I Will Fear No Evil (53 page)

“I have no need to ask Jake, Gigi. I know they met through business matters, I know that Jake admires Joe’s integrity. I simply hadn’t realized that Jake thought of Joe as a close friend. If he does.”

Gigi Branca looked thoughtful. “I couldn’t say. I was working Guild hours then, as Joe was paying me. Mr. Salomon—Jake, you call him—showed up one evening as we were quitting, and Joe introduced him to me as his former wife’s fixer—lawyer, he said; Joe doesn’t use jive when he doesn’t want to. Saw him a couple more times, I think, about the same way. But he hasn’t been here since we got married.” (Double talk, Boss. All it means is that she won’t spill other people’s secrets. Well, that’s nice to know—considering.)

“No importa. Gigi, how did Joe get his art education? Or is it native genius with no instruction?”

“Both, Joan. Let me tell it bang as it would take you forever to get it out of Joe. Joe says that all an artist can teach is technique. He says creativity can’t be taught and that each artist has his own sort. If he has any—Joe thinks that most people who call themselves ‘artists’ haven’t any. He calls ’em ‘sign painters’ and adds that he would rather be a
good
sign painter than a fraud who calls himself an artist.

“You’ve seen what Joe has. That one of me he did yesterday and others around the studio. You’d see lots more if you prowled the coffee shops and bookstores and art shops at this end of town. Nudes that look better than life—you wouldn’t need to look for his pinxit. Most of them kind o’ square except that they grab. Oh, Joe can do sex pix, I’ve seen him prove it, then scrape off the paint—because I asked him
why
he didn’t do sex pix since they sell so well. He shrugged and said those weren’t his symbols.

“Joe knows he’s not Goya or Picasso or Rembrandt or any of the masters—and doesn’t want to be; he just wants to paint
his
symbols,
his
way, and sell enough for us to eat. Oh, sometimes I get so
mad
, knowing that if he would paint just
one
frimp scene as grabby as he so easily can, it would keep us eating for months. But I’ve given up suggesting it because Joe just shrugs and says, ‘Don’ paint comic books, you know that, Gigi.’ Joe is Joe and doesn’t give a damn what any other artist does or whether his own work makes him famous or a lot of money or anything. He cares so little—well, many of our friends are artists or call themselves artists but Joe isn’t interested in what they paint and won’t talk shop. If they’re good people, warm people, good vibes, Joe likes to go see them or have them here . . . but Joe wouldn’t waste a floor cushion on Rembrandt if Joe didn’t like the way he behaved. Joe just wants to paint—-his way. And not have to sleep alone.”

Joan said thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose Joe has had to sleep alone very often.”

“Probably not. But Joe wouldn’t sleep with Helen of Troy if he didn’t like her attitude. You mentioned your Brink’s boys—the two who brought you here, and there are two more, aren’t there? One a big soul? Hugo?”

“You know Hugo?” Joan asked in delight.

“Never met him. He sounds like an African myth. I know just two things about him. Joe wants to paint him . . . and Joe loves him.

“Spiritual love, I mean—although I’m sure Joe would sack in with Hugo if Hugo wanted to.” (He’ll have to stand in line! I saw Hugo first.) (Shut up, you bang-tail.) “Can never happen, I gather—and Joe never makes a pass. Never made one at me, I never made one at him; we just sacked in our first time without a word and combined as naturally as ham and eggs.” (Hmm! Some girls have all the luck.
I
had to trip him.) (You’re the eager type, sweetheart; Gigi isn’t.) (You’ll pay for that crack, Boss.)

“I’m sure Joe never crowded Hugo about posing; he would rather have Hugo’s friendship than have him as a model—though Joe told me he has two pix in mind. One would show Hugo on an auction block. Historical background and honkie ladies in the crowd—close shot, full figure, Hugo looking patient and weary, and just heads and shoulders of the honks . . . and the honk females just barely not slobbering.

“But Joe says he
can’t
paint that one; it would stir up old trouble. The second he really aches to paint—just Hugo, big as a mountain and no sex symbols at all—except that a big stud can’t help being sexy,
I
think—just Hugo, strong and wise and solemn dignity—and loving. Joe’s words, pieced together by me. Joe wants to paint it and call it ‘Jehovah.’ ”

“Gigi! Maybe I can help.”

“Huh? You can’t just tell Hugo to pose for Joe; Joe wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t hold still for it.”

