“Let’s sit here. Perhaps you would like some lemonade?”
“If it’s anything like Reggie’s, I would love some.”
“Actually, I gave him that recipe,” she beamed. “The trick is the water must be fresh and the lemons ripe, but not too ripe.”
“Wouldn’t you know it? He learned it from you.”
Mrs. Clipper headed for the kitchen while I surveyed my surroundings. The dining room had a formal feeling. Twin bronze candelabra stood atop a mahogany sideboard. The shutters were drawn and the light dim. A dog began barking ferociously in the backyard. I heard a muffled shout and the dog stopped. Mrs. Clipper returned carrying two lemonades on a crystal serving tray. She placed it on the table, sat down across from me and handed me a glass of lemonade.
“You’re really too kind. Thank you.” I took a sip and smacked my lips. “This is great. You can’t imagine how parched I was. You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Clipper. I love the window boxes -- nice touch. Takes me back to when I was a kid and my mother grew geraniums, back in Delaware.”
“We were fortunate to do well in business.”
“Such a blessing,” I said. “What was your business?”
“Seatbelts. Arnold Sr. was in seatbelts.” Her grey eyes were clear and seemed to have no depth.
“I’m not sure if you realize this but according to Mr. Olive, your son has something of Picasso about him. The gift of de-centering the real which, ironically, makes it all the realer.”
She nodded and I knew she wasn’t really listening. “I’m a little worried that your proposition might put too much pressure on Arnold.”
“Mr. Olive would only take ten per cent of the proceeds and arranges all of the showings. Arnold’s work would be showcased in the finest galleries and he wouldn’t even have to appear if he didn’t want to. He could remain artist incognito.”
“That might work if he wouldn’t have to appear in public. I know,” she threw me a bright, false smile, “let’s see what Arnold Sr. thinks.”
The ferocious barking started up again. Again, I heard a shout that seemed to come from the backyard.
“I’ll call him,” said Mrs. Clipper. She got up and spoke into the intercom.
“Arnold, dear, we have a visitor, a friend of Reggie’s.”
“What does he want?” responded an irritated older man’s voice.
“He wants to represent Arnold’s paintings.”
“No visitors. You know the rules.”
“This is different, dear, so please come in and meet with him.”
“Fine.”
The intercom clicked off and she glanced at me. “Just be patient with him. He won’t be able to resist. He’s so proud of Arnold’s work.”
I nodded respectfully and sipped my lemonade. Mrs. Clipper fell silent and I felt her scrutinizing me. Then she spoke. “You’ll like Arnold Sr. Everybody does.”
“I’m sure I will.”
A long taut silence was finally broken by the hum of Arnold Sr.’s electric wheelchair as he came rolling in. Immense suffering was etched into the craggy face of this tall, thin old man. Deep hollows had formed in his cheeks; his forehead was prominent and protruded slightly. Sightless eyes now blank, but still holding something that unnerved me. What had perhaps once been a strong mouth was now a pinched line of displeasure. He wore a blue dress shirt and khakis that exposed his ankles. He wheeled past me and parked, just far enough back so that I could only make him out peripherally, and although he couldn’t see me, I could feel his malevolent scrutiny. Mrs. Clipper stared past me, her manner suddenly guarded. It was unsettling and I felt trapped.
“Just exactly why are you here?” Arnold Sr.’s voice was hoarse and the words came slowly.
I craned my head around. “As I explained to Mrs. Clipper, I’ve been commissioned by Black, Fleur & Olive to find your son. Mr. Olive wants to represent Arnold’s paintings. It’s a great opportunity.”
“Frankly,” said Arnold Sr., “that’s impossible. No one knows anything about our son’s artwork. It’s our family secret.”
“Word gets around. His talent speaks for itself.”
“Everyone has secrets,” said Mrs. Clipper in an accusing voice. “Don’t you, Mr. Crane?”
