Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom (23 page)

“I’ll be damned,” she said.

Duncan’s arms were crossed over his knees and his head rested on his arms. He snored softly. Tiffy found a blanket on a shelf in the closet and draped it across his shoulders and knees. She sat half naked on the floor and watched him sleep. The anger had vanished. She did not know where it went. She just knew it was gone. She kissed his cheek.

“Good night, sweet Duncan,” she whispered.

She turned off the light and undressed. She lay on the couch and pulled the sleeping bag up to her shoulders. She fell asleep and dreamed of two teenagers lying in a pasture’s midnight grass beneath a summer sky, holding hands and watching shooting stars flame across a diamond studded heaven, burning their way into oblivion like a young woman’s anger.

Hours later, Pris found Tiffy on Duncan’s couch, naked after the sleeping bag had fallen to the floor. Duncan slept on the floor against the wall, still fully clothed. If he was down to so much as his shorts Pris would have walked away and never returned. But looking at him, she knew whatever he had done, he had done in kindness. She kissed his forehead. Duncan mumbled something that was probably her name. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw her. He saw Tiffy lying naked on his couch.

“Pris,” he said, panicked, “it’s not what you think.”

“Yes it is,” she said, and she kissed him again. “And I love you for it.”

Sixteen

Duncan was painting Roscoe and Sven when Misty came up. She collected empty bottles and got full ones from the refrigerator. She passed out beers and stood behind Duncan.

“That’s better than the others,” she said. “It’s more natural.”

Duncan stepped back. She was right, though he could not say why. The scene itself was unremarkable, just two men looking at television. He scratched his head with a brush. Three days he had vainly tried to paint them. The first day he posed them arm wrestling. But that just looked posed. The next day he faced them nose to chin (Sven was taller) looking belligerent. That just looked stupid. The third day he decided to paint when inspiration struck. But both were fidgety and they left prematurely to have a beer. Duncan had plenty in the refrigerator but they declined his offer. He had wondered if he offended them. Apparently not, as both returned that morning. And now they seemed happy watching professional wrestling on the television Benjamin had purchased the day before.

“Got tired of watching you paint,” Benjamin explained when he brought the set up.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Misty asked.

“Which one?” Roscoe asked.

It pained Misty to ask the question and the answer, which reminded her two women remained queued before her, near collapsed her lungs.

“Pris,” she finally said, “the other one is your ex-girlfriend, right?”

“That’s right.”

After Pris woke him that morning, he had draped the sleeping bag over Tiffy. She stirred at the touch of nylon, smiled, and introduced herself. Duncan watched nervously, but the two got along, and Pris suggested they go to breakfast. Duncan did not know if he was relieved or terrified. He thought he would make it until Tiffy suggested a threesome. He was halfway into a swallow of buttermilk pancakes. The ensuing coughing fit did not require a Heimlich. Pris smoothly declined while slapping his back. Her refusal realigned his estimate of her sexuality to roughly eighty percent heterosexual.

“So,” Misty persisted, “where is she?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for three days.”

“Have you called?”

“I would have,” Duncan said, “but she never gave me her number.”

“Wouldn’t matter,” Roscoe said, “she doesn’t have a phone.”

“Everyone has a phone,” Sven said.

Roscoe shrugged. “Pris doesn’t.”

“What do you want to see Pris about?” Duncan asked.

Actually, Misty did not. It was just an excuse to come see Duncan. And now, when asked, she was unprepared to answer.

“To settle a bet,” she finally said. “I said Duncan could paint anyone to look sympathetic and Cassandra said there was at least one of three classes of people he couldn’t.” The conversation had occurred, though it involved no wager. “Child molesters, murderers, and personal injury lawyers.”

“Why do you need Pris?” Sven asked, “Just ask Duncan.”

“I don’t know.” Misty blushed. “Maybe someone close to you can know you better than you know yourself.”

“He’s already painted a murderer,” Roscoe said. “Wilson did time for manslaughter. They charged him with second degree murder but he pled it down. And Peewee’s done time for statutory rape.”

“That shouldn’t count,” Misty said. “We all thought Amber was eighteen or she wouldn’t have been hired.”

