Cold Shoulder (17 page)

The buzzer sounded and a flushed, excited Art rushed in, carrying a small gym bag ready for his workout next door. ‘I think, my dear, I just made a killing. Last night I had a friend over who knows a big dealer out of New York. He saw the new stuff and went ape-shit! He’s back tonight and he’s not just interested in one or two but the whole show!’

Lorraine was genuinely pleased as it also meant more money for her. Art had promised that as soon as business picked up she would get a better wage. He danced around, checked the mail, and then said he would be next door if anyone wanted him.

She took another look at the canvases hanging on the walls, still not impressed with the daubs of colour and squiggles that the new Art discovery had supplied.

Later, Nula dropped by. She put her arms around Lorraine. ‘You know, I think you’re looking even better. As soon as your hair grows a bit more, ask Didi to style it — she’s an artist. She can colour as well — she does mine, and she does Holly’s—’ She froze, and covered her mouth. ‘Oh, God, I forgot.’

‘There’s a big article in the paper this morning, and a photograph.’

Nula looked at it. ‘She was much more beautiful than that, a real stunner. You know, the cops have been out every night. Terrible for business, but they reckon this maniac only does whores, so everybody’s a bit uneasy. First time they came round, hardly any of us out, but you know business is business. And I doubt if he’d come our end of the street, we just have our usuals and a few that have been tipped off.’

Lorraine smoothed her skirt. ‘All the same, you two should look after yourselves. Take the vehicle registration of the johns you’re wary of — or better still, don’t go with them.’

Nula cocked her head to one side. ‘That’s just what the cops told us.’

Lorraine smiled. ‘Well, make sure you do it.’

Nula opened her tapestry bag and took out a packet. ‘Give this to Art for me, would you? It’s just some more postcards, and our rent. See you soon.’

Lorraine put the packet in the desk drawer and was just about to shut it, when she noticed a thick wad of notes secured with just an elastic band. She looked to the door, then back to the open drawer. She took the money out and flicked through it. There was at least two or three thousand dollars. She held it a moment, tapping it in her hand, then replaced it.

About an hour later Art returned, pink from his workout, his bald head gleaming. He dropped his gym bag and fractionally adjusted a canvas.

‘You mind if I say something?’

He turned, and smiled. ‘Oh, you sounded so stern, why should I?’

‘There’s a lot of money in the drawer, Art, and it’s not locked or anything. Anyone could just walk in and take it.’

Art danced over and banged open the drawer. ‘I meant to put it in the bank this morning but I forgot and I didn’t want to leave it in the health club.’

Lorraine watched as he tossed the money into his gym bag.

‘Right, I have to go. Will you lock up, leave the keys with Hector next door?’ Then, pursing his lips, he delved into his pocket, dragged out his wallet, and started counting out ten-dollar bills. ‘Whoops… I’m a wee bit short. Can I give you the rest on Monday, darling?’

Lorraine flushed. ‘I need it all today, Art. I have to go somewhere this weekend.’ She couldn’t help but flick a look to the gym bag.

‘That belongs to a friend.’

She shrugged. ‘Monday will have to do.’

‘Okay.’ Art smiled. ‘Is that your paper? Have you finished with it?’

She passed it to him. He glanced at it and then held up Holly’s photograph. ‘I didn’t know her but she was a friend of Nula and Didi’s.’

He waltzed out, and the door slammed behind him. Remembering Nula’s package she hurried after him, only to see him driving away in a cab. She felt pissed off: she needed her money to buy a little something for the girls. She put the package away, then opened the drawer again, took it out and looked at it. Nula had said that her rent was in it; maybe she could just take out what she was owed and leave a note.

Lorraine eased open the package, pulling the Scotch tape away, making sure she didn’t rip the paper. As well as some postcards wrapped in a sheet of paper, there was a brown manilla envelope. She crossed to the kettle, and turned it on to steam open the flap. Inside was a big pile of notes. She was surprised by the amount — unless they were behind with their rent. She counted out sixty dollars for herself, and was about to replace the rest and reseal the envelope when she wondered if the postcards were meant for the gallery, so she opened the paper.

