Planet Willie (11 page)

“Try me,” I
say.

“Do you want
to hear this or don’t you?” she says. I do, and what I hear is that once
Alberto finished the painting, she decided to ask him to take it down to Texas. That was probably stupid too, but she wanted as few people as possible to know about
her plan, and she figured that if she paid Alberto well enough, he’d keep
quiet. Money wasn’t going to be a problem once she sold that painting.

She gave him
quite a bit of money up front. He was scared of flying – I nod sympathetically
at this – and wanted to drive, so she gave him the address and drew him a map,
even drew him a map of the living room so he’d know where to find the painting.
Hell, she even had a key to the front door, knew from some bitter personal
experience that daddy wouldn’t hire any help, and also knew that he went to bed
at promptly nine-thirty after taking two pills to help ease the pain in his
legs. And no security – even in the wheelchair daddy always said he was
security enough. It couldn’t have been easier, and for all she knows it was
easy. It’s just that she hasn’t seen Alberto since. He was supposed to swap the
paintings and return to New York immediately. Daddy would have never known the
difference – she didn’t know about the bad photograph at the time – and she’d
have had enough money to last her quite a few years. What would have been the
harm in that? But Alberto has disappeared. There’s been no word from him at
all. She can’t imagine he could sell it himself, but then who knows. And now
this blackmail, from people who are apparently Alberto’s friends.

“He must have
told them something,” I say.

“I guess,” she
says. “He’d done some copies for me before. Galleries do it sometimes for big
shows. Some insurance policies won’t even let you hang the originals on the
walls.”

“Which brings
us to Vail, Colorado,” I say.

“Are they
completely crazy?” she asks, searching my face for an answer. “I mean who ever
heard of painting fakes to destroy an original? And now they want me to pay
them a hundred thousand bucks for a painting I don’t have, while I’m living off
credit cards. And how do
you
intend to pay for that bid?”

“It’s really
the gesture that counts, don’t you think?” I say. “But permit me to ask you the
same question. Why the hell were you bidding? Why did you come out here?”

“I gave some
money one time to this charity. I thought maybe it would bring me some contacts.
Now they send me invitations to everything, and I got one for this auction,
which described everything they were offering, including the Blue Madonna. They
estimated it was worth a hundred thousand dollars. They’re idiots.”

“You must have
assumed it was a fake by then.”

“I didn’t
know
,”
she says. “I didn’t know what had happened to Alberto. I thought that maybe if
I could find a way to buy back the real painting for just a hundred thousand,
then I could still sell it to this buyer for anywhere up to a million.”

“And where
were you going to get that hundred thousand?”

“It’s the
gesture that counts, don’t you think,” she says, giving me a little wilted
smile, and just when I’m starting to pretend there might be some kind of future
for Fernanda and me, long lost Jeffrey returns bearing gifts.

“Who’s the
lady?” he says.

“International
criminal,” I say.

“Where’d you
go?”

“Where’d
you
go?” Tense moment here between Jeffrey and me. On the other side of the room
the music stops, there’s a bit of polite applause from the crowd, and the
chorus girls shuffle off to the side of the stage.

 “I’m
leaving,” Fernanda says.

“You’re not
going anywhere,” I say. “So what are we drinking, Jeffrey?” He’s got both hands
up to his bowtie like he’s making flight preparations.

 “Juice,” he
says.

“Juice,” I
say, raising the plastic cup he’s brought over. Don’t know how he’s managed to
do it, but this is not juice. Maybe it was juice once, or at least something
purple, but now it’s more that kind of cocktail you get by collecting empty
glasses and consolidating. Not that it isn’t refreshing, the Jeffrey Cooler.
Sort of like having all the nations of the world coexisting peacefully right
there in your mouth. World peace in cocktail form. 

“So,” he says,
hopping up into the chair next to Fernanda and banging the table again with his
feet. “Don’t fool with me, mister.”

“Wouldn’t
dream of it, Jeffrey. Just give me two minutes more with the lovely lady criminal
here, and I’ll keep my side of the bargain.”

“Lady wasn’t
no part of the bargain,” he says.

“Fair enough,
“ I say, “but I think as you get a little older, you’ll find that the lady is never part of the bargain, but you make time for her anyway.”

“Not me,
mister,” he says. He’s got the table more or less airborne at this point.
Powerful little feet, Jeffrey’s. The kid could go right out tomorrow and be
placekicker for the Broncos if he could get a little more height on him. That
and an attitude adjustment, since nobody seems to have mentioned to the kid
that there’s no I in team.

