I Will Fear No Evil (52 page)

“Joan.”

“Yes, Gigi?”

“Hate to say this, hon—but Joe’s right and you’re wrong.”

“But—”

“Tell you later, we’ll talk while we pose. Grab the bathroom if you need to while I put dishes to soak; Joe wants to start.”

Joan was surprised to learn that she could visit with Gigi while they posed. But Joe assured her that he had the expressions he wanted from the photographs; he simply wanted them to hold still. He took even more pains to get them arranged than he had for the camera. Talk did not bother him as long as it was not to him. Nevertheless Joan tended to whisper while Gigi used the normal tones of a face-to-face conversation.

“Now I’ll tell you why you must not send money to Joe’s mother. But wait a sec—he’s done it again. Joe!
Joe
! Put on your shorts and quit wiping pigment on your skin.” Joe did not answer but did so. “Joan, if you’ve got money to throw away, flush it down the pot but don’t send it to Joe’s mother. She’s a wino.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Joe knows it, her Welfare Visitor knows it; they don’t let her have her family allowance in cash—she gets one of the pink checks, not a green one. Just the same she’ll take groceries around the corner and trade ’em for muscatel. That stomach trouble—forget it. Unless you want to help her drink herself to death. No loss if you did. The kids might be better off.”

Joan sighed. “I never will learn. Gigi, all my life I’ve given money away. Can’t say I did any good with it and I know I’ve done lots of harm. Me and my big mouth!”

“Your big heart, dear. This is one time not to give it away. I know, I’ve had a lot of her letters read to me. You trimmed that one, didn’t you?”

“Did it show?”

“To me it did—because I know what they sound like. I learned from the first one never again to have somebody just read them aloud to Joe; he gets upset. So I listen—I’m a quick study, used to learn my sides and cues just from two readings aloud when I was finding out I wasn’t an actress—and then I trim it to what Joe needs to hear. Figured you were smart enough to do it without being told and I was right—except that you could have trimmed it still more and Joe would have been satisfied.”

“Gigi, how did such a nice person as Joe—and so talented—come from such a family?”

“How does any of us happen to be what we are? It just happens. But—look, it’s never polite to play the dozens, is it?”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I meant it isn’t polite for
me
to. But I’m going to. I’ve often wondered if Joe was any relation to his mother. He doesn’t
look
like her; Joe has a picture taken when she was about the age he is now. No resemblance.”

“Maybe he takes after his father.”

“Well, maybe. But Paw Branca I’m not sure about; he left her years back. If Paw Branca is his Pop. If she has any idea who his father is.”

“I guess that’s often the case. Look at me—pregnant and not married; I can’t criticize.”

“You don’t know who did it, dear?”

“Well . . . yes, I do. But I’m never, never,
never
going to tell. It suits me to keep it to myself and I can afford to do it that way.”

“Well—none of my business and you seem happy. But about Joe—
I
think he’s an orphan. Somebody’s little bastard who wound up with this bitch though I can’t guess how. Joe doesn’t say so. Although he never talks much—unless he has to explain things to a model. But his mother has had one good influence on him. Guess.”

“I can’t.”

“Joe won’t drink. Oh, we keep beer for friends, when we can, but Joe never drinks it. He won’t touch pot. He won’t join a Circle if it calls for a high. You know how it is with drugs—all of them against the law but as easy to buy as chewing gum. I could show you three connections in this one complex where you can buy you-name-it. But Joe won’t touch any of it.” Gigi looked sheepish. “I thought he was some kind of a freak. Oh, I was never hooked but I couldn’t see any harm in an occasional trip with friends.

“Then I shacked with him and he was broke and I was, too, and groceries were our only luxury and—well, I haven’t touched anything since he married me. And don’t want to; I feel grand. New woman.”

“You certainly look happy and healthy. Uh, this ‘Big Sam,’ did he have a habit?”

“Not a habit. But Sam would eat, drink, or smoke anything somebody else paid for. Oh, he didn’t mainline—doesn’t fit the image for a guru and needle marks show—and he was proud of his body.”

“What did you do before you were his chela?”

“His meal ticket, you mean. Same thing—model and whore. What else is there to do? Babysat. Served drinks in my skin for a while but they let me go when they found a girl who could write—discrimination and I could have fought it as I never got my orders mixed up; my memory is better than people who have to write things down. But, hell, no use trying to hang on when they don’t want you. Joan, you said you’d been giving money away all your life.”

