Simon's Mansion

by William Poe

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Following a lecture on standard deviations by the professor of elementary statistics, Simon couldn’t wait to get to the painting studio, except that Blaine would be there; Blaine, whom Simon’s memory of the performance at Discovery had elevated to cosmic status, as if he were Śrī Naṭarāja, the dancing Shiva of Hindu myth, posing as much threat to Simon as Shiva had to the demon he trounced. The art professor left class as soon as it started—if students wanted advice, they needed to schedule an appointment. Otherwise, as an advanced class, students should work through design problems without help. In fact, with an advanced class, the professor could more easily get away with being absent. Simon began a monochrome painting based on a photograph of the Sibley swamp. Then Blaine wandered in. Without a word, he went to the supply lockers and took out a three-by-four-foot canvas, setting it on his easel and beginning a new work.

  “Sleeping until noon?” Simon asked, walking over to Blaine’s easel. He intended to sound nonchalant but came across as passing judgment; Blaine’s red-veined eyes told the story of a late night.

  “Hello, Simon,” Blaine responded. Simon could tell that Blaine was happy to see him, but something shadowed his gaze, a sense confirmed as Blaine continued, “No, I’m dealing with some things, that’s all. Hey, can you tell me if the instructor took the roll? Probably not, right? She hardly ever does.”

  Simon reached in his wallet and took out one of the business cards he had ordered from Sibley Stationers. “Here’s my phone number,” Simon offered, justifying the act by convincing himself that Blaine needed someone to confide in, then added boldly, “What about your number?”

  “My hands have paint on them,” Blaine demurred. A tube of paint had split at the seam in his locker, and crimson pigment stained his palms.

  “It’s okay. I have a pen right here,” Simon replied.

  Blaine gave Simon his number and asked, “When is a good time to call?”

  “I’m almost always home by early evening.”

  “It would be nice to have a friend to talk to. I’m involved with someone, but I can’t confide in him.”

  “I understand,” Simon replied. “My boyfriend is in Los Angeles. It’s a long story.”

  “My story is complicated too.” Blaine turned to his canvas and added a dash of Mars black to the grisaille—a tyrannosaur chasing a velociraptor, based on a book illustration Blaine had brought into class to tackle a project requiring action to be depicted using shades of gray. It was an assignment that Simon planned to meet with his painting of the swamp, placing emphasis on cranes swooping down to catch catfish in the pond, with a slight violation of the requirement, adding red eyes to an alligator that lurked just beneath the surface.

  “I’ll call you one night this week,” Blaine promised.

  “And we can share those long and complicated stories.” Simon was happy to make a new friend in Blaine; then Blaine looked into Simon’s eyes, and the rush of attraction that passed between them gave Simon pause. Was he going to be like Thad had been the times they were apart? Simon would never forget the hurt he’d felt when Thad became enraptured by Jerry while staying at Scott’s during one of their worst breakups.

  Simon cleared his thoughts and returned to his easel, mixing a soupçon of cerulean to a gray sky and in the background adding sunflowers, replanted in Simon’s imagination from outside the dinette window to the far bank of the pond, rendered in dark yellow-gray, and, as a final touch, a train of crows in the distance threatening to rob the downcast sunflowers of bloated kernels.

  The wall clock signaled the end of class. Simon placed his supplies in the locker and set his canvas in one of the vertical slots. Blaine slipped out of the studio, disappearing before Simon could figure out in which direction he had gone. In the student union, Simon found Arthur sitting in his usual spot—a quiet place for study, but more importantly, a good vantage point for spying the campus goings-on.

  “Blaine was late for painting class,” Simon reported. “And you should have seen him, the very definition of death warmed over.”

  “I’m in such a pinch, Simon. I’ve got an exam in an hour and oh my God, I am so unprepared. What were you saying?”

  “Blaine. He looked like a cat dragged him into class. Blaine says he’s involved with someone. That’s the word he used, ‘involved.’”

  “Really? That’s disappointing. I wonder who it could be? Oh dear, so many questions. I must bury my nose in these books, Simon. Can we chat later?”

