The Death Artist (9 page)

Eyes opened. Shut. Opened. Shut. No difference. Now it was blood streaks, flashbulbs, body bags.

Kate cried out.

Richard stopped short. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Kate, hugging him to her.

“You sure?”

“Fine.” Kate stared at the freckles on Richard’s shoulder, the hair curling behind his ears; inhaled the smell of his aftershave–anything to keep her in the moment; anything that would make her feel alive.

Willie pinned the letter to his studio wall. He stared at the words until they were nothing more than a blur through his tears.

The paint was drying on Willie’s large glass palette. He picked at a blob of hardening pigment with an aluminum palette knife. If there was one thing Willie knew to be true, it was this: art was–and always had been–his one salvation. It had kept his spirit alive all those years in the projects, and it would save him now. He also knew it was exactly what Elena would say if she were here with him now. He plucked a large white bristle brush from a Maxwell House coffee can, swiped it through some cadmium red paint.

Hours later–how many? Willie couldn’t tell. He was lost in his painting. The central image of his newest piece, an over-sized man’s head copied from the back of the Langston Hughes book of poetry, had been rendered with an intentionally crude hand–but the likeness was strong. Across the poet’s face a few lines of “Theme for English B” were painted in shimmering aquamarine; surrounding them, and the head, tenement buildings were painted in heavy black and white strokes.

The doorbell’s first buzz was lost under the Notorious B.I.G.’s heavy rapping. The second time, Willie decided it was just some jerk passing by, hitting all the buzzers–hardly anyone in Manhattan drops by without calling. But a minute later the damn buzzer was going again–one long bleat followed by four staccato hits. Willie slammed his paintbrushes onto the palette.

His brother’s raspy voice through the intercom’s static: “It’s me.”

Henry. Shit.

Henry had lost weight, his cheeks more sunken than usual, eyes haunted. He looked a lot older than he was–at least ten years older than Willie instead of three. No one would take them for brothers. Even as kids, they had looked totally different. Henry’s face, much like their mother’s, was long and thin; Willie’s features were rounder, softer, closer to that soldier’s–the one who never came home.

Henry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous, jumpy. His shoes were split and worn; he wore no socks, and it was a cool, damp day, more like March than May. He folded his thin body into one of Willie’s wooden kitchen chairs. “You got something to drink?”

“Coffee?”

“You got something stronger?”

“I’ve got a few beers, some bourbon, that’s about it.”

“Bourbon sounds good.”

Willie set a pot of water on the stove, searched under the sink for the half bottle of bourbon that someone had left in his loft over a year ago. He watched his brother pour himself a shot, toss it down. “Can’t wait for the coffee, huh?”

Henry looked up, that mean scowl on his face, the one Willie remembered from the last year Henry had lived at home with the family, when he’d gotten heavy into drugs and was always fighting with their mother, with Willie, with anyone who would bother to fight back. “You got a problem with that?”

Willie sighed. He didn’t want to fight. “No, Henry. No problem.”

Henry fiddled with the bowl of sugar packets, tore several open at once, poured the crystals into his mouth. Willie recognized the junkie’s craving.

“It’s real good to see you, little bro.” That troubled look was back on Henry’s face. “It’s been a bad time for me–these last couple of weeks.” He helped himself to another shot of bourbon. “Things ain’t been as good to me as they been to you.”

Willie dragged his palm back and forth across his forehead; a headache was beginning to take hold.

In the background, the CD was playing loud and Willie wished he’d thought to turn it off before he brought Henry up. Now he didn’t want to make a move, so he had to sit there listening to the Notorious B.I.G. going on about “somebody’s gotta die.”

Henry grabbed Willie’s wrist. “Nice watch, man. How much you pay for that?”

“It was a gift.”

“Oh yeah? Nobody ever gave me a gift like that. You got yourself some fancy girl, that it? A white chick, right? What’s it worth?”

“It was a gift. I have no idea,” Willie lied. He had a very good idea. It was a birthday gift from Kate. He’d seen similar platinum watches in stores, knew what they cost, had been kind of shocked, and pleased, too, by the extravagance.

Henry nodded toward Willie’s studio. “You got yourself a real good scam here.” He cocked his thumb at the new Langston Hughes painting. “You sell that shit?”

“Yes,” said Willie, the word hissed between clenched teeth.

“How much?”

“It depends,” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I only get to keep half. My gallery splits everything fifty-fifty.”

“That so? Sounds like they got a even better scam going than you.” He poured more bourbon into his empty coffee cup. “So, like, how much is your half?”

“None of your business.”

Henry squinted at him, his dark eyes cold. “I could’ve done that, been a fucking artist. You know that?”

That sad old could-have-been song. Here it comes. Willy nodded halfheartedly.

“I had talent, little brother. A lot of talent.”

“Yes, Henry. I know.” Willie sighed. “You were good.”

“Damn good. Better than good. I had
real
talent.” Another cock of his head toward Willie’s studio. He downed a shot of bourbon. “Fuck, I could do
that
shit blindfolded.”

The Notorious B.I.G. was stuck on repeat and that same damn rap song–“Somebody’s Gotta Die”–kept playing over and over and over.

“You got all the breaks, little brother.”

Willie stood, tired of waiting for Henry to ask for the money he knew he’d come for. Henry never came by unless he wanted something. “I don’t have much money here,” said Willie, impatient. “And I give a lot of what I make to Ma.”

“Yeah. I know that.” Melancholy erased the scowl from Henry’s lips. “That’s not why I come.”

“No? Why then?”

Henry looked down at his hands, picked at a scab. “You think I only come for money?”

“Just tell me what’s on your mind, okay, Henry?”