“Dear, I’m not foolish. But maybe I can make Hugo see that it’s all right to pose for Joe. Can’t hurt to try.” (Boss, let Hugo know that you have been posing naked for Joe. Then let it soak.) (Of course, Eunice, but that’s just the gambit.) (Twin! You’re not thinking of trying to
seduce
Hugo, are you? Damn it, I won’t stand for it! You leave Father Hugo alone.) (Eunice, I’m not
that
much of a fool. Hugo can have anything I’ve got; he killed the creep who killed you. But I would never offer what he won’t accept. If I did, I think he’d quit—and then pray for me. I vote with Joe; I’ll take Hugo as he is, never try to twist his arm.) (You couldn’t. His arms are bigger than our thighs.) (I meant ‘psychologically,’ twin, and you know it.)

“Just one thing, Gigi—Joe would have to give up that title for the pic.”

“You don’t know Joe, Joan. He won’t change the title.”

“Then he’ll have to carry it just in his mind. Hugo is as firm in
his
rules as Joe is in his. He won’t let a picture of himself be titled ‘Jehovah.’ It would be sacrilege in his eyes. But if Joe is willing to keep the title a secret, I think I can deliver the body. You talk to Joe. But you never did tell me where Joe got his training.”

“Oh. Joe could always draw; I’m sure he could have learned to read, he remembers what he sees. When he was about fourteen, he was being held overnight with some other boys in the precinct lockup and the desk sergeant got a look at some sketches Joe had done while he was killing time, waiting to be taken up in front of the judge and warned. One was of the desk sergeant—and Joe had seen him only a few minutes.

“That was Joe’s break. The desk sergeant turned him over to the priest and got him off the blotter and both of them took him to a local artist, and showed him the kid’s sketches.

“This artist was a mixture, fine art and commercial—I mean he made money. He was another sort of mixture, too. An oyster. He may not have been impressed by Joe’s sketches but he made a deal with him. Modeling. Joe could hang around his studio and use his materials and sketch from his models—if Joe would pose when he needed him. They both won on the deal; you know how Joe looks now; at fourteen I’d bet he was more beautiful than any girl—and no doubt that oyster thought so.

“So Joe did and soon he was eating and sleeping there and got away from his mother entirely, best thing that ever happened to him. Joan, it was a one-bed studio like this one.”

“You mean Joe was his sweetheart? Gigi, I decline to be shocked. Even though I’m ninety-five, I try to think modern.”

“Joan, I never can believe that’s your age; it isn’t real, like that million dollars. I said ‘oyster’ not ‘homo.’ The artist was married, or shacked, with his number-one model. Possible she got Joe’s cherry. Either way, she taught him plenty and mothered him and was good to him, and it was a happy Troy.

“But the artist—Mr. Tony, as Joe speaks of him—while he gave Joe the use of his studio and table and bed and wife—was nevertheless a strict master. He wouldn’t let Joe paint with a palette knife or a wide broom or do distortions or abstracts or psychedelics—he made him learn to draw. Anatomy. Composition. Brush techniques. Color values. The whole endless drill of academic art, and wash brushes and sweep out the studio. Joe says that if it hadn’t been for Mr. Tony, he would still be sketching sausage skins. Joe found out what he could do, what he wanted to do, and learned to do it. But, so he told me, not what his master did—but in both cases founded on old-fashioned academic training. The hard way. Oh, Joe’s learned short cuts. But he can paint directly on canvas—he’s been doing it since our last break—and make it as close to a photograph as he cares to. Or as different.”

“—never said that poor is better than rich, Gigi; it is not. But both ‘rich’ and ‘poor’ have shortcomings—somewhere between is probably best, if you could get off the treadmill at that point. But—Look, does Joe guard you when you go grocery-shopping?”

“Huh? Of course not. Oh, sometimes he comes along and helps carry—but not to guard. Well, he does ride down the lift with me if it’s a time of day when it might be empty—I mean, he’s no fool and neither am I and I don’t go
looking
for a mugging. Same coming back up and if I’m later than I said I would be, he’s always there waiting. But I move around by myself, always have; I’m just not foolish about where and when.”

“Gigi, I’m sure you’re not foolish, I doubt if you ever go into a park—”

“Not even at high noon! I’ve been raped once and didn’t like it. I’m not looking for a gang bang where they take turns holding you down. They ought to bulldoze every park in the city.”

