Night Moves

Chapter 8

I drove home, walked out to Robin’s studio, told her about Bitt’s refusal to talk.

She said, “I’m not surprised. Wouldn’t expect him to be social.”

“Do you know anyone who had a personal relationship with him?”

“Sorry, no.” She wiped sawdust from her hands. Unscrewing a jar of jerky, she gave Blanche a stick, filled two cups with coffee and handed me one.

Two sips and her brown eyes got huge. “Maybe I do know someone, baby. Remember when I made that Danelectro copy for Iggy Smirch? I think he might’ve used Bitt’s art for at least one album cover.”

I said, “Albums, there’s a quaint concept.”

She played with her iPad. “Here we go, Karl Marx’s Toilet. This is pretty representative of Bitt’s art when he wasn’t doing Mr. Backwards.”

Black-and-white cityscape. A solitary figure walking a dingy alley shaded by skyscrapers. Strange oily sheen on the buildings. A closer look revealed them to be monumental piles of viscera.

“Gross but he’s talented, no? Let me try to reach Iggy.” She crossed to her desk in the corner, rolled her pre-computer manual Rolodex, shook her head. “Sorry, hon, it’s been eons. I’m not even sure he’s alive.”

She worked her phone. “Google says he is... seventy-four years old... hasn’t recorded in years — let me make a few calls.”

She tried musicians, agents, managers, creating a telephonic chain that finally led her to a possible home number for Isaac “Iggy Smirch” Birnbaum.

The last link was a retired A&R man living in Scottsdale. “Ig? He’s right there by you, Sherman Oaks. Tell him he still owes me for lunch.”

The former icon picked up.

“Iggy, this is Robin Castagna.”

“Who?”

“You probably don’t remember me, I built you a—”

“Who are you?”

“A luthier. I built you a Danelectro replica with four pickups—”

“Oh, yeah, sure, that one... oh, yeah, the cutie with the power tools. Yeah, yeah, that was a great ax... that’s you? The little curvy one with the magic hands? You feel like building me something else?”

“Sure.”

“Nope,” said Iggy Smirch. “I don’t play any axes anymore anywhere for anyone and I don’t want anything built, too much shit’s piled up. But I do remember you because you were a real... pretty lady.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So to what do I owe?”

She began explaining.

He broke in. “You hooked up with a cop-shrink — was he with you when we met?”

“He was.”

“Oh, yeah, you had that place in the Glen. I remember wondering how you could afford it. So, what, you still there?”

“We are.”

“You and a shrink,” he said. “Happy situation?”

“It is.”

“Robin...”

“Castagna.”

“Robin Castagna, go now — listen, didn’t mean to diss the Dano, my not playing it. I dug it, I gigged with it for years, then I gave it to one of my granddaughters, she’s a shredder, thinks I suck and Steve Vai rules and those pickups you stuck on it can do some interesting things when they’re stressed out... a shrink, huh? The Glen. Talk about karma, I happen to be in close proximity to you, just gave a lecture at the U. Art as Constructive Falsehood, some dingbat professor thinking she’s cutting-edge, the students look like they’re still in diapers. I told them to ignore any bullshit she slings, fuck art and music, go get normal jobs, be responsible citizens. Dingbat gets all pizza-eyed, the kids look like they suddenly need diapers.”

Robin said, “Sage advice, Ig.”

“So,” he said. “You want to talk about Bitt. He’s a human crap-hole. You’re still into him, huh? Not the crap-hole, the shrink. It’s for him you’re asking.”

“True love, Ig.”

“That’s the way I felt about the fifth wife but five wasn’t the charm, either.”

“Can I put Alex on the phone?”

“Alex. He’s got a name — nah, stay put, I’ll come over. It’s on my way home and I’m already walking to the parking lot. Only reason I did the speech in the first place is they gave me free parking. Back when I was a student I couldn’t catch a break.”

“You went to the U.?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. B.A. in chemistry, cum laude. That’s how I started, working my way playing loud garbage to make tuition and rent, who knew it would turn into a longtime gig? Refresh me on your address.”

Fourteen minutes later, a black Ferrari F430 coupe roared to a stop in front of the house. It took the driver a while to extricate himself from the low-slung speedster, and when he finally succeeded he was wincing.

Back in his icon days, Iggy Smirch’s stage outfit had consisted of black leather pants, red platform shoes, and a bare chest, the better to showcase a no-fat torso.

The pants and shoes were still in place but his chest had pigeoned and was cloaked by a black V-necked sweater.

Small man, but for the thoracic bulge, still spare, with a full thatch of dyed-black hair crowning an oversized head. Fat’s a great wrinkle filler and even in youth, Iggy’s face had been bony and seamed. Now it was a crumpled paper bag, brown eyes reduced to a couple of grease stains on the sun-browned surface.

He moved with a slight limp, massaged his chest, hugged and kissed Robin. Both gestures lasted a smidge too long and when he pulled away one hand lingered near her ass.

She inched away gracefully and said, “Ig, this is Alex Delaware.”