I turned toward her feeling extremely naked. Her face was hard, accusatory and she wagged her finger at me like a schoolmarm. I had the weird desire to laugh, but the stun gun that Arnold Sr. pressed into my side nixed that plan. The pain was excruciating, yet I couldn’t cry out. Paralyzed, my lips wouldn’t move. I was dimly aware of a look of intense pleasure in Mrs. Clipper’s eyes. She sucked in her breath. The pain, confusion and muscle spasms seemed to last an eternity, until I fell out of my chair and rolled to the floor.
I was only dimly aware of voices, movement, something being dragged across the floor. When I hit my head on a doorway, I realized that something was me. My mind was a sea of black ripples that parted soundlessly as I sank into deep, black water. I was dimly aware of resting on an ocean floor, with a large white stone near my head. I watched a crab scuttle out from under it and then retreat as if I were an unwelcome intruder.
Slowly, I came out of it. My head was throbbing and my muscles still trembled. We were in the family room, with Arnold Sr. across from me perched in a canvas-backed director’s chair. I was lying on my side on a white leather settee, trying my damnedest to focus on an electric globe that was on a sideboard, rotating slowly. North America was blue. Europe, orange. My guns were arranged next to the globe and the clips had been removed. I felt something dripping down my right cheek. I reached up slowly and tried to touch whatever it was, but my arms still tingled. I shifted my position and this time managed to touch the gash above my right temple. I looked at the blood as I rubbed it between index and thumb. I forced myself to stop and sat up.
“Not on the sofa!” screeched Mrs. Clipper. “Don’t wipe your blood on there.”
“Get a cloth,” ordered Arnold Sr.
“Now you’ve gone and got mother mad. Not good. No one should ever make mother mad.”
I swept my eyes toward the new voice and met the gaze of an extremely handsome and much younger version of Clipper Sr. Arnold was smiling, studying me intently. His complexion bore a hint of olive. His high, smooth forehead and bright blue eyes exuded a curious good will. He wore a chambray work shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and railroad-striped overalls. The straps were unbuttoned and dangled to his waist. He wore his trademark ancient tennis shoes. He was holding a pistol in one hand; the other was folded calmly across his stomach.
“Nick,” he said. “It’s good to finally meet you. I knew you would eventually catch up with me or,” he paused briefly, “die trying.”
I swallowed and took a breath. “You know how it goes, curiosity leads a man forward.”
“Indeed it does.”
“May I?” I pointed toward the Walther.
“You may not.”
“That’s not very sociable.”
“No more so than when you murdered Uncle Reggie.”
“He was going to--”
CRACK! Mrs. Clipper slapped me hard across the head, almost knocking me out again.
“Mother!”
“Give me the stun gun!” she screamed.
“There’ll be time enough for all that. For now, leave him alone.”
The fog cleared and I looked up at Mrs. Clipper. Fear had replaced anger and she nodded, lowered her eyes and backed away. It was uncanny to see she too feared her son.
“It appears mother doesn’t like you very much.”
I sat up again. “Fuck the bitch.”
Arnold smiled, but this time the warmth, no matter how false it had been, was gone -- cold venom in its place. He stood up and stretched, and I was aware of muscles rippling under his work shirt.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he said.
“Where’s Jade?”
“Safe.”
“Richie?”
Clipper pursed his lips and gen
tly sucked in some air. “With his sister.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“In due course.”
“In due course, I’m gonna kill you.”
He almost laughed but caught himself. “I took Jade to see her father. She didn’t like it much.”
I’ve met some cruel bastards, particularly in my line of work, but he was an exceptional specimen. I wanted nothing better than to rip him apart with my bare hands. Yeah, I know, not socially acceptable, but there are times when you have to fight evil with evil. And I was feeling about as evil as I ever have in my entire life.
Clipper smirked at my obvious hatred. “I loved my uncle.”
“I loved smashing his skull.”
“I loved breaking Jade’s fingers, one-by-one.”
Every muscle in my body was taught, adrenaline overload, screaming for release. Clipper smiled. His lips curled back exposing a large pink tongue and wet mouth that reminded me of a fat snake. It was as if there was a force field surrounding him that made him more than human, not a god, but some fallen demonic creature sent here to wreak havoc and vengeance. I hated to resort to the homophobic drivel I was raised with in northern Minnesota but knew I had to goad him. Get him so enraged that he would do something out of character. I needed him to attack me. I looked at him with utter disgust and said a silent prayer hoping my gay friends would forgive me.