“I don’t care how old she looked, she was fourteen and built for sin and Peewee did her. He told the judge it was not right for a girl so young to have a body so old, but her daddy brought her to court in pigtails with an ace bandage around her tits and the judge slammed him.”

“What about a personal injury lawyer?” Misty asked.

“I don’t know,” Duncan said, “I’ve never tried.”

Roscoe stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Duncan kept painting. Something about the canvas bothered him, even though it was turning out as well as
Roscoe
and
Drive By,
though not as well as
Sleeping Pris
. Roscoe returned with a thin man in a rumpled suit with a crumpled shirt and a polyester clip-on tie with a spaghetti sauce stain near the knot. His dyed yellow hair had gray roots, and his small, red eyes were set so wide he could almost see inside his ears. He gave Duncan a business card.
Stuart Yog Esq.
, it said
, Divorce, Personal Injury, and Worker’s Compensation on a Contingency Basis
.

“You must be Delaney. Roscoe told me what happened.” He examined Duncan’s face. “Healing nicely, I’m afraid. Did you take pictures?”

“Well, no. I painted a self-portrait though.”

Duncan set the painting of Roscoe and Sven on the floor. He put his self-portrait on the easel. Yog studied the face on the canvas.

“Ok. Any idea who did it?”

“Yes, but no proof.”

“Doesn’t matter. Does he have money or insurance?”

“It was a she.”

“Ouch. So much for your manhood. Sorry. Not so much jury appeal, but that’s what we got. How is she set up financially?”

“Very well, I believe. But how can we prove …”

“Prove schmoove
.
We sue for a million and settle for whatever her insurance company is willing to pay. We never set foot in court and split the settlement fifty-fifty.”

“But what if she didn’t do it?”

“Who are you, Prince Valiant? Who the hell cares? As long as we can convince nine out of twelve citizens it doesn’t matter if she did it or not.”

“I thought a contingency fee was one third,” Sven said.

“Half, third, who’s counting? What do you say, sport?”

“Let me think about it.”

“All right,” Yog said. “But don’t think too long.” He squashed a small creature crossing the floor.  “The cockroaches might get impatient.”

“That was a spider,” Misty said.

“Who the hell cares? It’s still an insect.”

“Actually, spiders are arachnids,” Duncan said.

“You’re too much,” Yog said.

After Yog left, Roscoe said, “Well, what do you think?”

Duncan took the self portrait down and put the painting in progress back on his easel. “Cassandra wins the bet,” he said.

They spent the rest of the night arguing over the relative worth of insects and arachnids. Duncan contended all spiders, save the poisonous varieties, were beneficial and should be spared. Misty dissented, maintaining that spiders were yucky. All agreed it proper to seek out and kill cockroaches while ladybugs should be granted life everlasting.

“Caterpillars are fair game,” Roscoe said.

“But not butterflies,” Sven said. “They are so beautiful.”

Misty said, “Don’t butterflies come from caterpillars?”

“Just kill the hairy ones then,” Roscoe said. “And flies. I hate flies.”

“Kill all the flies you want,” Sven said, “but don’t touch butterflies.”

“All right, already! I said butterflies were okay.”

“Wasps die,” Misty said, “but bees live.”

Duncan laughed. “And crickets must always be spared.”

Roscoe looked confused. “Why?”

“Because they sing in the night.”

Duncan was almost drunk, and the thought of crickets serenading the darkness seemed profoundly beautiful.

Roscoe stood. “It’s late.”

“It’s only ten-thirty!” Duncan protested. “I’m almost done.”

“I got to get back to the Hollywood. You with me, Sven?”

Sven rose. “Yes. I would like that.”

“All right. I can finish without you.”

After they left Misty asked, “How come you never come into the Hollywood?”

“I don’t know. I guess I wouldn’t feel comfortable there.”

“Why not? We’re all there because we want to be.”

“Really. Did you grow up thinking,
gee, I’d really like to be a stripper?”

“Of course not. And thanks for making me feel like dirt.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re there for the money, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don’t want to support it.”

“Oh, a feminist man.” Misty nodded. “Feminist men just want to get laid.” It was something she had once heard Sheila say to Pris.

“All men do. It’s how you go about it that matters.”

Benjamin came in an hour later when Duncan had regained most of his sobriety. He stood beside him and studied the painting.

