literature?”
Junction obliged, but he didn’t try to close me. There was no sales pitch with the handshake, no, “Maybe you want to buy one now, because if they find her body this evening...”
I gave him some credit for that, but not much. I told him we’d speak again soon and we would. Only the next time, it would be on my terms, terms he was bound not to like.
Someday I’d get Max and Candy home together, but it wasn’t going to be today. Today it was Max’s turn to be gone when I showed up and that was probably a good thing, because the time had come for me to explain about my needing Sashi’s last painting. But just before the thought was translated into nerve impulses and then into muscle commands to move my tongue and lips, I was struck by a second notion. It was something that was kicking around in my head since the night before. It occurred to me that I might not give a shit if Sashi or her late dog Cara or the UPS man actually did her paintings, but it might matter to someone else, someone who might be very pissed off if they found out, or someone who might have an interest in keeping the secret. Dead men tell no tales nor do little dead girls.
Candy seemed to be sliding down the hill lubricated by grief. The faint signs of optimism I’d seen in her face and heard in her voice were gone. Her eyes were red on red and the makeup she’d managed for her lover was nowhere in sight. Max may have gotten there before her, but she was catching up. Who knows what set her off, what finally made her take a stark look at the reality of things? Was it something Randy Junction whispered in her ear as he put himself inside her? Was it that I hadn’t been able to magically deliver her daughter to her in a matter of days? Or was it simply that she could read the calendar and there was no more fight left in her? Sometimes the why doesn’t matter in the face of what is.
“What is it Mr. Pra—Moe?”
“I found a source who might give me an opening. It’s the first real lead I have.”
But the grief had taken hold, so not even the hope I was offering, as faint and vague as it was, did much to lift Candy up.
“Might,” she said, “you said might.”
“My source wants his palms greased.”
Her eyes got wide. “Money?”
“No, honey. If it was as simple as money, I could take care of that. He wants paintings, four of Sashi’s paintings.”
She stared at me blankly as if I’d just spoken to her in a language she’d never heard before. Then she said, “Paintings?”
“Four: one from her early period, one from a few years back, a more recent one, and the one down in the basement... the last one she was working on.”
“Moe, I... we don’t have... I have to talk to Max about it.”
“Candy, I know this is hard for you, but I think we’ve got a real shot here to make some headway.”
“But we don’t have any of Sashi’s stuff anymore. I—”
I grabbed Candy’s forearm to get her full attention. “Listen to me. Go to Junction and go to Sonia Barrows-Willingham if you have to, but get those paintings for me by tomorrow.”
“How do you know about Sonia?”
“I used to be a PI, remember? That’s why you went to Sarah to come to me.”
“I don’t know if Sonia—”
“Then tell your boyfriend Junction to kick in the other three paintings.” That got her attention all right. “And no, I didn’t figure that out on my own. Max told me.”
Now it all came out in one awful rush: the tears, the grief, the vomit, the horror and relief of being found out. I got on the floor with her, rocked her, and held her head the way I used to with Sarah when she was sick. Only this kind of sickness, the sickness of a dying marriage and a missing child, wasn’t going to get better in a few days. I cleaned her up and put her into bed.
“I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to get those paintings. Get them any way you have to, Candy.”
Then I kissed her forehead and closed her door behind me. Yeah, I
Junction obliged, but he didn’t try to close me. There was no sales pitch with the handshake, no, “Maybe you want to buy one now, because if they find her body this evening...”
I gave him some credit for that, but not much. I told him we’d speak again soon and we would. Only the next time, it would be on my terms, terms he was bound not to like.
Someday I’d get Max and Candy home together, but it wasn’t going to be today. Today it was Max’s turn to be gone when I showed up and that was probably a good thing, because the time had come for me to explain about my needing Sashi’s last painting. But just before the thought was translated into nerve impulses and then into muscle commands to move my tongue and lips, I was struck by a second notion. It was something that was kicking around in my head since the night before. It occurred to me that I might not give a shit if Sashi or her late dog Cara or the UPS man actually did her paintings, but it might matter to someone else, someone who might be very pissed off if they found out, or someone who might have an interest in keeping the secret. Dead men tell no tales nor do little dead girls.
Candy seemed to be sliding down the hill lubricated by grief. The faint signs of optimism I’d seen in her face and heard in her voice were gone. Her eyes were red on red and the makeup she’d managed for her lover was nowhere in sight. Max may have gotten there before her, but she was catching up. Who knows what set her off, what finally made her take a stark look at the reality of things? Was it something Randy Junction whispered in her ear as he put himself inside her? Was it that I hadn’t been able to magically deliver her daughter to her in a matter of days? Or was it simply that she could read the calendar and there was no more fight left in her? Sometimes the why doesn’t matter in the face of what is.
“What is it Mr. Pra—Moe?”
“I found a source who might give me an opening. It’s the first real lead I have.”
But the grief had taken hold, so not even the hope I was offering, as faint and vague as it was, did much to lift Candy up.
“Might,” she said, “you said might.”
“My source wants his palms greased.”
Her eyes got wide. “Money?”
“No, honey. If it was as simple as money, I could take care of that. He wants paintings, four of Sashi’s paintings.”
She stared at me blankly as if I’d just spoken to her in a language she’d never heard before. Then she said, “Paintings?”
“Four: one from her early period, one from a few years back, a more recent one, and the one down in the basement... the last one she was working on.”
“Moe, I... we don’t have... I have to talk to Max about it.”
“Candy, I know this is hard for you, but I think we’ve got a real shot here to make some headway.”
“But we don’t have any of Sashi’s stuff anymore. I—”
I grabbed Candy’s forearm to get her full attention. “Listen to me. Go to Junction and go to Sonia Barrows-Willingham if you have to, but get those paintings for me by tomorrow.”
“How do you know about Sonia?”
“I used to be a PI, remember? That’s why you went to Sarah to come to me.”
“I don’t know if Sonia—”
“Then tell your boyfriend Junction to kick in the other three paintings.” That got her attention all right. “And no, I didn’t figure that out on my own. Max told me.”
Now it all came out in one awful rush: the tears, the grief, the vomit, the horror and relief of being found out. I got on the floor with her, rocked her, and held her head the way I used to with Sarah when she was sick. Only this kind of sickness, the sickness of a dying marriage and a missing child, wasn’t going to get better in a few days. I cleaned her up and put her into bed.
“I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to get those paintings. Get them any way you have to, Candy.”
Then I kissed her forehead and closed her door behind me. Yeah, I
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