“I exaggerated, Gigi. Never had much until after World War Two. I just meant I wasn’t stingy even as a kid, when every nickel came the hard way.”

“ ‘Nickel’?”

“A five-cent piece. They used to be minted from a nickel alloy and were called that. Dimes and even dollars used to be silver. We actually had gold money when I was a kid. Then during the Great Depression I was flat broke for about six months—and other people helped me—and then later I helped some, sometimes the same people. But giving money away on a large scale I didn’t start until I had more money than I could spend or wanted to invest, and the tax laws at that time fixed it so that you could do more giving it away than by keeping it.”

“Seems a funny way to run things. But of course I’ve never paid taxes.”

“You just think you haven’t. You started the day you were born. We may eliminate death someday but I doubt if we’ll ever eliminate taxes.”

“Well . . . I won’t argue it, Joan, you must know more about it than I do. How much money have you given away?”

“Oh, it didn’t amount to more than a few thousand until after War Two and most of that was loans I knew I would never collect. Kept records for years—then one day I burned the record book and felt easier. Since then—I’d have to consult my accountant. Several millions.”

“Several
millions
! Dollars?”

“Look, cuddly, don’t be impressed. After a certain point money isn’t money, it’s just bookkeeping figures or magnetized dots in a computer.”

“I wasn’t exactly impressed. Confused. Joan, I don’t have any feeling of any sort for that much money. A hundred dollars I understand. Even a thousand. But that much is like the National Debt; it doesn’t mean
anything
to me.”

“Nor does it to me, Gigi; it’s like a chess game—a game played just for itself, and one I’m tired of. Look, you wouldn’t let me buy groceries even though I am helping to eat them. Would you accept a million dollars from me?”

“Uh . . . no! It would scare me.”

“That’s an even wiser decision than the one you made before breakfast. But page Diogenes!”

“Who’s he?”

“Greek philosopher who went around searching for an honest man. Never found him.”

Gigi looked thoughtful. “I’m not very honest, Joan. But I think I’ve found an honest man. Joe.”

“I think so, too. But, Gigi, may I say why I think you were smart to say No? Oh, it was a gag, sort of, but if you had said Yes, I would not have welched. But I would hate to do it to you. May I tell you why?—what’s wrong with being rich?”

“I thought being rich was supposed to be fun.”

“It’s fun, some ways. When you’re really wealthy—and I am—money is power. I’m not saying that power isn’t worth having. Take me, if I hadn’t had that much raw power, I wouldn’t be here chatting with you; I’d be dead. And I
like
it here, with your arms around me and Joe painting a picture of us because he thinks we’re beautiful—and we
are.
But power works both ways; the man—or woman—who has it can’t escape it. Gigi, when you’re rich, you don’t have friends; you just have endless acquaintances.”

“Ten minutes,” said Joe.

“Rest time,” said Gigi.

“Huh? But we’ve
been
resting.”

“So get up and stretch, it’ll be a long day. If Joe says we’ve posed fifty minutes, we have; he uses a timer. And have a cup of coffee; I’m going to have one. Coffee, Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Can we look?”

“No. Lunch break, maybe.”

“Must be going well, Joan, or Joe wouldn’t even make a guess. Joe, Joan tells me that a rich person can’t have friends.”

“Hey, waist, I didn’t finish. Gigi, a rich person
can
have friends. But it has to be someone who isn’t interested in his money. Like you. Like Joe. Even that doesn’t mean he’s a friend. First you have to find him. Then you have to
know
this about him, which may be—
is!
—hard to find out. There aren’t many such people; even other rich people aren’t likely to qualify. Then you have to win his friendship . . . and that’s harder for a rich man than it is for other people. A rich man gets suspicious and puts on a false face to strangers—and that’s no way to win friends. So in general, it’s true—if you’re rich, you don’t have friends. Just acquaintances, kept at arm’s length because you’ve been hurt before.”

Gigi suddenly turned around from the kitchen unit. “Joan. We’re your friends.”

“I hope so.” Joan looked soberly from Gigi to her husband. “I felt your love in our Circle. But it won’t be easy, Gigi. Joe looks at me and can’t help remembering Eunice—and you look at me and can’t help wondering what effect it has on Joe.”

“We don’t! Tell her, Joe.”