  Simon left Arthur to his cramming and drove to the mansion, falling into an uneasy sleep stretched out on the couch in the parlor, waking periodically with the memory of Don’s telegram. “Call as soon as you get this.” Simon didn’t consciously realize why a sense of dread overcame him each time he picked up the phone to call. He knew he needed to learn whatever Don had to report. He rose from the couch and stuck a shaky finger into the rotary dial on the same phone Simon recalled from his first visit to Sibley, when Aunt Opal had pressed a lucky quarter into the palm of his hand and warned him not to lose it. The coin was good luck. Simon wished he had that coin as he waited for an answer.

  “The delightfully crummy Spotlight Bar and Thrill,” came the familiar voice.

  “New greeting, Twiggy?”

  “Hmm, some stranger calling? Wait, is that you, Simon?”

  “Right on the money.”

  “Oh my God, Don has bugged me to death about reaching you.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Left for dinner an hour ago but said he’s coming back.”

  “Any idea what he wants to talk about? Any news about Rudy or Charlotte?” Simon specifically excluded Thad from the list, hoping whatever news Don had, it wasn’t that Thad was in danger.

  “Oh, honey, no, I don’t think so. Sweet Peter over at The Pub thought he had a clue on Rudy’s whereabouts, but it didn’t lead anywhere. Peter wants to kick Rudy’s ass for you.”

  “Sometimes I fantasize about one of you getting my money back.”

  “There’d be nothing left if Rudy had it—you know what a gambling problem he’s got. Not sure about Miss Charlotte. Who knows what a pole dancer does with her money? She hasn’t been around…oh my, not since before you disappeared. Listen, Simon, the bar’s full. When Don comes back from dinner, I’ll let him know you called. Give me your number.”

  “It’s best if I call back, Twiggy.”

  “Okay, well, give it a try around last call.”

  Last call in Los Angeles meant waiting another four hours. Speaking with Twiggy, hearing the jukebox blast out a Joan Jett song in background, Simon was there with Thad like old times, drinking the night away, carrying on and having fun with friends, Simon and Thad swaying on their barstools, arms locked, singing with Liza when she came on the jukebox to sing “Cabaret.” Simon needed to hear Thad’s voice and risked dialing the number at Howard’s ranch they used when the plan was to reach each other at an appointed hour. Simon fantasized that Thad might still wait each night, even though they had agreed to use pay phones, worried that Howard might be recording conversations. Each unanswered ring stung Simon’s heart.

  Simon tried to work on a new painting, but Ferdinand’s braying, an annoyance amplified by an attack by ravenous mosquitos buzzing in one ear and then the other, proved too much. Simon quietened Ferdinand’s plaintive calls by filling the water trough, crushed geranium leaves from a pot on the back porch and rubbed the juice on his arms to ward off the mosquitos, and strolled along the creek, following a path barely illuminated by a half-moon.

  Not long ago, unsettled with worry or loneliness as he was then, Simon would have gone on the prowl for cocaine, journeying to Little Rock for a rendezvous with the drug dealers BT or Snake, finding them on their patrol of the housing projects on Twelfth Street or along the alleyways of Little Rock’s east side, scoring whatever he could afford. How times had changed. Considering the familiar run, tempting as it was, as he threw a pebble into the rapidly flowing creek,
he instead went into the house to make a phone call.

  “I know it’s late,” Simon apologized when Dean answered.

  “Not so late for me. I’m a night owl. Been sitting here reading. But even if I had been asleep, you know it’s fine to call me.”

  “My imagination is running wild, Dean. I’ve never told you the whole story about Charlotte ripping me off, and now I’m afraid Thad is in jeopardy.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “The money came from a company in Spain that I made a shady deal with. They planned to use films I would procure to launder illegal money.”

  Dean didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me, Dean?”

  “It always seemed like you had a simple business model, licensing old films to foreign companies. I would have thought there wasn’t much risk.”

