo.

  So what was she going to do?

  She went for long runs on the beach and thought about it. She ran at first light when the beach was deserted, ran with the rain and the cold wind off the ocean lashing her face, ran until her lungs ached and her feet were raw. She tried not to think about anything at all while she ran, but sometimes she couldn’t help it; Sally and Janet and all the other victims she’d known would rise into her thoughts one by one, like flotsam washing up on the shore. She’d think about all the girls she and Jack had saved, the ones they’d never get to meet, and wonder if it made any difference… or if those girls were doomed anyway, destined to die of suicide or an overdose. To float out to sea alone and unmourned with the tide.

  She didn’t have any answers. She kept running.

  Charlie disappeared into a back room with Falmi. Jack sat and drank his wine, and when his glass was empty he poured himself another. His arms were still sore, but in the few weeks since he’d returned from Nevada the bruises had begun to fade.

  He didn’t know if coming to the opening was a good idea or not. He knew why he was here—he just wasn’t sure if what he was trying to do was possible. His previous, mundane existence seemed like a dream to him now, something that had happened to another person in another reality. Wife, child, career; just shiny surfaces that had been scraped away to reveal the cold, black iron beneath. Trying to get that life back seemed as pointless as throwing rocks at a thunderstorm.

  But parts of that life were still around, still alive; parts like Charlie. He was one of those rare people who really listened when you talked—Jack had always admired how grounded he seemed, how aware of the world around him. Jack supposed it was why he was such a good agent.

  When Nikki had left him, Jack hadn’t known what to do. He found himself at the airport with no clear destination in mind; he’d finally decided to go back to Portland, but only to pack up the computer equipment. Nikki’s stuff was already gone.

  And then he found himself returning to Vancouver.

  He hadn’t been back since his first interrogation, his first kill. He’d long ago sold the house, moved out of his studio; the only thing left for him there were memories.

  That was why he’d come. He needed to find out if he was still human, and memories were the most human thing he had left.

  He stood up after a bit and wandered around the gallery, looking at the pieces. The artist’s name was Ranjit Thiarra, and he worked in a number of mediums; photo-collage, sculpture, oils. His work tended toward the ethereal, juxtaposed images of angels and eclipses against backdrops of highly polished metal or exotic wood. Pretty, but to Jack they seemed as shallow and safe as a child’s wading pool.

  He hadn’t logged on to the Stalking Ground since the shootout in Nevada. He was sure there would be some taunt from the Patron, some insinuation that it had all been Jack’s fault. He knew the Patron’s claim that the Gourmet had been a second identity was false; for all his boasting, the Gourmet simply hadn’t been smart enough to be the Patron.

  Only the Patron was left in The Pack. He wouldn’t be drawn into a trap—and without Nikki, Jack couldn’t hunt at all. If he was ever going to walk away, now would be the time.

  As long as there was somewhere to go.

  He studied a deep blue glazed bowl, inlaid with photographs of tropical fish and lightning. Ran a finger lightly over the smooth, curving surface, tried to imagine what Thiarra had felt when he made it. Was it a reminder of a vacation in the tropics? Azure ocean, glittering schools of fish, a sudden squall cracking open the sky?

  Charlie bustled up be
hind him. “Sorry, Jack—last minute details, you know how it is. I’m going to open up now, but you’re welcome to stick around. I’d like to talk more.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said. “I think I will.”

  People began to trickle in. Jack noticed that people on their own tended to arrive first; he supposed it was because they had no other place to be. Then came the couples, and finally groups of three or more, clusters of friends who had probably met for drinks or dinner beforehand. The usual opening types were all there: the immaculately dressed older man with the silver hair, examining the art with great care; the stern-looking, square-bodied women wearing denim and leather; the bright-eyed boys and girls barely out of their teens, sporting outrageous hair and clothing.

  It was all familiar. Jack remembered the last opening he’d had, Janine keeping everyone’s wineglass filled, Jack circling the room nervously and trying to be charming. It had been just like this, this swirl of color and voices and music; soft jazz playing on a boombox in the corner while people laughed and talked and traded opinions, sipping wine and taking bites of sushi.

