Harmony In Flesh and Black

by Nicholas Kilmer

  Fred stood to stay next to her, then realized that there was no other way out of here except by the back kitchen door, and Sheila was heading the other way, toward her bedroom.

  She turned and said, “Don’t fucking follow me, all right? When I come back, you tell me what you want to know and why I should tell you, and who the fuck you are anyway.”

  Fred sat on the futon, watching the kitchen. Sheila came in again wearing jeans with the shirt tucked in, and she stood looking down at him, her eyes narrowed.

  “What you want with Russ?” she asked.

  “I need to talk with him.”

  “Russ took off last night,” Sheila said. “But that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Russ is in over his head. He’s going to get hurt.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  Fred said, “Maybe I can save us wasting time. I don’t have any reason to hurt the guy myself.”

  “I thought you were the cops,” Sheila said. She backed across the room and looked Fred over. “You look like a fucking narc. That’s a piece, isn’t it, under your arm?”

  Fred nodded.

  “What’s the gun for? You want to show me some ID?” Sheila said.

  Fred said, “Call me Fred.”

  “Okay, Fred,” she said. “Fuck off, Fred.” She opened the apartment door. “About Russ I know from nothing.”

  “You looked pretty close to Russ yesterday,” Fred said, “talking together, the two of you, in the street. I’m telling you, Sheila, people could get hurt.” He leaned back against the wall, comfortable, ready for a lengthy visit.

  Sheila looked at him a moment, thinking. She closed the door. She crossed the room and squatted on the floor near him. “Tell you what. Let’s us you tell me more and I’ll see if I can help.”

  “Russell’s in grad school at Harvard. In art history,” Fred said. “I’m doing research that overlaps a project of his.”

  “You’re in art history?” Sheila exclaimed, surprised.

  “I’m working on Chase,” Fred said.

  “Chase. Cut to the chase. So?”

  “Russ needs to know,” Fred said.

  Sheila leaned back, arching. Her hair was starting to dry toward silver. She took a brush out of a hip pocket and started brushing it, then said, “I wouldn’t know Russell’s business. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Russ knows a painting I’m interested in. By Chase. It’s missing.”

  Sheila stopped brushing and looked at him. Her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes stayed carefully uninterested.

  “He said that got completely screwed up,” Sheila said. “Whatever it was. How does he get in touch if he wants to, if he calls?”

  “It got screwed up, all right. Tell him to call me. Fred. At the Charles Hotel. I’ll write down the number for you.”

  “I’ll pass the message on,” Sheila said, “if he calls, or if I see him.”

  “Tell him the letter is worth money,” said Fred, standing.

  “And you’re connected to that?” Sheila said. “Money. A letter. Right?”

  “I might be.”

  Sheila said, “If he calls, I’ll tell him. I don’t know if he’ll call.”

  “Is there someplace else I might find him?” Fred asked. “Where he might be during the day?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Fred got up and walked across the room toward the apartment door, noting that Sheila did not mention Video King. He wondered what else she was not mentioning.

  Sheila stopped him. “How much money we talking? So I can tell him.”

  “Why don’t you tell him to call,” Fred said. He grinned in a reassuring manner.

  He took the car back to the hotel and parked before walking back to Video King. Russ was scheduled to start work at three. A fat guy with a blond buzz cut and a pink Video King T-shirt chewed gum at him a minute in response to his question, thinking, then looked at the list in back of the desk, said, “He’s finished with his shift at seven,” and chewed some more.

  If Russ didn’t telephone him, Fred could come back at three-thirty and talk to him. Unless he’d left town. If he had, this would be harder.

  Fred took portable coffee and a paper to his room. Sitting and looking across the river, he started thinking about Smykal’s place on Turbridge Street—Smykal’s place and Smykal’s art and Smykal’s body. He wanted none of it to be his business.

  * * *

  Fred called Molly at the library.

  “I have your clothes, Fred. I’ll bring them if you want to do lunch.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Listen, Fred? Will you call the kids and tell them why you’re not around? They think we had a fight. I know they think so because they won’t say it.”