  “It was simple until I went to Barcelona to close out a letter of credit, and the principals of the company offered to front me a couple of hundred dollars to get films for them. I didn’t think much about it because the Spanish video market has been hot for old American films. I was aware they produced porn but didn’t think much about it until I met one of their young men, a fellow named Felipe. He confided in me that their legitimate film network allowed them to deal with the money they made by selling porn through back channels in countries where it’s forbidden.”

  “Did Charlotte know any of this when she took the money?”

  “Nothing about it. When more money showed up than expected, she probably thought I had negotiated another deal. I trusted her too much—I had left behind signed checks for her to pay the bills. I’m sure she thought I was too far gone and seized the opportunity to make a new start.”

  “Sounds like an old film noir movie. How is Thad involved? Why do you say he’s in jeopardy? Was he in league with Charlotte all this time? Gracious, I can see why your imagination is running amok.”

  “When Charlotte stole the money, I hoped Sibley would be far enough away so that no one could find me. Then Thad went to California to work for a guy that makes porn, and I worried because all over the world, those people know each other.”

  “You said Thad was in LA to make money, but I never thought he was making porn!”

  “He’s not performing, just doing voice-overs.”

  “People do that? I always thought I was hearing the live action.”

  “Nothing is real in Hollywood. A while back, Thad mentioned that Howard, his boss, had gone into partnership with a Spanish company.”

  “And it turned out to be the same people?”

  “The very same.”

  “Do you think this Howard fellow is in cahoots with their money laundering?”

  “I’m sure it has more to do with the availability of blond California hunks. Adding a few videos with hot California boys to their catalog would increase their profits, sold in a legitimate market or not. Felipe, the young man I mentioned, came with the company’s owners when they came to visit Howard. He befriended Thad and told him about having met an American in Barcelona. Thad put it together. I hoped the Spaniards would go back home, but the main guy, a fellow named Emilio, stayed behind.”

  “Thad needs to get out of there!” Dean said frantically.

  “We thought Thad would raise suspicions if he left suddenly and that Howard might mention my name in conversation with Emilio. As long as Thad was seen as just one of the crew, there would be little reason for Emilio to meet him.”

  “It’s too dangerous, Simon. If these people are willing to skirt international laws, who knows what they’d do if they found you, or what they might do to Thad to get to you. When did you last speak to Thad?”

  “It’s been a while. Thad’s boss started using drugs, and Thad became worried he had the phones tapped.”

  “This gets worse and worse.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Hold the line, let me close the blinds.”

  “They won’t be looking for you.”

  “I know,” Dean said with a nervous laugh. “I was trying to lighten the mood. This is so worrisome.”

  “I received a telegram from the owner of the Spotlight Bar. Remember Don?”

  “The older gentleman who always played liar’s poker with Rudy and the others. I remember him.”

  “The telegram insisted that I call him right away, but I delayed and didn’t try until this evening. He was at dinner, so I’m supposed to call later.”

  “What do you think Don wants?”

  “I don’t know. Don procures talent for people like Thad’s boss. Maybe Don heard something.”

  “I know you’re tempted to avoid all of this.” Dean didn’t want to voice his concern by name.

  “It’s been on my mind, I admit, but cocaine scares me as much as being found by Emilio and the others.”

  “Maybe you should go to the authorities and explain everything.”

  “I’d sound like a crank if I called Los Angeles detectives.”

  “What do you think is going on? Do you think this Emilio has met Thad?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  At last call, Simon again telephoned the Spotlight. An unfamiliar bartender answered and gave the phone to Don. Simon’s stomach tightened.

  “Mr. Simon,” Don began, forgetting Simon’s last name. “Have I got news for you.”

  “How did you get my address, Don? I didn’t think anyone knew my whereabouts.”

  “Resourcefulness. I can find anyone when I put my mind to it, but you were easy. Your friend Scott stopped by with some of the producers he represents. He didn’t remember your phone number, but he had your address in his wallet. Arkansas, huh? I can’t imagine you in Arkansas of all places.”

  “Scott is such a blabbermouth,” Simon moaned. “What’s your news, Don?”

  “I know about Rudy and his friend what’s-her-name ripping you off. Anyway, Rudy called the bar from Las Vegas about a week ago.”

  “Charlotte was with him?”