Lorraine sat down. She felt sick. It wasn’t that she hadn’t come across pornographic material when she was on Vice, but each of these was especially revolting because they featured Nula and Didi. Maybe if she’d been more together, she would have realized when she visited that they used their apartment for photographic work — there were certainly enough props. She sighed, looking intently at each disgusting picture, sad that Nula and Didi could subject themselves to such degrading acts, displaying their genitals, their heavy breasts. They featured together, just the two of them, on the first few cards, and then they were joined by various animals and masked figures, and on four cards a pretty sweet-faced blonde girl appeared, her face childlike but her breasts over-large and her curved body taut and firm. Her eyes unfocused, she looked as if she had been drugged, but Lorraine recognized her immediately. It was Holly. No wonder Didi and Nula had been so upset. They knew her because both had screwed her. If the cards had been just of Nula and Didi, even with Holly, Lorraine would perhaps have been less upset, but the rest showed obviously under-age boys committing homosexual acts.

Lorraine lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She was no innocent — in fact, it was more than likely she herself had taken part in some perverted session in the past to make a buck. She paced the gallery and kept on returning to the postcards, picking them up and putting them down. She was uncertain what, if anything, to do. Her first thought was to send them to the police, let them sort it out — especially as they featured Holly. She asked herself if the girl’s murder could be connected to the pictures. She doubted it — it could just be coincidence. But one thing was for sure: Holly was no innocent and already on the game, so she would have been fully aware of what she was doing. Then Lorraine looked again.
Had
Holly been drugged? If so, had she been forced into the pornographic session against her will, or agreed to do it because she was drugged?

‘It’s not my business,’ she said aloud. She was angry with herself for opening the package. It changed everything. If she sent the contents to the police, they would question Nula and Didi. They might come to the gallery, too. Art was involved, so she would also be questioned — by Bill Rooney. So much for feeling safe and secure. The thought of having Rooney barging into her fragile existence made her feel weak. She was caught, trapped first by stealing the wallet from the man who had attacked her, and then because, as it turned out, it wasn’t his wallet after all but Norman Hastings’s. She even remembered the dead man’s name, could picture his face on his driving licence. ‘What a fucking mess!’

Lorraine lit another cigarette, sat at the desk propping her head on her hands. She steadied herself. She knew the wallet was of no great importance to the investigation. More to the point, and this she knew, too, was that her attacker had been in possession of it. It was obvious he had to have taken it from Hastings’s body. If the newspaper reports could be relied on, and Hastings’s body had been discovered in his own car, then it was surely the same vehicle driven by the man who had attacked her. So it meant that all the time she was in the shopping mall car park, the dead man had been in the trunk of the car.

The officers who had come to the apartment had been trying to trace her, but had never returned. Were they still looking for her? She swore, wishing she had kept the newspaper, but she was certain there had been no mention that the police were looking for anyone seen in Hastings’s car that afternoon. She had given them a good enough description, they even repeated it in the paper, so they must be taking it seriously. There was nothing else she could do.

‘This is all I fucking need!’ she said aloud, as she stubbed out her cigarette, immediately lighting another. Her neck felt tense, her whole body was strained. She began taking everything out of the drawer — leaflets, notes, letters — without knowing what she was looking for. There was no diary, and nothing of any particular importance. She flicked through the supposed sales ledgers, noting the prices Art had paid for his canvases. They were all low. According to the sale-or-return memos, most of the paintings she had presumed sold had been returned. She started to replace the papers, and then stared hard at the money and the photographs.

‘Shouldn’t open people’s private property.’

Lorraine gasped. She hadn’t heard him return — the buzzer again! Picking up the photographs, Art began to shuffle them, stacking them, clicking them against the desk as he straightened them to stuff back into the envelope. ‘I’ve been watching you sifting through my desk. What were you looking for?’

Lorraine flushed. ‘I don’t know.’

Art replaced the photographs, folding the envelope into a tight packet. ‘Well, Lorraine, did they turn you on?’

‘No, no, they didn’t.’

‘Takes all kinds, dear.’

‘I suppose it does…’

Art unzipped his bag, tucked the photographs inside. ‘I only came back because I felt bad about not giving you your money. Lucky I did. I’d forgotten Nula was delivering these.’

Lorraine moved out from behind the desk, gesturing to the gallery. ‘This is all a front, isn’t it? A sham.’