“Could I have
a word with you in private, Jeffrey?” He doesn’t like it, but he twists off his
chair and stomps past Fernanda around to my other side. “I need you to do
something for me,” I whisper, “and then after helicopters we’ll do jet
airplanes.”

“Man, you’ve
always got
some
thing, don’t you,” he says.

“You see that
purse she’s got beside her on the next chair?” He cranes his head around me,
then nods.

“I need you to
have a look in that purse. Top secret, you understand. Maybe stroll back across
the room, then ease back and sneak under the table.”

“I’ll handle
that,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“An address
book, phone numbers, any information she might have written down. But undercover,
Jeffrey. She catches us, we’re dead.”

“You’re dead,
mister. Not me. What about money?”

“Only as much
as you see fit, Jeffrey. Now get out of here, and I don’t want to know you
exist for about another five minutes.”

He scampers
off, and we both watch him go. “What was that all about?” Fernanda says.

“Top secret
mission,” I say. “Now where were we?”

“I don’t know
what to
do
, Willie,” she says. “I’ve got to find Alberto, but these
fakes are going to ruin me first.”

“Actually
they’re going to ruin your father,” I say. “Tell me more about this buyer
you’ve got lined up. Did Alberto know about him? Could he be trying to sell it
to him directly?”

“I’m not
that
dumb,” she says, as Jeffrey sneaks under the table out the corner of my eye.
“And I don’t think I want to tell you the buyer’s name either.”

“I’m not going
to try to sell it, sweetheart. I’m just trying to find it, and if you don’t
mind me saying it, I’m the professional here.”

She shakes her
head, grabs my plastic cup, and takes a little sip of the Jeffrey Cooler as her
purse disappears from the next seat. “He’s some kind of big Mexican
businessman. His name is Ricardo Queso.”

“You know
anything about him? Where he lives?”

“No,” she
says. “Galleries get calls like this all the time. Many buyers want to remain
fairly anonymous to avoid taxes.”

“Did you
describe the painting?” I say, being a bit more investigative here than may be
strictly necessary in order to give Jeffrey some time to work under the table.

“I only gave
him a vague idea,” Fernanda says. “I hadn’t called daddy yet when I spoke to
him. I hadn’t come up with my plan.”

“Sounds like
you still haven’t come up with it,” I say, as her purse appears again next to
her.

“You’re
useless,” she snaps, grabbing the purse as she stands and striding off in a huff.
I’ve gotten under her skin, and it’s enough to make you think that if you break
one more heart out there, you might just break your own. A man might start
thinking back on his whole romantic history, particularly the history of a springboard-obsessed
ex-wife he never saw swim, but with Jeffrey there under the table attempting to
disassemble my boots, it’s really no time to be dwelling on the past.

“Alright,” I
say, pulling up the tablecloth. He’s sitting down there eating crackers. “Come
out, come out, wherever you are.”

Kid wriggles
up into the chair Fernanda just vacated and hands over a scrap of paper.
Professor Barry Farsinelli, it says, and there’s a phone number written under
it. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

“Is that it?”
I say.

“Mister she
had all kinds of junk in there,” Jeffrey says. “Dirty tissues. Some crackers.
That’s all I found with something written on it.”

“What about
money?” I say.

“Dollar thirty
seven,” he says, shaking his head before looking up at me expectantly. I take a
long and easy sip from the plastic cup, pretending to savor the bouquet or
whatever.

“You
promised!” he shouts up in my face. And then all it takes is another sip or two,
and mister I’d be a helicopter with or without the kid. I mean we just leave it
all behind – Fernanda, the Albanians, and all the rest. Takes Jeffrey a bit by
surprise, I think. I’m talking G-forces and zero to sixty in under four
seconds. Get him up there wailing with the sheer joy of it all as we swoop from
one end of the room to the other. “Apache, mister, Apache attack helicopter!”
he’s screaming, banging his little fists down my hat like it’s the controls,
which I can assure you it isn’t.

“
Sir
,” I
hear something in spectacles say as we chop chop past. “Maybe this isn’t
exactly the time.”

