Body Work (14 page)

“That would have been artistic and creative of you,” I said. “And a bold statement of leadership.”

The speaker frowned at me, but before he could fire back, one of his tablemates said, “That’d be good for the annual report, Mac. We go into danger zones that no one else dares enter.”

“We should buy a piece of her tail.” Mac looked at me as if to emphasize that he was directing his crudeness at me. “Did you write down the Web address, Cowles? I’d like her tits where I could look at them from time to time.”

This caused not just another outburst of laughter but some congratulatory high fives. I dug my hands into my pockets to keep from flinging their drinks in their faces.

I grinned down at Cowles. “This is the kind of evening that the Guamans would enjoy, isn’t it? Witty banter about women’s bodies right after burying their daughter.”

He got to his feet. “Anyone who comes into a place like this can expect to hear that kind of comment and more besides. If you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t be here.”

“Are you saying that Nadia deserved to be shot?”

He made an angry gesture. “Of course not. But this is a rough place. I don’t want to cause the Guamans more pain than they feel already, so I’m going to whitewash my report of what goes on in here. But you know as well as I do that it’s a strip joint going under a classier name. Look at that guy there—” He pointed at Rodney. “You can’t tell me he’s the kind of person a woman who respects herself would hang around.”

“You’ve got me there, Mr. Cowles,” I admitted. “He looks like a Class X felony waiting to happen.”

“What was all that about, his painting on that woman’s ass?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t want to join him, Cowles,” one of his friends said.

“What would you have put there?” the man they’d called Mac said.

“Maybe the same numbers,” the first man said. “They’d be his billable hours for the last month.”

The three who were sitting down all laughed, and Cowles, after a brief hesitation, joined in, but he said to me, “If you’re here because of Nadia Guaman, I’d advise you to leave her and her family strictly alone.”

“Whoa, Mr. Cowles! You told me you were their honorary uncle. You didn’t say you were their legal guardian or their mouthpiece. If they want to talk to me, they have a right to. And vice versa.”

“Just who are you, anyway?”

I smiled again. “I am V. I. Warshawski. Good night, Mr. Cowles.”

I returned to my own chair, which had been taken over by a couple who were sharing the small seat. As I extracted my coat from beneath them, I saw Cowles flag down a server and point at me. The server smiled and gestured. Within a few minutes, Cowles probably knew I was a private eye. There wasn’t any real point in my keeping my identity a secret, after all.

14

And Besides, the Wench Is Dead

A
s I handed two twenties to Petra for my drinks, Rodney got to his feet and swaggered to the exit. I told Petra I’d be back for my change and hurried behind the stage, down the corridor that led past the toilets and dressing rooms to the rear exit. I reached the alley just in time to see Rodney climb into a Mercedes sedan. I squatted behind another car and managed to copy his license plate before he bounced out of the lot.

When I’d corralled Petra and gotten my change—fifteen dollars, more than I wanted to leave her, or anyone, on a twenty-five-dollar tab—I went backstage again, this time to the star’s dressing room. Two women were with Karen. One, very young and white, was sponging the angel from the Artist’s back. The second, an African-American with a soft short Afro, was perched on a stool, playing with the paintbrushes.

The Artist looked at me and said to her companions, “The detective I was telling you about.”

I smiled at the women. “My name is V. I. Warshawski. I’m sad to see you destroy the angel. It was stunning. And amazing that you could create all these images in one day.”

“It’s ephemeral art. Like Goldsworthy, only even more ephemeral than leaves along a lakeshore.” Karen spoke gruffly, but she turned away from me, as if to hide any pleasure in my compliment. “This is Rivka, who did the tedious work of painting the designs on me and now is doing the equally hard part of removing them again. She’s my most reliable aide-de-camp when I’m doing serious work of my own.”

The younger woman flushed, and said, “You have to take them off, even though they’re so beautiful, because it’s hard on the Artist’s skin if she sleeps in the paint.”

“That’s Vesta on the stool.” The Artist didn’t pay any attention to Rivka’s interjection. “She’s a third-degree black belt.”

“Did you bring her to protect you from overeager fans, or from Rodney?” I asked.

“I think she was just trying to impress you,” Vesta said. “I’m not a bodyguard.”