  “I’ll call tonight. Come at noon-thirty. We’ll do lunch in my room.”

  20

  Fred went out and bought materials to make sandwiches, doing the errand fast in case Russ called, and then he sat at his window again. How well did they know each other, Russell Ennery and Sheila? Something about the painting had got screwed up, Sheila said. Had Russ been trying to buy or sell the painting? Suppose he had set something up with Smykal and Arthurian had scooped him? Russell comes back looking for the painting, and it’s gone. Russell … someone had better talk to Russell soon, and it had better be Fred.

  But Fred couldn’t visualize Russ Ennery’s managing to do to Henry Smykal what he had seen accomplished on that body, not even by accident. The idea was ludicrous and impossible.

  Fred called Clay, told him where he was, what he was doing, and said, “Don’t move.”

  “Wait,” Clay said. “Before you hang up. You’re neglecting our main concern. You didn’t report to me about your dinner with Albert Finn last night. What have you learned?”

  “Finn’s gone Hollywood. He takes phone calls in the middle of dinner. Does it in monosyllables. I couldn’t get anything out of him.”

  “Or Molly?”

  “He’s surrounded by a confidential aura. He signals that the Heade is of indifferent quality. Draw your own conclusions. I can’t. Ophelia believes he’s staying in Boston for the nookie. Hers.”

  “Nookie? Is that a painter? I seem to recall—an English sporting painter? Ophelia has a Nookie? Can I see it?”

  “You can ask her. Ophelia has one, but it’s not a painting. There are other things in the world, Clay. Be good.”

  Fred took a shower, leaving the door open and listening for his phone. Russell might call. Half dressed again, he lay down and shut his eyes to wait for Molly to come and wake him.

  The telephone rang at 12:10. It woke Fred out of a sleep that wasn’t prepared to finish for twenty minutes more.

  A trembling male voice spoke. “Mr. Fred? Fred?”

  “This is Fred. Russ Ennery?”

  “You left a note on my desk?”

  “Yes, that was mine.”

  There was a pause. Fred waited.

  “Was that a joke?”

  Fred waited.

  “I guess not. You came looking for me. You came to my apartment. You talked to people, yes? That was you?”

  “You got my message about the Chase painting,” Fred said.

  “Sheila says you mentioned money,” Russ said. “Can I trust you?”

  Fred said, “What did Sheila think?” and let that hang.

  “You’re not going to the police with—well, you’re not…” The voice petered out.

  His voice came again, frightened: “That thing, the other thing—I don’t know anything about that.”

  Fred let that, too, hang. Nobody had mentioned Smykal or Turbridge Street or a body beaten until it died. Russ was putting out a feeler. Let it wave in a worrying void.

  “Before I make a move, I want to talk with you,” Fred said. “If that can be soon.”

  “I’m—well—pretty far out of town. But I’ll come back if it’s … I should be at work in a couple hours. You can meet me after.” />
  “I’ll be there at seven,” Fred said. “Video King.”

  “You know where I work?”

  “I know where you live, I know where you’re from, I know where you work and when you get off. I’ll meet you.”

  “Can we meet at your hotel? Maybe someplace quiet. Like—does the Charles Hotel have a bar?”

  “It’s called the Quiet Bar,” Fred said. “I’ll see you there at seven-fifteen?”

  “That’s great. That’ll be great. About the money—”

  “We’ll talk.”

  “Yes. Talk.”

  Russ Ennery was sounding grateful, even relieved of his burden. Help was on its way.

  * * *

  Then Molly came for lunch. They picnicked and fooled around. Fred kept the .38 and its rig in the bureau beside the bed so neither of them would have to think about it.

  Molly wore a white shirt of Indian cotton, a red cardigan sweater, and a green corduroy skirt. She was healthy and fragrant, like a good loaf of bread, and he told her so.

  She said, “See, Fred, you do have domestic instincts.”

  “I’ll call and talk to Sam and Terry,” Fred said. “I will. I can’t stand being around the kids carrying a weapon.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Molly said. “Just so you tell them something they can make sense of. Otherwise children always think it’s their fault.”