“Gigi’s right,” Joe said gently. “Eunice dead. She wanted you to have what you got. Me—over my gut ache, all done in t’ Circle.” (Boss, do you mind if I get out for a moment and trot around in my bones? A girl likes to be missed a
little
.) (Eunice, we must not hurt him. It was all we could manage to heal him.) (I know. But the next time he kisses us I’m going to be tempted to speak up and tell him I’m here.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum—and kark on you and Diogenes both. Let’s go home and phone Roberto.) (Sweetheart, we’ll stay here until we’ve cracked the bone and eaten the marrow.) (Okay, okay. That Gigi is as cuddly as Winsome, isn’t she?)

“Joe, I want us three to be friends and never break our Circle in our hearts. But I’m not going to put too much strain on it. Not fair to you, not fair to Gigi—not even fair to me. Gigi, I wasn’t saying I didn’t have
any
friends. I do have. You two. A doctor who took care of me and honestly doesn’t give a damn about money. The nurse he is about to marry who is the nearest thing to a sister I’ve ever had. My four driving guards—I’ve tried very hard with those four, Joe, because I knew they were your friends and Eunice’s. But that’s an odd situation; I’m more their baby they take care of than I am either employer or friend. And one, just
one
, friend left over from the days when I was Johann Smith—rich and powerful and mostly hated.”

Joe Branca said softly, “Eunice loved you.”

“I know she did, Joe. God knows why. Except that Eunice had so much love in her that it spilled over onto anyone around her. If I had been a stray kitten, Eunice would have picked me up and loved me.” (More than that, Boss.) (Sweetheart.) “And Joe, you know, or at least have met, my one friend who carried over. Jake Salomon.”

Joe nodded. “Jake okay!”

“You got to know Jake?”

“Close. Good aura.”

Gigi said, “Joe, is he the one you told me about? The fixer?”

“Same.” Joe looked back at Joan Eunice. “Ask Jake. Throne now.”

“Come on, Joan. He bites if you don’t pose the instant rest period is over.”

Joe fussed over getting them back into position, then moved both of Joan’s legs and one of Gigi’s into positions somewhat different from the original pose—stepped back and scowled at the change . . . turned to his easel and started scraping part of the canvas with a palette knife. Gigi said quietly, “Now we won’t get to look at lunch break.”

“Why not?”

“God only knows. I’m not sure Joe knows why he makes a change. But something was wrong and now he’s abandoned the cartoon and is working directly from us. So it won’t be far enough along that he’ll be willing to let us look at it that soon. So freeze, darling. Don’t sneeze, don’t get an itch, don’t even breathe deeply.”

“Not talk?”

“Talk all we like as long as we don’t move.”

“I won’t move. Gigi, I was
so
pleased to learn that Joe and Jake got to know each other well. Did you know Jake, too?”

“I’ve met him. Just in passing. Me leaving and Mr. Salomon arriving, it was while I was a hired model before I moved out on Big Sam.” (Twin, she’s being vague about this—and Jake has never mentioned laying eyes on Joe after clearing up business matters a long time ago.) (Eunice, what are you getting at? It was probably while Jake was straightening out your bank account, and the lease, and things.) (‘—and things,’ you are so right. Look, Boss, don’t be naïve. They were crying over the same girl—me—and Joe is ambi as an oyster when it suits him.) (Eunice, you have a dirty mind! (
Coo!
This from ‘No-Pants Smith.’ I know whereof I speak, twin; I lived with Joe for years. Don’t be so darned twentieth century.) (Eunice, of course you know Joe better than I do and I would never criticize Joe no matter what. I meant Jake.) (What makes you think you know Jake better than I do? And take a look at Joe—purty, ain’t he? Jake has eyes. Boss, what are we fussing about? Find out what Gigi knows.)

“I suppose,” Joan said carefully, “that Jake had to come here on business. Eunice died without a will and I know Jake arranged it so that Joe could draw against her bank account. There may have been insurance to clear up, too; I’m not sure.”

“Joan, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Jake, as Joe suggested?” (Because Jake will lie about it, Boss. Forget it, men lie about such things, far more than women do. Who cares where a man has lunch as long as he gets home in time for dinner? Not
me
. You give my ‘dirty mind’ quite enough to keep it busy. But, Boss, you’re a devious little slut—you can’t be truthful even to yourself.) (Wench, if I could get my hands on you, I’d spank you!) (And if you could, I’d let you. Kind o’ fun to be spanked, isn’t it, dear? Gets the action moving like a rocket.) (Oh, stuff it!) (Where, twin? What? And how big is it?)