Art glanced around. ‘Not all sham, dear. Sometimes I sell some, but I’ve been ripped off so many times, I keep it on as a kind of pastime. Maybe one day when I’ve made enough dough I’ll be able to find some real talent. This stuff is from Venice Beach, I buy it for peanuts.’

Lorraine shook her head. ‘The porn sells, does it?’

Art looked at her, his eyes so enlarged by his glasses that they seemed like a gargoyle’s. ‘How else do you think I’ve been able to stay open? I have regular customers, you met most of them. In fact, if I recall, you called them.’ He picked up the cash and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Here, it’s a bonus.’

Lorraine didn’t take it. ‘The pictures of Holly, the girl who was murdered…’

‘What?’

‘There are pictures of Holly.

Art shrugged. ‘Well, they won’t bother her, will they?’

‘Maybe the police would be interested, though.’

He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t see why, she was obviously enjoying herself and nobody forced her. In fact, I didn’t even know the girl.’

‘Who takes the photographs?’

He sighed, hands on his hips, then looked back at Lorraine. ‘None of your fucking business. Now, let’s just forget this, shall we?’

She stared at him, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. ‘Why don’t you make it worthwhile for me to not make it my business?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You’ve got under-age kids on those pictures — so pay me. And… like you said, it’s not my business.’

Art hesitated. He picked up the money, seemed to weigh it in his hand before he made the decision. He threw it at Lorraine. ‘You know what my big problem in life is? I trust people. I make friends with people, I give them a break, and they always fuck me over it. Take it, you scrawny, ungrateful bitch!’

She picked up the money and stuffed it into her pocket. As she reached over for her cigarettes and lighter, Art gripped her wrist. ‘Just one thing, sweetheart. I want you to sign for that cash, just as a safeguard for me. Just in case you want to rap about me and—’

Lorraine released her wrist and rubbed it. He was strong and he had hurt her. ‘You’ll never see me again, I promise you that.’

Art didn’t speak another word. Lorraine signed for the money, walked to the door, opened it, and the buzzer shrilled. She turned, a half-smile on her face. ‘You should get this fixed, you know, Art.’

As the door closed quietly behind her, he kicked at the desk. He was — and always would be — a shit-head when it came to sniffing out people.

Lorraine did some shopping. She was feeling quite high and kept on touching the thick wad of notes in her pocket. She bought two dolls for her daughters, some cans of paint, brushes and a small wardrobe. She bought some tights, underwear, a shirt and, finally, a nightdress for Rosie. Laden with goods she caught a taxi home.

Rosie’s jaw dropped as Lorraine staggered in. ‘Jesus Christ! What did you do? Win a lottery?’

Lorraine laughed. ‘We sold four paintings and this is my bonus!’

Rosie peered at the cans of paint. ‘Who’s gonna do all this, then?’

‘You and me!’

Rosie snorted, but by now she was busy unwrapping her gift. She took out the white cotton nightdress. ‘Oh, wow! This is pure cotton,
and
it’s new!’

She saw two boxes. ‘What’s this, shoes?’ She opened one, and looked at Lorraine. Wow! I might act like a mental nine-and-a-half-year-old, but…’

Lorraine took back the box, closing the lid. ‘They’re for my daughters.’

‘So you made contact, then?’

Lorraine walked out without answering. She had left more bags piled outside on the steps and yelled for Rosie to lend a hand. Jake arrived, unannounced, and was immediately recruited to carry in the rest of the paint, trays and rollers. He began to wish he hadn’t dropped by as he was cajoled into shifting furniture to clear the room ready for painting. He promised to return later in the evening to help out some more. Lorraine didn’t say goodbye — she was carefully putting the two doll boxes under a cushion in case they got damaged.

She and Rosie had a snack and then, draped in old nightdresses Rosie was now prepared to throw out, set to work. After seeing the way Art, Didi and Nula had transformed the gallery, Lorraine imagined it would be easy, but she had underestimated the threesome’s expertise. By the time Jake reappeared they had covered only one wall.

He and Lorraine finished the main room and by the time they had pushed all the furniture back into place, it was after midnight. Jake promised he’d return in the morning so they could start on the kitchen and maybe get around to the bedroom.