  “I know,” Fred said. “We all do. It won’t be long. I’ll call and tell them.”

  * * *

  Fred hated the waiting. With Molly gone, he hated the waiting. The kid, Russ, made him uneasy. He was a slippery kid under pressure. He had seemed too grateful, too compliant—too willing, given the tiny amount of pressure Fred had brought to bear.

  Whatever he thought he had going with Smykal’s painting, Russ was out of his depth. Learning that the man had been murdered must have worked on his nerves. He was already nervy last Saturday when Fred first saw him in the fine-arts library, before the news got out. He was moaning and tearing his hair even then.

  Fred walked past Video King a couple of times during Ennery’s shift and saw that he was there, in back of the counter, wearing that bow tie. He hadn’t lost his sense of style.

  At seven Fred went to the Quiet Bar and looked around. At the Charles you got comfort with your class. They offered individual tables and big chairs. Fred took a big gray foam armchair beside another empty one, on one side of a table across from two more. A waitress hovered next to him until he asked for coffee. He watched for Russ.

  In a few minutes, as the coffee was placed before him, he heard a damp voice claiming, “I’ve seen you around.”

  Fred turned to a vision of denim and the open-necked checked shirt of Buddy Mangan. Mangan stood next to him, studying him. The short blond curls faltered, and he grinned.

  “This seat taken?” Mangan asked.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Fred said. He took a sip of his coffee.

  Mangan sat in the chair across from him.

  “Let’s say I represent him,” Mangan said. “Friend of a friend.”

  He beckoned to the waitress, who approached him with reluctance. In this costume Mangan would give them all a bad name.

  “Bring me a beer,” Mangan said.

  “Sir, we have Sam Adams on draft, or Beck’s Dark, or—”

  “You choose, hon,” Mangan said. “You mind? We’re talking.”

  “You’re Fred,” Mangan continued. “That all?”

  “My wants are few,” Fred said.

  The waitress leaned over with Buddy Mangan’s beer, a dark draft, and a dish of cashews.

  “I’ve seen you around,” Mangan said again. He took a drink of his beer and popped a nut into his mouth, using his thick fingers with a delicacy that made Fred think of pinning insects.

  “I have a client for the Chase,” Mangan said. “I take it you control the picture?”

  “Control is a relative concept,” Fred said.

  “What’s on your mind?” Mangan asked. “I presume we can get something together.”

  Fred said, “It’s complex.”

  “So we stick to the point and don’t get suckered into irrelevant side issues,” Mangan said. “Then it’s not relative and it’s not complex. It’s easy if you think of it like this: You have something. I want it.”

  “Side issues,” Fred said. “Like bashing in a guy’s head.”

  “And cunt pictures and whatnot have you,” Mangan said. He scratched the thick hair that was struggling to escape at his open neck. “I heard about that. It’s distracting, an unfortunate coincidence. I’m not worried, if I get the picture.”

  Fred said, “Suppose we are both looking for a Chase painting.”

  Mangan leaned toward him. His face reddened. The beer on his breath was Beck’s, and dark. “Listen, you fuck. I want the picture.”

  “Let’s not make a scene,” Fred suggested. He motioned Mangan to sit back, allowing his two big hands to rest near Mangan’s on the table. “Your client is Arthurian, I take it?” he asked.

  Fred watched more people come in. The singles stood at the bar, hopeful. Groups took the tables. The waitresses herded and served gracefully. It was a perfect world, the peaceable kingdom.

  Mangan looked poleaxed. His jaw dropped. His body language expressed confusion. “The kid said you work for Arthurian.”

  “I do not have that honor,” Fred said.

  “That fucking recluse!” Mangan said, all command lost. “Who is he? Where is he? My client, hell! I never heard of Arthurian. Nobody has. Arthur Arthurian? The Arthurian collection? Nobody’s heard of any of it. Ask anyone.”

  Fred signaled a waitress for more coffee. Mangan finished his beer.

  “I know I’ve seen you around,” Mangan said.

  “Apparently my guy wants the same thing yours does,” Fred said.

  “In that case, fuck you,” Mangan said. “You are wasting my fucking time.”