Bourbon spilled over the sides of Henry’s cup, his hands had begun to shake. “You know I really like that little girl-friend of yours. You know that, don’t you?”

“Who? You mean . . . Elena?”

Henry nodded, poured the last of the bourbon into his cup.

Jesus.
Henry interested in Elena? Of course Henry had known Elena for years, since they were kids back in the South Bronx. But romantically? Was he kidding? Willie took a long, hard look at his brother: his coffee-colored skin gone gray with a junkie’s pallor, his bloodshot eyes, his cheekbones like two hard slashes in his too-thin face. But now there was that scared look under the street-battered defiance, and it tore at Willie’s heart. “Yeah. She likes you, too, Henry.” Speaking of Elena in the present hurt. He paused, took a breath. “Do you know what happened?”

“I like her a lot, man, and–”

“You already said that.” Willie was losing patience again. “I asked if you
knew
what happened, to Elena. That she’s . . . dead.”

“Yeah.” Henry’s body shuddered. “I know that.”

“How? How do you know?”

“I can read,” said Henry.

Willie sighed. “So what about her? What about Elena?”

But Henry seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes glazed over as though he were listening to some inner voice.

“What
is
it, Henry?”

Henry stared into his empty coffee cup. “You got more bourbon?”

“No.” Willie snatched the bottle from his brother’s shaking hand, flung it into a metal trash can. The sound of breaking glass was like atonal music.

Henry bolted up, slammed his angular body against Willie’s, the veins in his forehead pulsing, his sudden strength fueled by anger.

“Relax, Henry. Be cool.”

“Cool?” Henry’s eyes were black granite.

Willie pulled out of his brother’s grip. “Jesus, Henry. What’s with you?”

Henry stared at him, then sagged. “Sorry.” He shook his head, then his arms, legs, the anger falling off him like snow. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just that–” There were tears in his eyes.

“Oh, shit, Henry. I’m sorry, too.”

Henry waved him off, started shuffling toward the door.

“Hold on.” Willie disappeared into his bedroom, returned with his wallet. “All I’ve got is thirty-six dollars.” He pushed the bills into his brother’s stained hands.

“They laid me off at the messenger place. But I’ll get another gig, man, another messenger job, real soon. I’ll pay you back.”

“Sure you will.”

“I didn’t do anything, Will.”

“Who said you did?”

“But . . . they might.”

Willie stared into his brother’s eyes, the dilated pupils, bloodshot whites. “What are you talking about?”

His brother swallowed hard. “Nothing.” His hands had begun to shake again.

“Shit, Henry. What’s wrong?”

But Henry was shaking so bad now, he couldn’t speak. Willie hugged his brother to him. All the strength was gone; Henry felt like a bunch of dried twigs about to crack. Willie held on to him until the tremors subsided.

“I’m . . . okay,” said Henry, pulling away.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Willie dug into a dresser drawer, came up with a pair of wool socks. “Put these on. It’s damp out today.”

Henry pulled his shoes off, rolled the socks on gingerly, as though even the soft wool chafed. Willie stared at his brother’s blotchy, swollen feet. He felt tears burning behind his eyes. “Don’t you have a coat, a jacket?”

“Lost it,” said Henry, looking away.

Willie yanked an old blue parka off a hanger, laid it over Henry’s shoulders. “Hey. By next month it’ll be warm,” he said, trying to smile.

But once Henry was gone, it didn’t matter what Willie tried to do in that new painting, or how many times he changed the goddamn music. Nothing worked.

Floyd dropped his fork. Mead must be calling for an update on the arrest of the Central Park Shooter, the cause for the three-hour delay of his dinner. Floyd suspected that Mead was worried they wouldn’t get the charges to stick; the wacko had hit five people in the past six months, but no victim had lived long enough to make an ID. Still, Floyd wasn’t worried. This afternoon he’d spent over three hours with the psycho. This one needed to confess, and Floyd had been ready to help the guy unburden his tortured soul. Now he’d get that vacation he’d earned after two months of working nights and weekends.

“Brown–” Mead was interrupted, someone shouting a question, lots of muffled voices in the background. “Sorry. Good work today. I hear you were even better than usual.”

“Thank you.” He waited. But there was nothing from Mead. “I’m sure about this one,” he finally volunteered.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Slattery’s shovin’ something under my face.”

Brown waited again. His shell steak and baked potato were cooling. “Is there anything else you need on the shooter, sir?”

“The shooter? No. Look, I’m not calling about the shooter–of course I wanted to congratulate you–you did fine work, but you already know that.” Mead sighed into the phone.

There were moments Brown almost felt sorry for Mead. He could tell that he made the chief of homicide nervous. Partly because Mead wasn’t sure what kind of political clout a black cop like Brown might have these days, and partly because Brown was an old hand–a seasoned cop who couldn’t quite cover up his doubts about the likes of his new superior. Brown hated to see men like Mead make it up the ladder so fast without putting in their time.

“I need you to get your ass over here. Park and Seventy-eighth. Number–shit–what’s the number over here? Slattery! What’s the fucking address here?”

“Right now?” asked Brown.

“Shit, yes.
Now.
I want you to see the scene before the tech boys destroy it. We got a stiff in a bathtub. Could be an accident, but the ME is gonna want to do his thing. So I need you here ASAP.”

Floyd Brown stared at his reheated dinner, cooling down for the second time. He wondered if nuking your food too many times could give you cancer or something. He looked over at Vonette, holding her coffee cup against her cheek, staring at the wall, probably trying to figure out why she had stayed married to a cop for twenty-seven lonely years. Damn pretty woman, Floyd thought, and her fiftieth birthday only a month away.

Floyd wanted to stay in tonight, catch up on a little love and tenderness, but . . . He looked at his watch. “I guess I can be there in about a half hour.”