She sat easily on her stool, with a kind of confidence in her bearing that I’d seen in other experienced martial artists—no need to be aggressive in the world. I’d learned to fight the hard way, on the streets of South Chicago, and it made me too pugnacious, too willing to believe the worst in the people I met. Although someone like Rainier Cowles and his friends demanded that one think the worst. I asked the Body Artist if Nadia had ever talked about him.

“I hardly knew her,” she said, her back still turned to me.

Rivka said, “I thought you said she came to you because—”

“Rivka, darling, don’t think so much. It will put wrinkles in your forehead.”

The younger woman’s neck turned pink at the crude put-down. When the Artist realized Vesta and I were both looking at her in disapproval, she turned and kissed Rivka on the mouth.

“I just mean,” the Artist added, “you must have misunderstood something I said.”

“Why did Nadia seek you out?” I asked, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place.

“She didn’t,” the Artist said. “Rivka mis—”

“Girl, enough of the lies,” Vesta said. “Nadia is dead. Allie is dead. Who else is going to die?”

“You knew Allie?” I asked. “Tell me about her.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” the Artist said. “We met at a music festival. She was deep in the closet, and wouldn’t see me back in Chicago because she was afraid someone would tell her parents. She’d only go to remote places, like festivals, to pick up women, and then she’d hop home like a frightened rabbit, back to mass, back to being a good hetero girl. End of story.”

“Not quite. How did you find Nadia?”

“Shoe’s on the other foot. Rivka, I’m freezing. Can you start cleaning and stop looking as if your dog just died?”

Rivka flushed again and resumed her scrubbing, working on the Artist’s vertebrae with the intensity of a sailor sanding a ship’s deck.

“How did Nadia find you?” I asked.

“Don’t know. She never said. Just showed up and started painting her designs. I was surprised—it’s not very often that someone with actual ability paints me. I was even more surprised when she asked me about Allie.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I didn’t remember Allie’s name. That pissed off Nadia, but what was I supposed to do? Keep track of every fucked-up woman who crawled into bed with me? It got her more pissed off to know I hadn’t kept track of Allie. I didn’t know the woman was dead. It was like the whole world was supposed to worship at Alexandra Guaman’s shrine, and, when I didn’t, it made me a cold bitch in Nadia’s eyes.”

In the mirror, I saw tears spilling down Rivka’s face. When she realized I was watching her, she started scouring even harder, which led the Artist to utter a sharp complaint. The Artist turned inside Rivka’s grip, took the sponge from her, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“Take a break, Rivulet. It’s been a long, hard day. I’ll work on my front while you get yourself some juice or a glass of wine.”

Rivka rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing paint across her face. She opened a small refrigerator tucked under a ledge and pulled out a bottled smoothie.

Karen spread cream over her breasts and started removing Nadia’s face. “It’s almost like a metaphor for life, isn’t it. One minute you’re here, the next minute you’re not.” Her voice was toneless. It was impossible to tell if she had any strong feelings about Nadia or Rivka, or even herself.

“Did she ever mention Rainier Cowles to you?”

Vesta flipped the brushes she’d been playing with onto the counter and looked at me. “Who is Rainier Cowles?”

“A lawyer,” I said. “He claims a special interest in the Guaman family. He may still be out front—he came here tonight with a tableful of corporate types. He said he wanted to examine the strip joint where his protégé’s daughter spent her last night.”

“The Body Artist isn’t a stripper,” Rivka cried. “How could you say such a thing? And then to pretend you admired the angel—”

“Whoa, there,” I interrupted. “I’m just reporting what he said, not my own beliefs.”

“Vesta doesn’t need to be my bodyguard while I have Rivka,” the Artist said.

The younger woman flushed again. Her slender neck, with little tendrils of hair curling from sweat, made her look as vulnerable as a daylily.

Vesta had slipped out of the room during Rivka’s outcry. She came back in now to report that the house was still rocking. “I think your corporate guys are there. Near the back of the room, left side? Go take a look, Buckley. Maybe it’ll refresh your memory.”

“I don’t need to refresh a memory I don’t have. If that’s why you came, Ms. Detective, I’m exhausted, and I’d like to finish paint removal so I can go to bed.” The Artist didn’t stop sponging her breasts while she spoke.

