by Kip Chase
Three
FOR PAT CRAIG, there was no moonlit bay nor fresh night air to improve her outlook on life. She had just finished her second appearance for the evening, and was wishing to God she could go home. The air was filled with smoke and heavy with the mingled fumes of alcohol, perspiration, cosmetics, hair oil, and perfume. The customers, for the most part, were somewhere between the secondary and tertiary stages of drunkenness. If Pat had been a drinker herself, it might not have bothered her so much, but she seldom had more than two drinks during the course of an evening when she was working.
Glancing around at the flushed faces and hearing the shrill, meaningless chatter punctuated by piercing female laughter and bellowing male guffaws, Pat decided she was in need of a break. She slipped down a hallway leading to the rear of the building and out a back door. The alley was roughly paved and lined with large galvanized dustbins piled high with rubbish, but overhead the stars were bright and steadfast and the ocean breeze was a blessing on her cheek.
She had been standing in the shadow of the doorway less than a minute when a large cream-coloured convertible turned into the alley, its bright headlights catching her in their full glare. The car stopped directly in front of her, and to Pat’s surprise and dismay, out stepped Jock Harrison.
He was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt, and small-figured tie. He looked directly at Pat, smiled, then turned back to the occupants of the car.
‘Pick me up a little later, boys.’
Again he faced Pat. ‘What are you doing out here?’ he grinned, ‘playing hookey? Willie boy wouldn’t like that. Should be in there mingling with the sheep.’
Pat refused to play the game. ‘Look, Jock, it’s a rough evening. I’m tired and I want to go home, but I’ve got two more hours at this pig-sty. How about being a good boy and just letting me sulk by myself?’
‘I’d like to help you, Patty, but I really came by to see you.’
‘Me? Are you trying to be funny?’
Harrison gave a forced laugh. ‘And what’s wrong with wanting to see you? It hasn’t been that long, has it, Pat?’ He moved closer to the girl.
Pat had been in the act of lighting a cigarette. Now she deliberately blew out the match and dropped the cigarette on the rough pavement. Her voice was steely.
‘All right, Jock, we might as well reach an understanding right now. I don’t owe you a thing – not one goddam thing. Whatever you’ve done for me, I’ve paid for a hundred times over. I’ve got a good life now and I’m happy. I plan to stay that way. Don’t push me, Jock, I’m warning you.’
While Pat was speaking, Harrison never lost the half-smile on his fleshy face.
‘All right, Patty, you’re a good kid. I’m not looking to give you any trouble. This is business.’
Pat’s eyes lost none of their wariness. ‘Business I can listen to.’
‘Do you know Jack Christie?’
‘I know him. He’s a crumb.’
Jock nodded. ‘He’s a friend of Jeanie’s isn’t he? That cocktail waitress you’re so chummy with.’
‘Ask Jeanie.’
‘I don’t have to ask her. I know. I want to do a plant on him. I want Jeanie to help me. I want you to find out how much Jeanie figures it’s worth.’
Pat shook her head. ‘Nothing doing. I...’
‘Look, Patty,’ Jock broke in, in a persuasive tone, ‘the guy’s a crumb. You said so yourself. And he’s got a wife, and kids, and a business reputation to worry about. All I want from Jeanie is a nice little bedroom scene on tape. Simple. And we can fix it so that he doesn’t even know she was in on it. Money in the pocket. And something for you, too.’
‘Jock, I don’t give a damn about Christie,’ Pat said, ‘and I don’t give a damn about you, either. I just don’t want to get involved. I don’t need the money. Maybe Jeanie does. You go talk to her.’
‘Okay, sweetheart, no hard feelings.’ His voice lost its tone of light banter, and became cold as ice. ‘Just keep your mouth shut.’
Pat looked him straight in the eye. ‘No problem, Jock. Like I say, just count me out.’ She turned abruptly and reentered the club.
When Pat got home she told the story to George, omitting the reference Jock had made to their previous relationship. George listened without comment, then, when Pat was finished, shrugged his shoulders.