“Bulldozing the whole city might be better. But, Gigi, you move around rather freely. I
can’t.
I don’t dare appear even with guards around me without being veiled, I can’t risk being recognized. I have to be wary all the time. Sure, you bolt your door—but
my
house has to be strong enough to take a bomb tossed against it—that’s happened several times since I built it. I have to watch for everything from kidnappers and assassins to mere nuisances who want to touch me.

“I’m talking both about the way I am now and the man ‘Johann’ I used to be—too much money attracts crackpots and criminals and there is
nothing
I can do about it but keep guards around me day and night, and live in a house that’s a fort, and try to avoid being recognized at
any
time, and never, never try to live what is called a ‘normal life.’ Besides that—Gigi, can you imagine what a treat it is to me to be allowed to wash dishes?”

Gigi looked startled. “Huh? Joan, you’ve lost me. Oh, I know how complicated it is to be rich; I’ve watched video. But washing dishes isn’t a treat; it’s a horrid bore. Too often I’ve left them in the sink, then had to face them before breakfast. By the time breakfast is ready, I don’t want any.”

“Let me give you a tip, Gigi. I did know something about Joe’s mother; Eunice was my secretary for years.” (I never mentioned her, Boss!) (Will you let me tell this lie my own way?) “She was—and is—a pig and lives like one. This place isn’t big; if you’ll keep it spotless, Joe won’t care when you get wrinkles—and we all do, someday. But a dirty toilet bowl or dishes in the sink reminds him of his mother.”

Gigi said, “Joan, I
try
. But I can’t clean house and pose at the same time.”

“Do your best, hon. If necessary, lose sleep. Joe is a man worth making extra effort to keep. But I was talking about doing dishes—it’s a nuisance to you but a luxury to me. Washing dishes means ‘freedom’ to me. Look, here we are, three of us, no servants—and presently I’ll be gone and you’ll be alone with your husband and the world shut out. I can’t shut it out. Uh . . . let me think—Four mobile guards, a security chief, twelve in-house watchmen under him, three always on duty and the others on call, which means the married ones—which is most of them—have their families under my roof—a personal maid, a valet who used to tend me and now takes care of guests—couldn’t fire him; I
never
fire anyone without cause—a butler, a head chef, three—oh, I don’t remember; there were about sixty adults in my house the last time I asked.”

“My God, Joan!”

“Yes, ‘My God!’ To take care of
one
person. Yet not one could I let go without replacing him. I planned that house and kept tabs on the design, intending to keep staff down to a minimum. So it’s loaded with gadgets. Things like robofootmen, and a trick bed that was designed to let me get along without a nurse a few more years as I got older. Do you know what that means? I
lost.
I have to have a building superintendent and maintenance mechanics—or the gadgets don’t work. All this complication—and never any real privacy—just to take care of one person who doesn’t want it that way.”

“Joan, why don’t you get rid of it? Move—and start over.”

“Move
where
, dear? Oh, I’ve thought about it, believe me. But it’s not actually to take care of one person—it’s to take care of too much money, money that is fastened to me . . . so that I can’t risk kidnappers or anything else. I can’t even cash it and flush it down the pot; that’s not the way big money works. And even if I could and did—nobody would believe I had. I would just have taken off my armor and probably would not stay alive two days. Besides—Do you like cats?”

“Love ’em! Got a kitten promised now.”

“Good. Now tell me—how do you get rid of a cat you’ve raised?”

“Huh? Why, you don’t. Not if you’re decent.”

“I agree, Gigi. I’ve lived with many cats. You keep them. If you are forced to it, you have a cat humanely destroyed—or if you have the guts, you kill it yourself so that it won’t be bungled. But you
don’t
give away a grown cat; it is almost impossible. But, Gigi, you can’t kill
people.”

“I don’t understand, Joan.”

“What would I do with
Hugo
? He’s been with me many years; he’s doing the only thing he knows how to do—except preach, which doesn’t really pay. Gigi, loyal servants are ‘Chinese obligations’ just like a cat. Sure, they can get other jobs. But what would you do if Joe told you, ‘Get lost. We’re finished.’ ”

“I’d cry.”

“I don’t think my servants would cry—but I would.”

“But I’d get along!”

Joan sighed. “And that platoon I have around me would get along, I think; they’re able or I wouldn’t have them—and I’ve got money enough to make sure that ones like Hugo are taken care of; that’s one of the
good
things about being rich—if money is all it takes to remedy something, you can. Gigi, there is some solution to this silly fix I’m in and I’m going to find it—I was just trying to show you that it isn’t as simple as it looks on video. The solution may be something as easy as changing my name again and changing my face with plastic surgery and going somewhere else.”