sitting
down. From the tears in his eyes I’d say his balls connected with
the stone floor pretty hard. I put my foot on his left kneecap and
pressed down, just hard enough to keep him sitting.
He said: “Uhm."
“ Lillian is missing," I said. “Now I find
out her studio is trashed."
“ My studio," he said. He packed a lot of
hatred into those two words.
I put a little more pressure on the knee.
"Jesus!" he yelled. “You break into my
goddamn place, you assault me, you blame me when that little princess
runs out on you—leave me the hell alone!"
“ Lillian never made it to Laredo, " I told
him. “I don’t think she ever planned on going. What I’m trying
to decide now is if she really left a message Monday morning or if
you lied to me. I need to know that, Beau."
I give him credit. Beau didn’t scare easily. Or at
least he wasn’t scared of me. His neck veins were so purple I
thought they’d explode, but he kept his voice even.
"Believe what you want," he said.
“ What were they looking for, Beau?" I gestured
at the ruined artwork all around us.
“ I don’t have a clue," he said. "Nothing."
I took out one of the photos I’d found and dropped
it on his chest.
“ Nothing?"
All I saw in his eyes was his opinion of me, and I
already knew that.
"So it’s a cut-up picture," he said.
“Your girlfriend does photo-collages. You expect me to get
excited?"
He said it a little too fast, like it was an answer
he’d practiced in the mirror many times, just in case he needed it
someday.
"I expect some real answers," I said. “Like
why did Lillian decide to leave the gallery?"
I waited. Beau’s face was tightly controlled, but
the pressure on the knee ligaments must’ve been pretty bad. Little
sequins of sweat were starting to pop up all over his forehead.
"When I was starting," he said, almost
under his breath, "I didn’t have shit. You know that? Not
wealthy parents, not college, nothing. Lillian had everything,
including ten years of my time. Now she’s just giving up. The hell
with me. The hell with years trying to build up a name in the
business. You want to know why she’s leaving, you’re asking the
wrong person, asshole. I stuck with her; you didn’t. If you ask me,
it’s a little late to show up now and decide you’re her goddamn
protector."
We stared at each other. judging from Beau’s
expression, I had the option of breaking his kneecap and finding out
nothing more, or letting him up and finding out nothing more. Maybe I
was having an off day. I took the photograph off Beau’s chest, then
I let him up. Beau got to his feet warily.
I looked around the ruined gallery, then picked up a
skeleton trumpet player from the floor, dusted him off, and tossed
him to Beau. He missed the catch. The unfortunate musician landed
between Beau’s boots and broke neatly in half.
“ A man without friends should get a deadbolt,"
I suggested. "I have a feeling, when these people visit you
again, they’re going to lack my charm."
Beau kicked the broken statue away. Under his breath
he said: “I have friends, asshole."
I saw the next line coming, so we said it together:
“ You’re going to regret this."
“ That was good," I said. "You Want to try
it in harmony now? I’ll go up a third."
His next riposte was just as creative: “Fuck you."
“ You artistic types," I said admiringly. Then
I walked out, closing the door carefully behind me. Without looking
back I strolled across the plaza, around the corner of La Villita
Chapel, then turned into a side alley. Even at midday, the shadows
under the old villas and live oaks were deep and easy to hide in. I
had a great view of the front and rear exits to the gallery. I leaned
against the cool of a limestone wall and waited to see what would
happen.
Thirty minutes later Beau came out the rear entrance
of the gallery. He closed up shop and headed across Nueva, still
walking like a man with saddle sores. I followed about a block
behind. The moment
down. From the tears in his eyes I’d say his balls connected with
the stone floor pretty hard. I put my foot on his left kneecap and
pressed down, just hard enough to keep him sitting.
He said: “Uhm."
“ Lillian is missing," I said. “Now I find
out her studio is trashed."
“ My studio," he said. He packed a lot of
hatred into those two words.
I put a little more pressure on the knee.
"Jesus!" he yelled. “You break into my
goddamn place, you assault me, you blame me when that little princess
runs out on you—leave me the hell alone!"
“ Lillian never made it to Laredo, " I told
him. “I don’t think she ever planned on going. What I’m trying
to decide now is if she really left a message Monday morning or if
you lied to me. I need to know that, Beau."
I give him credit. Beau didn’t scare easily. Or at
least he wasn’t scared of me. His neck veins were so purple I
thought they’d explode, but he kept his voice even.
"Believe what you want," he said.
“ What were they looking for, Beau?" I gestured
at the ruined artwork all around us.
“ I don’t have a clue," he said. "Nothing."
I took out one of the photos I’d found and dropped
it on his chest.
“ Nothing?"
All I saw in his eyes was his opinion of me, and I
already knew that.
"So it’s a cut-up picture," he said.
“Your girlfriend does photo-collages. You expect me to get
excited?"
He said it a little too fast, like it was an answer
he’d practiced in the mirror many times, just in case he needed it
someday.
"I expect some real answers," I said. “Like
why did Lillian decide to leave the gallery?"
I waited. Beau’s face was tightly controlled, but
the pressure on the knee ligaments must’ve been pretty bad. Little
sequins of sweat were starting to pop up all over his forehead.
"When I was starting," he said, almost
under his breath, "I didn’t have shit. You know that? Not
wealthy parents, not college, nothing. Lillian had everything,
including ten years of my time. Now she’s just giving up. The hell
with me. The hell with years trying to build up a name in the
business. You want to know why she’s leaving, you’re asking the
wrong person, asshole. I stuck with her; you didn’t. If you ask me,
it’s a little late to show up now and decide you’re her goddamn
protector."
We stared at each other. judging from Beau’s
expression, I had the option of breaking his kneecap and finding out
nothing more, or letting him up and finding out nothing more. Maybe I
was having an off day. I took the photograph off Beau’s chest, then
I let him up. Beau got to his feet warily.
I looked around the ruined gallery, then picked up a
skeleton trumpet player from the floor, dusted him off, and tossed
him to Beau. He missed the catch. The unfortunate musician landed
between Beau’s boots and broke neatly in half.
“ A man without friends should get a deadbolt,"
I suggested. "I have a feeling, when these people visit you
again, they’re going to lack my charm."
Beau kicked the broken statue away. Under his breath
he said: “I have friends, asshole."
I saw the next line coming, so we said it together:
“ You’re going to regret this."
“ That was good," I said. "You Want to try
it in harmony now? I’ll go up a third."
His next riposte was just as creative: “Fuck you."
“ You artistic types," I said admiringly. Then
I walked out, closing the door carefully behind me. Without looking
back I strolled across the plaza, around the corner of La Villita
Chapel, then turned into a side alley. Even at midday, the shadows
under the old villas and live oaks were deep and easy to hide in. I
had a great view of the front and rear exits to the gallery. I leaned
against the cool of a limestone wall and waited to see what would
happen.
Thirty minutes later Beau came out the rear entrance
of the gallery. He closed up shop and headed across Nueva, still
walking like a man with saddle sores. I followed about a block
behind. The moment
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