‘Another one of Harrison’s fast shuffles. Damn it, Pat, as long as you work at that dive, or any other club for that matter, you’re going to have problems like this. So maybe you don’t get any more static on this one. But there’s going to be another joker come along with another proposition. Does the money really mean that much to you? It sure as hell doesn’t to me.’
Pat, in the act of unzipping her tightly-fitting evening dress, answered with an air of resignation, ‘You’re right, George. I admit it. You’re right. But we’ve been through this once today. We both agreed. Five more weeks and that’s it. Now, are you going to nag me every day of those five weeks?’
‘I’m sorry, honey. Okay. Five weeks. And no nagging.’
They smiled at each other, then George said, ‘So where’s my beer?’
Four
TONY ORTEGA arrived at the Gallery at nine o’clock every weekday morning to begin work. For an hour he did the small tasks preparatory to opening the Gallery to the public. At ten, he unlocked the thick front door and swung it back on its heavy iron hinges. Until noon he served as combination guard and information bureau to the trickle of morning visitors. His afternoons were usually a little more demanding : a student group to be herded about, the uncrating and cataloguing of a new painting, or an inventory of the mailing lists to see which patrons might again be approached on the drive for funds. There was always a drive for funds.
At first Tony had had a great deal of difficulty adapting himself to the job. For one of his natural volatile temperament it had been almost more than he could bear. However, he was determined to stick with it, as almost anything was preferable to living with his parents, with the only money in his pockets that which was doled out to him. And while the days were tedious, at least his nights were free and he had a few dollars to call his own. Also, being an ex-hero did have its advantages. There was usually someone in any given bar that remembered him and was eager to buy him a few drinks. There were girls who remembered too. Now that he had an income again he did not solicit the free drinks. His attitude towards the girls had not changed. It was just that he could afford to be a little more discriminating.
It was in this field the Gallery had opened new vistas. Going directly into the service from high school, as he had, then being subjected to the milieu of big-business sales-executive world, he had known only one type of female – the girl who spent her days sleeping or gossiping or going to the movies, and her nights in the cocktail lounges with her eye always out for the man with the bankroll. Since working in the Gallery he had been introduced to the quiet, clean-limbed girls, their hair untouched by hydrogen peroxide, occupied by adventures of the mind rather than the flesh. It was a refreshing change; at the same time, he knew that these girls, mostly from moneyed families, could not consider him as a serious suitor. There were days when he longed for a wallet full of twenty-dollar bills, and a long week-end in Las Vegas.
He had such a moment the morning the Gauguin arrived, the day after the meeting of the Art Association. Old man Goodall had wangled the painting on loan from the San Francisco Coberly Collection. According to the terms of the loan, an armed guard was required to be on the premises as long as the painting was in the building. During the exhibition hours, this would be Tony. He carried a Police Special ·38 on a shoulder holster inside his coat. At night, the Gaugin would be kept in the safe with a guard contracted from a security office posted at the desk just inside the front door. The painting was insured for $130,000.
Acting on instructions, Tony called Mr. Goodall at the residence as soon as the armoured car pulled up in front of the Gallery.
The p
ainting was small. Even in its cumbersome crate Tony and one of the drivers were able to handle it easily. The crate was placed on the floor leaning against a wall in a back office. The driver fumbled for a bulky sheaf of papers in his pocket. ‘Couple of things to sign’, he said.
‘Better wait for Mr. Goodall’, Tony answered.
The two men stood around in awkward silence until Hubert arrived. He signed the necessary papers quickly. The driver gave a final glance at the package, then shuffled back to his truck, his heavy Service ·45 riding uncomfortably on his hip.
‘All right, Tony’, Hubert said, ‘let’s have a look.’
Using a small crowbar and a claw hammer he got from the workbench, Tony set to work on the box.
‘For heaven’s sake, be careful, Tony. Don’t ram that thing into the painting,’ Goodall said, ‘and try and save the box. We can use the same one to ship it back in. Here, let me help you.’