  It was all so normal.

  He got himself another glass of wine and made a circuit of the room. There were a few people he knew, none well; he smiled and nodded and kept moving.

  He was studying a painting when he heard Falmi’s voice beside him. “Do anything for you?”

  He glanced over at the Goth. Falmi had been with Charlie for years, but he and Jack had never particularly gotten along. He suspected that was just part of Falmi’s personality—he wore his cynicism like a designer suit, showing it off whenever possible.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Jack said.

  Falmi sighed. “I meant the painting. Does it do anything for you?”

  Jack considered the canvas in question. It was a painting of a statue—except, when Jack looked closer, he saw that it was a photo of a painting of a statue, the statue being Rodin’s The Thinker. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “Well, it does for me,” Falmi said. “But nothing a good laxative couldn’t fix.”

  “It seems… detached,” Jack said. “So many layers between the original and the viewer.”

  “Exactly,” Falmi said grudgingly. “Layers of merchandising. A copy of a copy of a copy—even the statue itself is a fake.” He pointed to the base of the statue, where Jack could make out the words Made in China in tiny letters. “It’s just a cheap plaster knock-off, the kind you buy in a tacky tourist shop.”

  “Maybe that’s the point—what we’re supposed to think about.”

  “Right. Making the observer the fifth ‘thinker’ in the series. How clever.” Falmi tapped the small label to the right of the display; sure enough, its title was, The Fifth Thinker. “Too bad it doesn’t give us anything to think about, other than how clever the artist is.”

  “It’s about disconnection,” Jack said. “Cognitive dissonance. What happens when you overthink something, overanalyze it. It loses its meaning.”

  “Maybe that’s why I dislike it so much,” Falmi said. “Too cerebral.”

  “Yeah. The original had power, depth, intensity. You felt it,” Jack said. “In your gut.”

  “Well, all this makes me feel is the urgent need for another drink. Excuse me.” Falmi marched away.

  Jack continued to stare at the photograph. He had the overwhelming desire to reach out and touch it, reach through it, past all the imitations and to the heart of the real thing.

  To feel the passion he knew was there, under the cold, hard stone.

  In the end, it was a combination of restlessness and curiosity that drove Nikki back to the street. She felt like she needed to prove something, even if she wasn’t sure what that was.

  Nothing much had changed. New faces, of course, but that was a constant. She checked out the scene carefully, quickly learned who claimed what territory, and went to work.

  The first night she was a little nervous, which was strange; this was undoubtedly the safest sex she’d had in the last two years. For the most part, things went smoothly… except for the gentleman who seemed to be reaching for something beside his seat while she blew him. He suddenly found the business end of a .38 inches away from his nose—until she saw he was only groping for the recline lever.

  And then, three days after she’d returned, she got a call on her cell from Richard.

  “Remember me?” he asked. She didn’t, at first; it had been two and half years ago, and he’d never registered that strongly on her radar to begin with. Just another creep—but he’d been the creep that somehow pushed her over the line.

  “Yeah, I remember you,” she said. “How’d you get this number?”

  “I know all sorts of thing about you, Nikki. Welcome back.”

  “I’m still not interested, Richard. I don’t work for pimps.”

  “Please, Nikki—I’m not a pimp. I own an escort agency, very high-class. Very exclusive clientele. Wouldn’t you rather have a steady flow of generous, affluent businessmen than the trash you meet on the street?”

  “I’ve worked for agencies before—didn’t like it. I have this problem following the rules of people I don’t respect.”

  “But Nikki—you don’t even know me. And surely you’d rather take a cab to a five-star hotel than walk in the rain to some hourly fleabag off the Stroll?”

  “I like the rain. Clears my head.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to talk you into a free mattress dance. I just want you and me to sit down and discuss this, face-to-face. A job interview, okay? I’ll tell you about the setup, give you a few references. You can think it over.”