“You never told me Roscoe was gay,” he said.

“Say what?”

Benjamin pointed to the space on the couch between Roscoe and Sven. Roscoe gripped a beer in his right hand and Sven held one in his left. The hands between them were tenderly clasped.

“Oh my god,” Misty said.

“Looks like he’s a nickel short of a three dollar bill,” Benjamin said.

Cassandra burst into the studio. “Duncan, come quick! It’s Pris!”

“What’s wrong?” Duncan’s heart threatened to escape his chest via trachea. “Is she ok?”

“I don’t think so,” Cassandra said.

It was like he was back in the dream.

Everything was identical, from the steel pole impaling the raised stage to the small footlights, the mirrored walls, and the peeling veneer on the particle board tables. Pris stood on stage, her back against the mirrors, naked except for her black silk panties. Her blonde hair was loose and wild and she had a wolverine cast to her eyes. Her naked chest labored with each panting breath. She held a bloody, splintered chair leg. Stuart Yog lay on the floor by the footlights, a gash on his scalp running from forehead to ear and coloring his gray roots red. Roscoe and Sven stood on either side of Yog watching the stage. Sheila stood across from Pris, trying to calm her, but when she stepped closer Pris swung the chair leg towards her.

“I need a doctor,” Yog moaned.

“Fuck you,” Roscoe said.

“I’ll sue your ass. I’ll close this place down.” He tried to stand. He fell back to his knees. “Someone call the police. That bitch nearly killed me.”

“Fuck you twice,” Cassandra yelled. “Asshole.” She sat at the bar. “He tried to stuff a twenty down her panties. She told him to put it on the stage. You can’t take money directly from a customer, you know.”

“I did not know that,” Benjamin said.

“That’s solicitation. You can get busted for that. Anyway, this jerk puts the twenty back and takes out a hundred and jams it and his hand down her pants. Roscoe was in the john otherwise the prick wouldn’t have tried it. So Pris slapped him and the bastard slapped her back.”

Duncan nodded. “Which is when she picked up the chair.”

“Uh huh. Smashed it over his head. Then she backed into the corner with the chair leg. No one can get close. We might have to call the cops.”

“No police,” Duncan said. He climbed onto the stage.

“I’m handling this,” Sheila said, her eyes angry.

“How long have you been handling it?”

“A couple of minutes.”

“More like ten,” Yog said.

Roscoe kicked him. “Fuck you,” he said.

Duncan said. “Let me try.”

Sheila smiled. “Go ahead, hot shot. I hope she caves your skull in.”

“Are you finally satisfied?” Pris said when Duncan approached. She swung the chair leg up and down her body. “To see me like this? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Duncan removed his jacket and stepped forward. “Not like this.”

“Stay away.” She brandished the chair leg. “I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t.”

He gently wrapped his jacket around her. She dropped the chair leg and sobbed. Duncan held her and buried his head in her hair. It was damp with sweat and faintly acrid.

“It’s Bolo,” Pris said.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“How did you know?”

Duncan could not say Bolo predicted his own death in a dream. He tried a variation of the truth. “I can’t imagine anything else could hurt you so.”

Sheila glared at the man holding the woman she loved. The red fury she had felt towards Duncan was replaced by a cold rage tempered by her desire for Pris’s happiness. She walked off the stage, pausing only long enough on her way to the door to army boot Stuart Yog in the ribs.

“Uhngh!”
Stuart Yog moaned. “Won’t anyone help me?”

Benjamin knelt beside him. He grabbed Yog’s ear and pulled his head up. He held his Bowie knife to Yog’s throat. Yog looked at the bright sharp blade with sideways eyes.

“Sure I’ll help,” Benjamin said. “I’ll help you bleed to death if you don’t shut up.”

“Ok.”

“And I don’t want to hear another word about police or lawsuit. From you or anyone else. If I do, I hunt you down and kill you. Understand?”

“Jesus,” Yog said, “there are witnesses here!”

“I didn’t hear nothing,” Cassandra said.

“Anything,” Benjamin said.

“Whatever. What about you, Champagne?”

“All I heard was this jerk crying after he tripped and brained himself.”

“Aw, Christ,” Yog said. “I got the picture.”