After removing the box, great wads of wood-wool, and several layers of heavy brown wrapping paper, the painting was finally exposed. It was a typical Gauguin – a Tahitian native girl, brown-skinned, sensuous, thick-lipped and thick-ankled, the contours of her body distorted but breathing life. She was lying unclothed on the edge of a jungle lagoon, one hand behind her head, the other resting passively across her stomach. The background was of vibrant foliage, rich in textures of brown, red, and green.
‘One hundred and thirty thousand bucks’, Tony said softly.
‘Closer to a hundred and fifty. I think it’s a little under-insured.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Right now, the painting goes in the safe. Put the box and the wrapping materials over there under the workbench. Now, here’s the routine. The first private showing is tomorrow at one. We’ve gone through all that, so you know what to do. And by the way, I don’t want that painting on the wall until five minutes to one. At five o’clock tomorrow, and every other day while the painting is here, you put it in the safe. Then you wait for the night guard. He’s supposed to be here at five but sometimes he may be a little late. Don’t you leave until he is here. The first guard will be here from five to one A.M. Then they change shifts and the second guard comes on. He stays here until nine in the morning when you get here. We are contractually obligated to keep a guard on the premises at all times while the painting is here. At all times. Is that absolutely clear?’
Tony nodded. ‘All right.’ He started to pick the painting up.
‘No,’ Goodall interrupted, ‘not yet.’ He continued to gaze at the painting. Finally he said, ‘All right, Tony. Lock it up. God, that man could paint.’
Tony twirled the combination lock, then swung the door open and stepped inside the safe with the painting. The safe was about the size of a wall shower with racks inset into the walls for storage of the canvases. Only three of the several dozen racks were occupied. As Tony turned to slide the painting into one of the racks, the arm of his coat caught on a protruding corner. There was a soft ripping noise. Instantly Goodall appeared at the door of the safe, his face ashen.
Tony laughed. ‘It’s only my coat, Mr. Goodall.’
‘Well, you just added about ten years to my life’, snapped Goodall. ‘There’s no reason to blunder around in the dark. There is a light in here, you know.’
‘Yes sir. I’m all finished now.’ Tony backed awkwardly out of the safe, closed the door and re-spun the dial. He took off his coat and examined the seven-inch rent ruefully.
Goodall said, ‘Sorry about your coat, Tony, but you could have been more careful.’
‘It’s all right, sir. It’s just a week’s wages.’ He said this lightly with a smile, but the smile was not returned.
The sound of the squeaky front door opening reverberated down the hallway.
‘Damn,’ said Goodall, ‘I thought I told those men to lock the door behind them.’
Jennifer entered the room wearing white slacks, a man’s shirt knotted at the waist, and sandals. She smiled at the two men.
‘Hello, Grandfather, Tony. Did the Gauguin get here?’
‘It got here’, Goodall said shortly. ‘Where did you get that shirt?’
‘It’s one of your shirts. All the girls are wearing them – men’s shirts, that is, not necessarily yours. You’re supposed to wear your boy friend’s, but I don’t have any boy friend. Geraldine said I could have this one. Do you mind?’
The slight indentation of a frown appeared just above the eyes of Hubert Goodall. His granddaughter was a problem. He disapproved of the shirt, of the slacks, and the sandals. He disapproved of the girl’s calling her grandmother, ‘Geraldine’. Yet these seemed such petty things to complain about. He made an honest effort to understand the younger generation, and Jennifer in particular, but it was difficult to know where to draw the line. He did not want to assume the role of a petty tyrant.
‘You may keep the shirt, Jennifer. What are you doing here?’
‘Oh. I brought Tony his lunch. He left it on the kitchen table when he stopped by the house this morning.’ She held out a large brown paper bag.
The furrow in Hubert Goodall’s forehead deepened. He hadn’t known Tony had stopped by the house that morning Except for his occasional flippancy, Goodall liked Tony, but he felt the doors of his home should be opened by invitation only. He would take some future opportunity to make this clear to Tony – in a tactful way, of course.