  The waitress brought Fred’s coffee. She looked a question at Buddy Mangan. Mangan nodded. He thought a minute, smiled at Fred, and made the “fuck you” into a joke, retroactively.

  “We both want something, right?” he said.

  Fred nodded.

  “The same thing.”

  Fred nodded again.

  “This Arthur Arthurian. According to the paper, the cops want him, too. We want to find him first. We can work it together. I don’t know. If we get the painting for my client and you keep your guy out of it, there’ll be something in it for you.”

  “So I help you find Arthurian’s painting,” Fred said. “Tell me about the commission.”

  “Five thousand dollars. How’s that sound?”

  “Maybe we get a better price from my guy,” Fred said.

  “You find that painting, get in touch with me first,” Mangan said. “My people do not like to dick around. You know what we’re looking for, I presume?”

  Mangan reached into the bib pocket of his overalls and pulled out a card for Buddy Mangan Fine Art, with the Cohasset address and phone number. The waitress delivered his beer. Mangan threw a twenty onto the table, hauled out of the same pocket.

  “There’s one thing bothering me,” Fred said.

  “Don’t worry about the dead guy,” Mangan whispered confidentially. “The stuff I hear he was into, I assure you he was asking for it. It makes it harder, though, don’t it? What a business we’re in! ‘Complex,’ to use your own well-chosen word. And relative as all shit!” Mangan laughed and swallowed his beer.

  “You want to be careful just the same,” Fred said. He stood.

  “Keep in touch,” Buddy Mangan said. He waved toward the waitress.

  21

  Fred walked out. He had to decide whether to drop this right now.

  Russ was hunting with Mangan, acting as his jackal. Russell was a dangerous fool. That academic arrogance. Triumph of the mind. Russ was a kid with no conscience, no center, no understanding of the world. Perfect for a career in Celti
c bronze. As far as working with Buddy Mangan—you don’t outrun a waterfall. You don’t stand and argue with it, don’t try to appeal to its sympathy. Either it batters and drowns you or you find your way around it by land.

  When Fred got back to his room, he called Molly’s and talked to the kids for a while. Mostly he talked to Sam, man to man. But he feared Sam wasn’t believing him. Fred tried to explain that he was doing something that meant he had to be closer to town. He’d maybe see them Saturday, or Sunday.

  Then he realized that the reason Sam didn’t believe him was that he was lying. That was fair.

  “Look, Sam,” Fred said. “I should level with you. The fact is, the work I’m doing has started getting risky. I’m thinking it might make a dangerous situation around your house, for your mom and you and Terry.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “She’ll be pissed if you’re hurt.”

  “I will be, too,” Fred said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good,” Sam said. “Mom says you have your gun. I’ll put Terry on.”

  “Miss you,” Terry said.

  It was good, over the phone, almost as if he deserved it, having two children, one saying she missed him, the other one thinking it would be better if he didn’t get hurt. It was a problem, though, because it meant he had to be careful.

  * * *

  Fred had the evening free. He wasn’t going to lean on Russ, or follow him, or push him any more. He knew now where the Russ theme led: to Mangan. And at the moment he wanted no part of that. If Clay had the painting and Mangan the letter that authenticated it, that was an interesting problem made still more so by the corpse lying between them.

  Fred called Clayton and reported that he had found a loose end to pull but wasn’t convinced it was a good idea since there was something nasty on the other end. Clayton should sit tight, do nothing.

  Clay was remarkably docile. “I’m reading Proust,” he said. “It’s what I always thought I’d do in prison.”

  Fred took off his shoes, sat in the hotel’s chair, and put his feet up on the bed, looking out over the hotel’s darkening river. It should have swallows darting over it, but it was still too dead.

  Buddy Mangan. Prior to this Fred had only seen the man throwing his weight around in the auction room. He acted as if he’d had a deal with Smykal. Presumably he had the letter Clay needed. Had Smykal been fool enough to sell the package twice—to deliver the painting to Clay and the letter to Mangan—and then run? He might have believed he could diddle Clay, but hardly Mangan—unless he’d met only Russ.