“I hate pussy-assed faggots like you,” I sneered quietly.
Clipper’s face and neck turned red. His lips curled back, white at the corners, exposing his perfect teeth. He looked like any rabid dog about to attack.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, faggot.”
He balled his left hand into a fist while his right hand knuckled the gun.
“Arnold, don’t!” hissed Clipper Sr.
It was too late. His body stiffened and he stood up, pointing the gun toward me. I lunged, hitting him low, slamming my head and shoulders into his midsection. He fired, but the bullet seared past me, exploding into the flat screen TV in a bright flash and shower of glass. Someone screamed as we skidded backward. He dropped his gun and we crashed to the floor pummeling each other.
“Stop it! Stop it!” yelled Mrs. Clipper.
Arnold, wild-eyed, grabbed my cheek and tried to rip my face. In a brawl, your adrenaline raises your body temperature, masking your pain. I grabbed his wrist, yanking it away from my face and dug my thumb into his eye. He screamed and let go. I punched him, rolled us both over, got him in a chokehold and started squeezing. It was nasty, I heard him choking, gasping for breath and he started to go limp.
Mrs. Clipper stuck her pistol into my face. “Let him go!”
I let him go. He rolled off me, choking and spluttering air back into his lungs. She pulled back the hammer on her nasty looking .32 and glared undying hatred at me. I didn’t move, or try to avoid the impending bullet, or hold my hands up defensively. Instead, I smirked at her, hocked up a blood filled loogie and spat it right in her face. It smacked on the corner of her mouth. Instead of shooting me, disgust creased her face and she stepped back, wiping it away with her sleeve. Arnold kicked me in the ribs so hard, that I felt at least two of them crack. The pain was intense, and I screamed, barely able to breath.
“Fucking piece of shit!”
“Fuck your mother.”
He bent down and grabbed my throat, squeezing harder and harder. I felt myself passing out as the darkness rolled in. I woke when someone threw water over my face and waited for my vision to come back into focus. Arnold and his mother were looking down at me with the same expressionless, dead-eye glare. They were both armed and it appeared that I wasn’t long for this world.
“Get up!” It was half-command, half jubilant exhortation.
“I can’t.”
He looked toward the door. “Richard, get in here.”
I gave Richie the once over as he sashayed in, moving sideways, for all the world like a ferret. Black jeans, expensive black leather jacket, silver chain around his neck. A movie star persona complete with demented director.
“Help him up,” commanded Arnold.
Richie bent down and grabbed me, pulling me to my feet. I was still unsteady, so he leaned me against the sideboard.
“Thanks.” He backed away. “Good to finally meet you.”
Arnold stuck his gun into my chest. “You don’t get to speak to him.”
“What’s the matter? Afraid he’ll find out what you did to his dad?”
Arnold squinted hatred, so pure, so vile, that despite myself, a chill fingered its way down my spine. Everyone turned to look as a black-and-tan Rottweiler snarled up to the French doors, pressing its massive head against the glass, dripping saliva, giving me the evil eye. This dog wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into me.
“Richard, be a love and go calm him down.”
“Sure.”
He opened the French door and bent down, whispering something to the dog. It calmed and assumed the sit position, its gaze wandering from him to me. I took advantage of the distraction and quickly picked up my Walther, which was on the sideboard, slipping it into my inside pocket. Richie came back in and closed the door. I locked eyes with the dog and snarled, showing him my teeth. The dog exploded, barking furiously, butting the door.
Arnold tapped the glass to get its attention. “Quiet, Brutus.”
The dog stopped barking but continued to growl, his beady eyes locked on yours truly.
I let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Brutus?”
“Yes, why?” glared Arnold.
“How appropriate.”
He pointed his gun at me and trying hard to control himself, hissed, “Outside.”
I didn’t move. “Not with that fucking thing out there.”