‘All right, Jennifer, I’m sure Mr. Ortega appreciates your efforts. You’d better leave now. There’s quite a bit to be done before the showing.’
‘Am I invited, Grandfather?’
‘I’m afraid not. This is a formal showing. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to see the painting later.’
‘May I see it now?’
‘No. It’s put away in the safe. Now don’t be a bother, Jennifer, run along.’
The girl left, pouting slightly.
Goodall shook his head in annoyance. ‘They can be a trial, Tony.’
Tony shrugged. ‘Seems like a fine girl to me, Mr. Goodall. Not smart-alecky like most kids of her age.’
‘She’s not a bad child, but quick with her tongue, like her mother. Well, we had better get going.’
Jennifer entered the house in a vaguely irritated mood. Conversation with her grandfather usually left her so. She recognized that he tried to be fair with her, but to her adolescent mind most of his ideas and conventions seemed hopelessly outdated. But more important, the impression was continually with her that she really was an unwanted item in the household. She had loved her wild, irresponsible parents dearly, and their death left a great unfulfilled need in the girl. She had tried to transfer some of this love to her grandparents, but their attitude made it difficult. Though they were alike in many ways, of the two Jennifer found Mrs. Goodall the more sympathetic.
As Jennifer entered the house through the french doors in the living-room, she heard her grandmother talking on the kitchen phone.
‘No, no, Mr. Burkholdt, that won’t do at all. We must have the ice here by twelve-thirty at the latest. And cubed ice, Mr. Burkholdt, cubed. Not those hemispheres you sent last time. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Burkholdt?’
Jennifer sidled over to the icebox. Her hand slid over to the icebox door.
‘No, Mr. Burkholdt, twelve-thirty. Jennifer, not before lunch. No, Mr. Burkholdt, I was talking to my granddaughter.’
Concluding her arrangements with Mr. Burkholdt, Geraldine Goodall turned to her granddaughter. ‘Now then, young lady, you may have half an apple if you wish, or dried prunes out of the cupboard. But no hors-d’œuvres and no sweets.’
Jennifer laughed. ‘Honestly, Geraldine, apples or prunes. What a choice.’
Mrs. Goodall returned the smile. ‘Well, I admit they don’t sound too appetizing. But I’m only looking after you, my dear. That lovely figure of yours must last long enough to get you a husband and there my responsibility will end. Did you see the Gauguin?’
‘No. Hubert had it locked up. And
he won’t let me go to the showing, either.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call him Hubert, even behind his back.’
‘But you don’t mind me calling you Geraldine.’
‘That’s different. It’s between women.’
‘Okay. My grandfather says I can’t go to the showing.’
‘I dare say he has his reason. I don’t think you’d enjoy the atmosphere much anyway.’
Jennifer tossed her head. ‘I don’t care about the atmosphere. I just want to see the painting.’
‘You will, my dear. Now, whatever in the world am I going to do about the seltzer water?’
Five
THE THIRD MUSKETEER, John Williams, would not concern himself with the showing of a Gauguin – nor a Van Gogh, nor even a Rembrandt. If he were told that by walking across the street he could see the original of ‘The Last Supper’, he would probably exhibit polite interest, then return to the latest issue of Electronics Today, or to one of the half-dozen projects he had going in his garage workshop.
John had an aptitude for analysing the behaviour pattern of electrons that bordered on the genius. In all other matters he was uninformed and unconcerned. The few bits of information he did have outside his own specialized field came from his occasional visits to George Craig. George was his only real friend. Tony was his friend, too, but in a different way. The bond between them as a result of their wartime experiences would always be strong, but it did not project itself into the future, only into the past.
Not long after he got back from overseas, John had married. For three years his wife endured his single-minded pursuit of the electron. She did not mind so much while he was in college but when, after graduation, the intensity of his interest was heightened rather than diminished by his first job, she decided to call it quits. She packed her clothes and walked out one day, leaving a brief note. John’s primary concern with her departure was that he would now have to take time off from his work and studies to prepare his own meals.