“The time for
what
,
lady?” Jeffrey yells as he whips through the air, giggling like he’s made of
helium or one of your goofier gases. Personally I’d like to get up there with
him, but then who would keep the whole air-works afloat? Luckily one of us is
considering the technical side of things. Particularly since once we get out
into the hallway, making use of the helicopter to escape my creditors, who do we
find smoking cigarettes but Kafka, who despite his best efforts at being top
secret can’t help but get to feeling helicoptery himself, until I mean we’re
all up there, and honestly I’m not sure who’s the propeller and who’s the pilot
at this point. What’s certain is that we’re Apache times three, and mister I do
feel for the enemy.

13

When the bird
finally runs out of gas, Kafka and I find ourselves on two stools at one of the
hotel’s cozier bars. Our little adventure with Jeffrey has softened him up a
bit, although to tell the truth, the kid really doesn’t need to get any softer.
Not exactly cut out for the criminal life, our eight-foot Albanian. He’s
drinking whisky like we may not see tomorrow and telling me that Alberto’s been
painting copies for years. Fernanda has even found some buyers for him in the
past, using the gallery to pass them off as originals. Which means our wayward
Fernanda may be badder than I thought, but I doubt that’s bad enough for this
mess. The problem is, Kafka tells me, Alberto was getting real pretentious
about his art and started letting Kafka and some of the others do the copies. Then
he’d take a cut, which to hear Kafka tell it was never much.

“So you’re
telling me you even did the one he took to Texas?” I say.

“Texas?”

“Nevermind,” I
say. Apparently he and Twiggy have gotten a few steps behind while working on
their costumes. Costumes naturally remind me of Havisham, whom I mention.

“She’s in love
with Twiggy,” he says. “Sometimes we give her money for information.” Which
just about destroys all my dreams of domestic bliss with the gallery assistant,
and that’s quite a blow. So I take a sip of bourbon, and then it’s not so bad.
About this time I also realize that the bartender hasn’t taken his eyes off me
since we sat down. Biceps about as big around as all of Kafka, and he’s
agitating that cocktail shaker like it’s an essential part of his exercise
program. I’m thinking my Second Chance fame may have already spread to this
part of the hotel, but the look he’s giving me doesn’t exactly convey a great
love of orphans. It’s more like we’ve met before and he’s still regretting the
experience.

“We’re not
going to take it anymore,” Kafka’s mumbling. “Twiggy wanted to kidnap you.”

“I wish she’d told me,” I say. “Maybe we could have made a night of it.”

“Now she wants
to kidnap Fernanda,” Kafka mumbles, absolutely punishing that whiskey. “No
sense of proportion,” I manage to make out. “And in art the proportions are
fun-da-mental.”

And so it may
be in art, but in the kid it’s another matter entirely. He’s so smashed at this
point that he’s about as proportional as a painting by Mister Pablo Picasso,
and before I can react, he’s hit upon some new dumb idea and has flapped off
again into the endless corridors of the Aurora Hotel. Immediately I slap down a
hundred dollar bill on the bar and prepare to make off after him, but before I
can get the rotor turning, so to speak, the bartender has dropped one of those
arms down on my shoulder and I may be an inch or two shorter. “You’ve got to be
kidding me,” I say. “A hundred bucks doesn’t cover four drinks in this place?”

“Keep the
money, Willie,” the bartender says. “You know why I’m here, and it’s not to
serve you cocktails.”

“Oh boy,” I
say, wriggling out from beneath his arm. “That is honestly one of the better
pickup lines I’ve heard in hours.”  This guy looks like the Russian in a boxing
movie – blonde buzz-cut and cold, blue eyes that look like they could throw
their own punches. He leans over the bar and pulls me even closer to his face.

“You’re meant
to be doing the Lord’s work,” he growls, “but instead you’re on a world tour
and can’t be bothered to pray. You know what that means?” Of course I recognize
the guy now, a longtime hard-ass named Ralph over in Internal Affairs who’s
based in the Midwest. Dropped a barbell on his head while bench pressing, if I
recall correctly. Since I don’t often find myself in the Rocky Mountain region,
I don’t often run into him, but he’s one of the unimaginative angels they send
down when a case takes on unexpected dimensions. Needless to say, I’ve
encountered more than a few in my career. I like to call them my fan club.
“What that means,” he’s saying, “is that Saint Chief is pissed, and I’m even
more pissed to be down here talking to you when I could be kicking back on my
cloud.” See what I mean? Guy died and went up probably fifteen years ago, and
he’s still acting like it’s some kind of big accomplishment.