Arnold couldn’t hide his amusement. He shook his head in dismay and turned to Richard. “Sweetheart, if you would, please?”
Richard stepped outside, grabbing the dog by the collar and led it away.
Arnold waved me out with his gun and then followed, along with his mother. I had the feeling she would shoot me through the head at the slightest provocation. Richard chained the dog up and I stopped in front of a white gazebo, complete with sweet peas growing up and through the latticework. It was built on a knoll at the back of the yard with towering bamboo hedges on either side; in fact, the entire backyard was ringed with them. I thought I saw movement in the bamboo, but it could have been my imagination.
I looked at Richie. “Where’s Jade?”
Arnold pushed me back. “I told you not to speak to him.”
“What’re you gonna do, kill me?” I snorted with contempt.
Richie came over and that’s when I noticed that his pupils were dilated. He was, as Ron Cera would say, wired as a power station. He blurted, “Why did you murder Ron?”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I never touched him.”
“That’s enough,” interrupted Arnold.
I pointed at Clipper. “He killed him, or at least he had it done.”
“Shut up,” said Arnold.
“I was questioned by the cops and they told me that eye witnesses saw Ernie, Tom and Arnold drop off Ron’s corpse.”
Arnold took a menacing step toward me, jacking back the hammer on his gun. “One more word.”
I locked eyes with him and smirked. Richard, trying to make sense of it all, came up to me and pulled out a knife which he pointed at me, punctuating each word with an air stab.
“You…are…a…liar.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I don’t believe--”
“--Go ahead, ask lover boy.”
Arnold smiled. “This is quite ridiculous, and I’ve heard--”
“--Go on, ask him,” I said, challenge edging my words.
Richard tried to form the words, but his mouth didn’t want to cooperate.
Arnold didn’t have that problem. “You wanna see Jade?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
He jerked the gun as if he was going to shoot me and changed his mind. “Richard, go get your sister.”
Richard didn’t move. Instead he squinted and asked, “Who killed Ron?”
Arnold could no longer control himself and shouted maniacally, “He did! He did! HE DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!”
“Calm down, dear,” said Mrs. Clipper, strangely calm.
But Richard wasn’t going to be deterred so easily. “Don’t lie to me, dude. I hate liars.” His mobile features congealed into a look of anguish.
“Have I ever lied to you?” snapped Arnold.
“You hurt Jade.”
“She deserved it.”
“Did you have Ron’s head cut off?”
“What does it matter? Huh? What difference does it make? Who do you love? Me or that dumb actor?”
“Richard,” said Mrs. Clipper sharply, “don’t let this vile liar confuse you.”
Richard ignored her and although high, managed to keep somewhat focused on Arnold. “I don’t understand.” The words came out broken, like a child mourning a misplaced toy.
“It’s okay,” said Arnold. “We’re going to make everything okay.”
“But--”
“--Please go and let Jade out.”
Richard shrugged and moved over to a shed set off from the gazebo. He unlocked it and Jade seemed to catapult into view. Her left arm hung uselessly, her broken fingers dark and discolored. Her eyes were wild, her pupils huge. It was obvious that she had been drugged. She stared at us, her once radiant eyes now pools of vacancy. It was hard to watch.
I stepped forward, smiled and said softly, “Jade, it’s me, Nick.”
She looked straight at me and there was a glimmer of recognition. “Nick,” she repeated slowly as if the word might bring her back to reality.
“We’re going to be going home soon.”
Drool was leaking out the side of her mouth, slowly making its way down her chin. I wanted to wipe it for her, and then wipe Arnold and his vile parents off the face of the Earth. We stood there, the six of us, in this beautiful back garden with flowers and bees and birds and sunshine and the intoxicating scent of jasmine. It was the most surreal experience.
She turned her gaze on Richard. Her face contorted with grief, then congealed into a delicate pleading smile. She pitched toward him and he opened his arms, a boyish smile breaking across his handsome face. As they met, she raked the nails of her right hand across his cheek, driving him to the ground, falling on top of him. He screamed in pain and she dug her nails into his face.
Cicero's Dead Page 23