  “Right. Charlotte. Rudy had a falling out with her. Sounds like he had been getting money to keep his mouth shut, but you know our Rudy, he does like to gossip.”

  “Charlotte could have stolen from me before, Don, but she didn’t. Rudy probably egged her on while I was in Europe.”

  Someone interrupted Don, the voice of a hustler pleading for them to leave because it was after last call and the guy wanted more booze at Don’s place.

  “What’s the bottom line, Don? What’s so important about Rudy’s falling out with Charlotte?”

  “Rudy wants you to contact a guy named Wally. He said you’d know who he meant. Putting you two in touch is Rudy’s way of getting back at Charlotte. I don’t know more than that, just that Rudy insisted, ‘Have Simon call Wally.’”

  “Thanks, Don.”

  “Who is this Wally fellow?”

  “Just some guy.”

  The voice urged Don to hurry.

  “Is there something else, Don?”

  “Only that your Thad is looking good. He was in here tonight.”

  Simon collapsed into a sitting position on the rug in front of the sofa.

  “The guy with him was a knockout,” Don continued. “Cutest Spanish accent.”

  “Don, this is serious. Thad was with a Spanish fellow?”

  “I wondered if you two had broken up, but I have to admit, the two didn’t seem all that chummy. I asked if they wanted to come to dinner with me, but Little Buddy here wouldn’t stand for it, would you?” Don’s hustler of the night cooed into his ear. “Thad and the young man sat in a booth and ordered drinks, but they didn’t stay long. Some man—who looked pretty tough, by the way—remained close by and then insisted they leave before finishing their drinks.”

  “I’ll ask Thad about it next time I speak to him,” Simon told Don, not wanting to raise alarms by telling Don the truth.

  “Call if you have anything juicy to report.”

  “Before you hang up, Don, can I talk to Twiggy?”

&
nbsp; “You want to know if he has anything else on that young Spanish guy and your Thad, don’t you? Here he is.”

  Don placed the receiver on the bar and summoned Twiggy. The hustler dragged Don away with an insistent “Let’s go, let’s go.”

  “I was at the other end of the bar when you called,” Twiggy said apologetically. “I’ll bet Don spilled the beans on Thad, didn’t he?”

  “He said that Thad and a guy with a Spanish accent were there. His name is Felipe.”

  “I know, sweetcakes. He told Don his name. What a luscious hunk of a man he was too. Not that your Thad isn’t…well, I won’t salivate over Thad when I’m talking to you, darling.”

  “Twig, it’s okay. I’m just surprised that Thad and Felipe were there. Both of them should be up in Chatsworth. I wonder what they were doing in Hollywood? Don said they didn’t look like they were on a date.”

  “As far as I could tell, Thad was showing Felipe around Hollywood. An older man in a black leather jacket was with them. I figured him for a limo driver, if that makes any sense. He was well dressed, but Thad and Felipe wore simple jeans and tee shirts. The man bought them drinks at the bar and carried them to the table. Don went over to say hello. Thad didn’t seem like he was cheating on you. Of course,” Twiggy said with a smirk, “that little prince would never do anything in front of me. He knows I’d get the information to you one way or another.” Twiggy thought for a moment. “Did Don mention the telegram he asked me to send to you? I felt like a character from a Joan Crawford movie sending out one of those things. Give me your number this time. I don’t ever want to send another telegram.”

  “I’ll give you my number if you promise not to give it to anyone, not even Don. If you hear anything, or if Thad comes by again, call me. You can leave a message if I don’t pick up. I’m worried Thad might be in trouble.”

  “Well, aren’t you full of intrigue? I promise.” Twiggy paused. “Now that you mention trouble, the man with them did seem a bit rough for a limo driver. And well, I hadn’t thought anything of it before, but a couple of times it seemed like Thad wanted to get my attention, like he wanted me to come to the booth. I figured it was just to make sure I didn’t think he was cheating on you. The one time I saw Thad leave the table for the men’s room, the older guy followed him. Felipe sat in the booth the whole time. We were so busy, I didn’t think much about it, but it did seem strange.”