“Alright
Ralph, spare me the speech. We don’t want to exhaust your vocabulary. Please
give Saint Chief my apologies, and tell him I’ll be saying grace shortly. It’s
just that this case has gotten so complex, I honestly haven’t had the time.”

Ralph shakes
his head and frowns. “This case only got complex when you were given this
case,” he says. “Just get her to a church somewhere and save her soul, Willie.
That’s all you’re meant to do.”

“I’m working
on it, Ralph,” I say, “but unfortunately not all of us have souls as perfectly
toned as yours. Some of us need to work our souls back into shape, so to speak,
and Fernanda Shore is one of those people. I’m trying to put this in a way that
will make sense to you, Ralph, but from that look on your face, I fear I’m not
succeeding.”

“You’d be wise
to stop talking and start saving, detective, because they’ve got me down here
till you do, and I’m not happy about it. You want to know what happens when I
get unhappy?”

“I have no
idea, but I’m guessing it involves a barbell.”

He growls and
drops me back down onto the stool with a thud, which I take as my cue to start
investigating just about anything other than Ralph. So I hightail it for the
door, feeling pretty confident that I’ll lose him soon enough. Losing people
just so happens to be a specialty of mine, and Ralph’s not exactly Sherlock
Holmes or any other detective you could name with a clear conscience.

Back out in
the endless corridors, Kafka’s nowhere to be found, and I’m admittedly lost
myself, walking for what seems like miles. You could carpet the entire state of
Delaware with what they’ve got laid down in that hotel. Delaware: The Carpet State. Not to mention the plant nursery you could establish just with the roses they’ve
got on the side tables down these corridors. I mean it’s more or less the Rose
Bowl Parade in corridor form, and I figure nobody will miss a little pink rose,
and that this little pink rose may well find true fulfillment tucked into my
buttonhole. Your finer Italian suit will come with the buttonhole already poked
through the lapel with the understanding that this suit will need a pink rose
to make it as devastating as it needs to be. Don’t ask me the point of the
buttonhole on suit lapels, but once you’re gone and looking back, I think
you’ll find that it’s often the pointless things that still mean the most.

Even with the
buttonhole rosy, however, it can’t be denied that I’ve been walking so long
it’s starting to feel like exercise, and I’m about ready to give in and call it
a night when I catch sight of Kafka darting through an open doorway. I follow
him into what may well be the Second Chance Society benefit, I’m thinking,
which is exactly where I don’t want to be. The plant-works is no longer posted
at the door, however, and as I poke my head around the corner, I see that this
is not the same conference room at all. Same chandeliers, same tables, same
stage, except the people are Saudi and the dancers are of the belly variety. A
dozen of them are up on stage making enough fleshy magic to short circuit your
average cardiovascular system, which makes me all the more grateful for my
invigorating little stroll.

God bless
Saudi Arabia, I’m thinking, and go ahead and bless Kafka too. Then, as usual,
I’m wondering if God’s name inadvertently got me through to the switchboard
there, in which case I’d really better get in an official prayer just as soon
as I finish pondering the sacred mystery of the belly, which might somehow turn
out relevant to the case. Not to mention the mystery of Kafka, who’s somehow
managed to get himself a seat right up front with a table of sheiks in red and
white headscarves matching the picnic-patterned tablecloths the hotel has laid
out for the occasion. These people have got it together in the style department,
excepting the fact that there are no women present except for those dancers,
and I wouldn’t have minded a quick reunion with my former blue-scarved paramour,
or at least a little hello.

In any case, I
go right on up to Kafka’s table and introduce myself to the assembled sheikdom
and their matching mustaches. Can’t really make out too much of what they say,
what with the finger cymbals going up there on the stage, but from what I
understand every single one of these fellas is called Mohamed.

“Think we
could get a drink around here?” I say, which seems to get their attention. They
come out with these sheikly smiles so tight I’m worrying we may have to call
the house doctor for the treatment of pulled muscles. “Won’t you join us for
tea,” one finally says in this British accent. Not sure who’s said it at first,
but I take my cue from a little lifting of the mustache on the biggest one.
Then he turns his head a millimeter or two and within milliseconds a few
younger minor sheiks in matching headscarves but without the mustaches have
surrounded the table with silver teapots, silver trays of little gold-painted
glasses, and cookies with almonds laid on top. It’s almost enough to make you
get excited about tea. I look over at Kafka, hoping he’s appreciating this, but
Kafka’s discovering the female belly and may or may not realize that I’ve
entered the room. Then the sheik’s pouring out tea from a height of about six
feet, which makes the whole process into a sort of sporting event, and let me
tell you he doesn’t spill a drop. I thank the whole table and promptly go back
to those bellies, specifically the one being wiggled by a dark-haired beauty in
pink and sequins. Most of the action’s in the hips, and they get to jumping so
fast with those silver discs flying round that really it’s more than any man
can handle, and I mean strictly from a mechanical point of view. She’s got a
few gears in there that your average human being isn’t even aware of. They say
we only use ten percent our brains, and I guess it’s the same with hips.

