thought you were, since you were looking at the paintings. No matter. It’s a pleasure to have a customer.”
“What happened to all the other customers?”
“
Où sont les neiges d’antan?
This place was jumping, honestly, when I took over the lease. I thought I had a gold mine on my hands.” He looked down into his pudgy hands as if he was surprised by their emptiness. “Then people stopped coming. If the drought of customers persists, I’ll close up and go back to work.” He seemed to be delivering an ultimatum to himself.
“You paint for a living?”
“I paint. Fortunately I have a small private income. Nobody paints for a
living
. You have to die before you make a living out of painting. Van Gogh, Modigliani, all the great ones had to die.”
“What about Picasso?”
“Picasso is the exception that proves the rule. I drink to Pablo Picasso.” He raised his glass and drank from it. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?”
“I’m a detective.”
He set down his glass with a rap. His bloodshot eyes watched me distrustfully, like a wounded bull from his
querencia
. “Did Gladys send you to ferret me out? She isn’t supposed to know where I am.”
“I don’t know any Gladys.”
“Honestly?”
“And I never heard of you until now. Who’s Gladys?”
“My ex-wife. I divorced her in Juarez but the New York courts don’t recognize it. Which is why, my friend, I am here. Forever.” He made it sound like a long time.
“The one I’m interested in,” I said, “is a young man named Burke Damis.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“He isn’t wanted.”
“Kid me not. I read a great deal of mystery fiction in the long night watches, and I recognize that look you have on your face. You have the look of a shamus who is about to put the arm on a grifter.”
“How well you express yourself. I take it you know Damis.”
“In a casual way. He used to pass the time here, mainly before I took over the leash—the lease.” He leaned forward over the table, and his long hair flopped like broken wings. “Why do you suppose they all stopped coming? Tell me—you’re a trained objective observer—do I have an offensive personality?”
“José tells me business is slow all over,” I said noncommittally. “It’s like the migrations of the birds.”
He looked around for José, who was leaning against the wall, and called for another drink. José replenished his glass from a bottle of tequila.
“Did you ever talk to Damis?”
“Not what you’d call intimately. He’s an attractive chap but I never got to know him. He was usually with other people. Do you know if he’s still in Ajijic?”
“No. Can you name some of the other people?”
“The one I saw him with most often was Bill Wilkinson.”
“How can I get in touch with Wilkinson?”
“You might find him at The Place. I hear he’s taking most of his business there since we had our little run-in.”
“Run-in?”
“Actually, it was Mrs. Wilkinson I had the run-in with. She’s one of those Southern California types who fancies herself as an art collector simply because she has money. I told her what she could do with her money, and Bill would be better off if he did the same. I’m not a woman hater—”
“Neither is Damis, I understand. Did you ever see him with women?”
“Almost invariably. He spent a lot of time with Annie Castle. That was before he took up with the blonde girl, what was her name?” He sat locked in combat with his memory.
“It doesn’t matter. Who is Annie Castle?”
“She runs an artsy-craftsy shop on the other side of the plaza. As a matter of fact, Damis has or had his studio on the same premises. No doubt propinquity did its deadly work. Annie’s a cute enough kid if you like them dark and serious. But he dropped her when the big little blonde showed up.”
“What do you mean, ‘big little’?”
“Quien sabe?
Big girl, little ego, maybe. She hasn’t made the breakthrough, into
“What happened to all the other customers?”
“
Où sont les neiges d’antan?
This place was jumping, honestly, when I took over the lease. I thought I had a gold mine on my hands.” He looked down into his pudgy hands as if he was surprised by their emptiness. “Then people stopped coming. If the drought of customers persists, I’ll close up and go back to work.” He seemed to be delivering an ultimatum to himself.
“You paint for a living?”
“I paint. Fortunately I have a small private income. Nobody paints for a
living
. You have to die before you make a living out of painting. Van Gogh, Modigliani, all the great ones had to die.”
“What about Picasso?”
“Picasso is the exception that proves the rule. I drink to Pablo Picasso.” He raised his glass and drank from it. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?”
“I’m a detective.”
He set down his glass with a rap. His bloodshot eyes watched me distrustfully, like a wounded bull from his
querencia
. “Did Gladys send you to ferret me out? She isn’t supposed to know where I am.”
“I don’t know any Gladys.”
“Honestly?”
“And I never heard of you until now. Who’s Gladys?”
“My ex-wife. I divorced her in Juarez but the New York courts don’t recognize it. Which is why, my friend, I am here. Forever.” He made it sound like a long time.
“The one I’m interested in,” I said, “is a young man named Burke Damis.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“He isn’t wanted.”
“Kid me not. I read a great deal of mystery fiction in the long night watches, and I recognize that look you have on your face. You have the look of a shamus who is about to put the arm on a grifter.”
“How well you express yourself. I take it you know Damis.”
“In a casual way. He used to pass the time here, mainly before I took over the leash—the lease.” He leaned forward over the table, and his long hair flopped like broken wings. “Why do you suppose they all stopped coming? Tell me—you’re a trained objective observer—do I have an offensive personality?”
“José tells me business is slow all over,” I said noncommittally. “It’s like the migrations of the birds.”
He looked around for José, who was leaning against the wall, and called for another drink. José replenished his glass from a bottle of tequila.
“Did you ever talk to Damis?”
“Not what you’d call intimately. He’s an attractive chap but I never got to know him. He was usually with other people. Do you know if he’s still in Ajijic?”
“No. Can you name some of the other people?”
“The one I saw him with most often was Bill Wilkinson.”
“How can I get in touch with Wilkinson?”
“You might find him at The Place. I hear he’s taking most of his business there since we had our little run-in.”
“Run-in?”
“Actually, it was Mrs. Wilkinson I had the run-in with. She’s one of those Southern California types who fancies herself as an art collector simply because she has money. I told her what she could do with her money, and Bill would be better off if he did the same. I’m not a woman hater—”
“Neither is Damis, I understand. Did you ever see him with women?”
“Almost invariably. He spent a lot of time with Annie Castle. That was before he took up with the blonde girl, what was her name?” He sat locked in combat with his memory.
“It doesn’t matter. Who is Annie Castle?”
“She runs an artsy-craftsy shop on the other side of the plaza. As a matter of fact, Damis has or had his studio on the same premises. No doubt propinquity did its deadly work. Annie’s a cute enough kid if you like them dark and serious. But he dropped her when the big little blonde showed up.”
“What do you mean, ‘big little’?”
“Quien sabe?
Big girl, little ego, maybe. She hasn’t made the breakthrough, into
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