  She hesitated. Normally she avoided agencies, mostly because she liked her independence. But they did provide stability and a certain amount of safety… and maybe that’s what she needed right now.

  “All right, I’ll listen to what you have to say,” she said.

  “Excellent! Why don’t we meet at my favorite restaurant, say tomorrow around two? I’ll give you the address….”

  “Well, Jack?” Charlie asked. “How are you doing?”

  “Better,” Jack said.

  They were sitting on lawn chairs on the roof. The opening was done, the appetizers consumed, the wine and beer drunk. The artist had sold several pieces; everyone was happy. Falmi was downstairs, cleaning up.

  “Better than when you got here, or better in general?” Charlie asked.

  “Both. It’s been a long time since I even set foot in a gallery,” Jack said. He stared up at the overcast sky. “Feels good. Comfortable.”

  “Of course it does. You put a scientist in a lab, an actor on a stage, a singer behind a mike. That’s where they belong.”

  “You missed ‘jockey in a stable,’” Jack said. “You know, to fully round out that ‘get back on the horse’ metaphor you’re leading up to.”

  “Okay, so subtlety isn’t one of my strong points,” Charlie said. “Feel like a cigar?”

  “Why not?” Jack said. Tobacco wasn’t really one of his vices, but he indulged now and then. Charlie pulled out two cubanos and handed one to Jack. The rich, earthy aroma tickled his nose even before it was lit.

  Charlie reached into his jacket, took out a small cigar lighter, snapped it to life. The blue hiss of the flame drew Jack’s eye, called up images he didn’t want to recall. He forced himself to lean forward and let Charlie give him a light.

  There. Sharp, fragrant smoke. Burning leaves, not burning flesh.

  “So…” Charlie began. “You want to tell me what you’ve been up to these last few years, or is that still a big secret?”

  Jack shrugged. “Nothing much, really. Did a little traveling in the Northwest. Got into martial arts for a while to clear my head. Spent a lot of time reading.”

  “Sounds restful. Make any new friends?”

  Jack hesitated. “One.”

  “Female?”

  “Yeah. But it wasn’t what you think.”

  “Since when do you know what I think? What, my min
d’s in the gutter all the time? This female, I’m sure she’s like a sister to you. No, a mother—a grand- mother. She’s like sixty years old, kindly, wrinkled face, boobs that hang down to her knees—”

  “Okay, okay. She’s in her thirties. Attractive, unattached, straight. All right?”

  Charlie exhaled slowly, squinted at Jack. “But?”

  “Let’s just say Nikki’s a career woman.”

  “Ah. How’d you meet her?”

  “We worked together.” Too late, Jack realized he should have said something else.

  “Oh? Doing what?”

  Jack took a long, careful drag on his cigar, took the time to think. “She handled some investments for me, but they didn’t work out. I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks.” He said it flatly, and Charlie took the hint.

  “Well, as long as she isn’t trying to sell your art,” Charlie said. He leaned back and blew a series of small, whirling smoke rings.

  “I’m not sure what my art is, anymore,” Jack said.

  “That’s okay. Art changes. You know, for years I tried to come up with a definition of art, one that would fit every style, every medium, and here’s what I came up with: art is subjective. That’s it. You don’t even need an artist; you just need someone to perceive something as art in order for it to be art.”

  “So the creator is incidental?”

  “He can be. Look, let’s say you go down to the ocean, there’s a beautiful sunset, a particular play of light on the water. Did you create that? No. You take a picture of it, are you an artist? Yes. So what if you just look at it, you don’t take a picture; you memorize that scene, but you’re the only one who ever sees it. Was art created? I think so. The scene was there, someone experienced it, it affected them.”

  “You put it that way,” Jack mused, “everything is art. All experience. All pain.”

  “All perception,” Charlie said. “Art isn’t a thing—it’s a sense.”

  Jack thought about the things he’d done in the last three years. About his own, gradual shift in perception, his way of looking at what he did. “So something you never thought of as art,” Jack said slowly, “could become art. Without ever really changing.”