“Do they
please you?” says the Mohamed next to me. I take a sip of tea and look back up
to the stage to give this some proper reflection. Each of the girls is wearing a
sequined arm band with a number on it, I now see, and occasionally a guy standing
off in the wings in a pin-striped suit and a gold tie will make a little hand
signal for one to dance off out of sight and out of competition. I’m rooting
for twelve but am also partial to eight, or eleven, and twenty-four for that
matter. “Do you have a favorite?” Mohamed says.

“I guess three
plus seven plus eleven makes twenty one,” I say. “Though my math may be off and
it’s twenty-two.” Mohamed laughs and slaps me on the back. Have to say I’m
getting to like Mohamed, and that goes for them all, at least as far as our
table is concerned. Give every indication of being comatose, but there’s a lot
more going on than meets the eye.

Soon enough
we’re down to ten bellies, and you can feel the tension mount. Over the speaker
system a woman starts wailing like she’s being axed to a symphony of synthesizers,
and the girls all line up and file down off the stage into the crowd. Three of
them head straight for us, which is yet another advantage of being seated with
a tableful of Mohameds with bank accounts. Before you know it, the girls are up
on the table scattering almond cookies, such that you feel you’d be neglecting
your duty as a man and a human being in general if you didn’t get up on that table
and dance a turn yourself. Have to get a little boost from Mohamed, but he’s
pleased to oblige, and soon he has all the gathered sheiks up on their feet and
clapping with their hands in the air. I’m feeling good and throw caution to the
wind, along with my suit jacket and my belt, including that rubied buckle. Getting
the rhythm, I am. Moving to the music. Moving like it’s the last chance I may
get to move like this for a while, because – and I don’t guess this needs to be
said – nobody ever did a belly dance in heaven.

“Save some of
that for later,” says number twelve through the veil as she dances up next to
me, rolling her dark Arabian eyes as I undo the fourth button of my shirt.
Jesus, she can move, and I do my best to pound my boots on the table in time
with her bare heels.

“Your English
is perfect,” I say, whipping that belly around such that they’ll have me in a spangled
bikini before long.

“Yeah, well go
figure,” she says. “They bussed us in from Colorado Springs. We do all the
conferences up here.”

“The hands,” I
say, doing a little wave from the fingers of my left hand to the fingers of my
right. “Never had the occasion to visit Colorado Springs, but explain to me
about the hands.”

“Maybe just
hold them up around your ears and sort of let them float there,” she says,
turning to shimmy in front of Mohamed so fast that two breasts become one and
you start thinking that second breast’s overrated. Never realized it before
now. Took a girl from Colorado Springs to make you reconsider. Which I do,
along with a few chorus line kicks with my hands on my hips for the benefit of
Kafka, who’s up on his feet now and slamming his hands together to the beat,
putting all the concentration he’s got left after umpteen drinks into making
those palms come together, such that he may not even pick up on it when I get
to shimmying myself. The whole place is up on its feet and roaring, and I get
to pointing out head wraps in the crowd and dedicating patented moves of my own.
I’m talking about the Inadvisable Moonlanding. I’m referring to the Extravagant
Chipmunk. And then of course ultimately the Great White Wildebeast, a
combination of acrobatics and crowd roar and maybe too many bourbons that will
never be repeated again except maybe in more intimate groups of two or three.

Then the music
stops, and I find I’m up there all alone, surrounded by screaming Mohameds,
taking a couple of low bows to the applause, in a sheer panic that I may
actually have won the competition as a walk on and may be taken back on a jet
plane to Saudi Arabia to join a harem, or whatever they’re giving for the prize.
So I just ease on back down to the floor and settle back into my seat for a sip
of tea, for lack of anything more fortifying. The sheiks come around to offer
their congratulations, then everybody settles down for what’s left of the
cookies, excepting Kafka, who’s still up banging his palms to that music in his
mind until finally somebody pulls him down to his chair.