“I’m tired, too, between the weather, and death, and people lying to me,” I said. “Tell me what Nadia told you about Chad Vishneski.”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” the Artist said. “Rivka, finish my shoulders so I can put on a sweater. It’s freezing in here.”

Rivka jumped up and began scouring the cypress branch and pomegranate away from the Artist’s shoulders. “Vesta, can’t you help? Can’t you see how she’s shivering?”

“You’ve got her covered, or uncovered, Rivka,” said Vesta, “you’re doing fine.” She leaned against the counter and started fiddling with the brushes again.

“Chad Vishneski,” I repeated. “Every time Nadia painted on the Artist here, Chad exploded. If all Nadia cared about was her sister, then I’m guessing Chad knew her sister, right?”

“You’re the person making up the story.” The Body Artist put on a camisole and then pulled a heavy sweater over it. “Something about Nadia bothered him so much he shot her, and it could have been her cunt, since that’s what most guys see when they look at a woman.”

“And so you display yours as a defiant statement: If that’s all you think I am, that’s what I’ll be?” I asked. “Nadia found you because you’d slept with Allie. But how did she learn about your affair?”

“She never said, or, if she did, it was after I stopped listening to her.” The Artist slammed her palm against the dressing table. “She was more fucked up than her sister, if that’s what you want to know. She pretended she wanted to have sex with me, when obviously she was a virgin or at least not a dyke, and backed away into a corner when I started kissing her. And then she laid this heavy trip on me about her sister as if it was me, not God, who chose Allie’s sexuality.” The Artist pushed her straggling hair into a clip. “I told Nadia to go home and get a dildo and leave me alone, but she kept coming back to the club and doing her stupid painting. I am so bored by her and her hang-ups, and her crush on her sister, I can’t tell you how uninterested I am in all those girls.”

“Right. Warm and fuzzy, you are safe from ever hearing that criticism from me.” I started to zip my coat. “What’s the story on Rodney? Why did Olympia insist that he draw his chicken scratchings, even tonight?”

“You’ll have to ask Olympia. I don’t understand why she does anything.”

“She’s in financial trouble, I gather?”

“Not my problem.” The Artist took off her thong and put on a pair of conventional underpants, then pulled her jeans up over her legs, interrupting Rivka’s efforts to finish cleaning them. “If you’re having fun, I hate to ask you to leave, because I am an entertainer and I like my audience to have a good time. But the evening is over.”

“Talking to you is definitely my idea of a fun-filled evening, but I’ll let you go home.” I opened the dressing-room door, then turned back. “There is one last question. What did your mother call you when you were born?”

The Artist had been buttoning her jeans, but her hands dropped to the side. She stood completely still, not speaking, until she realized her friends were staring at her with the same interest, or even astonishment, that I was showing.

“I don’t remember that far back,” she finally drawled. “But, going on experience, she probably said, ‘Here comes Trouble.’”

Rivka cackled in delight, but Vesta said, “Are you investigating Buckley? Why? Why, don’t you think Karen Buckley’s her real name?”

“She was part of the situation that got Nadia Guaman murdered, and I’m having a hard time getting any real information, either about Nadia or the people she was involved with. So I’m digging. And for all the public exposure of herself, the Body Artist is surprisingly modest about her past. Which makes me wonder whether she had a past under a different name.”

The Artist was listening to me, her lips curled in a sardonic smile. I’d been hoping to provoke a response, but whatever else she was, whoever else she was, she had schooled herself to reveal nothing.

“So what if she did?” Vesta persisted. “People change their names for a hundred different reasons, and none of them are any of your business. Especially since the police arrested the guy who shot her.”

“His parents don’t believe their son was the killer,” I said. “I agreed to investigate even though I didn’t see much reason to question the arrest, but Karen has made me realize that I was wrong. Chad Vishneski may well have been framed.”

“She didn’t say any such thing,” Rivka cried. “She’s made you look pretty stupid all night.”

“She brought Vesta along,” I explained. “Even after someone wired glass to her paintbrush, the Artist didn’t think she needed a black belt on hand. But now murder has happened for real, and she’s scared.”