Frail fingers shook my hand. “Got the trophy chick the first time around, huh?” Back to Robin. “So, what, he gives you psychological input, that’s why you stay with him?”

“Something like that, Ig. C’mon in.” She began climbing the stairs to the terrace that leads to the entrance.

Iggy Smirch watched the sway of her rear, then followed slowly, gripping the handrail. “Psychology doctor gets and keeps the trophy. I should’ve stayed in school.”

Once inside, he encountered Blanche sitting by the door and froze. “What is that, a midget pit bull?”

“French bulldog.”

“It bites?”

Robin said, “No, Ig. See, she’s smiling at you.”

“It’s the smiling ones you need to watch out for, she should be an agent. Nice place. Let’s see that studio of yours. I’m thinking I remember it, be nice to verify I’m not losing it totally. Also, I could use a drink of water.”

Easy walk through the house but he began wheezing.

“COPD, smoking,” he said, as if used to explaining. “You play you pay.”

We made it to the rear door, stepped down to the garden.

“Hey, nice fish. Yeah, yeah, now I remember. Look at that, they got bigger.”

Inspecting the work on Robin’s bench, he lifted the archtop. “Nice, don’t have the finger strength for acoustic... yeah, it’s all coming back — listen, would you mind if the dog stays a distance? I’m phobic.”

“Sure, Ig.” Robin motioned Blanche to a far corner, petted her, whispered something. Blanche purred and settled.

“What’d you just tell her, the old guy’s nuts? Not compared with Bitt, he was the poster boy for way-out-there.”

I said, “How so?”

“Why you so interested in him, Dr. Alex? I Googled you on the way over. No cop stuff. No website or Facebook, either. Do you actually do any work or are we talking trust fund?”

Robin said, “Ig, he works too hard. He doesn’t advertise because people figure out a way to find him.”

“That so... the only thing I did find was you were once a kiddie shrink, worked at the children’s hospital. I love that place, had a grandkid, they fixed his heart, I gave them money.” His hands clenched. “Are you telling me Bitt did something to a kid?”

I said, “Nothing like that.”

“Because his art’s pretty twisted. Rape, incest, everything’s a fucking joke.”

“This has nothing to do with children.”

“What, then? Why’re you interested in him?”

“Sorry, can’t say.”

“You’re the fucking CIA?”

“A crime took place last night,” I said. “There’s no evidence Bitt’s done anything wrong, but his name came up in the investigation. I wish I could say more but I can’t. Robin said you might be able to fill me in about him.”

Iggy Smirch massaged his chest and exhibited a mouth full of too-big dentures. “Don’t mean to give you grief, just naturally curious. An investigation, huh? Obviously we’re talking something criminal. Fine, I’ll tell you what I know about him, I’m a strict law-and-order guy.”

Limping to the couch, he sat and eyed Blanche. She kept her back to him; finely honed intuition. “I did one album cover with him on the recommendation of my producer. I wasn’t shown all his work — not the twisted stuff — and was blown away by his talent. First time I met him was at a restaurant — Duke’s in West Hollywood. He doodled on a napkin, ended up making a copy of the Mona Lisa, total masterpiece. I wish I’d kept it but it had sauce on it. So no question about his talent, but working with him ended up being a serious case of No Fun.”

“Unreliable?”

“Reliably a pain in the ass,” he said. “The album was a concept. Communism, capitalism, vegetarianism — any ism — is a load of crap. I explained it to Bitt. He listened, said nothing, told me he’d do it for the right amount of money paid in advance. I asked him if he had ideas. He said, ‘That’s all I have.’ Meanwhile, he’s doodling, not even looking at the napkin. The fee he asked for was more than twice as much as we’d paid other artists and the one hundred percent advance was out of line, we’d always done half up front, half on delivery. But when I saw that napkin, I said go for it. He’s drawing the Mona fucking Lisa while he’s eating. A genius, like Giger. I dug Giger, but we already used him a bunch, it was time for something new. I paid Bitt right then and there. Tried to call him a few days later with ideas of my own, he never picked up. We kept trying to contact him. Nothing. Meanwhile the deadline’s approaching, everything else is in place and no fucking cover.”

I said, “He held things up.”

“No,” said Smirch. “That’s the thing, he stuck to the deadline. Showed up exactly on the due day, carrying a big portfolio. Inside is the drawing in a plastic jacket. He takes it out, drops it on the producer’s desk, and starts to walk out.”

He threw up his hands. “It was nothing like what we talked about. Producer says so, Bitt stops walking, stands there, doesn’t make eye contact. Like a fucking robot. Producer says, ‘We discussed it in detail.’ Bitt says, ‘You talked, I listened.’ Then he leaves.”

“You used the drawing.”

“What choice did we have?” said Iggy Smirch. “Also, it was brilliant. The album sold great.”

“You never worked with him again.”

“I’m promiscuous by nature, Dr. Alex. Like to shake things up. Giger was the exception because he was a whole different universe.” A glance at Robin. She was inspecting the back of a nineteenth-century Martin guitar sent for repair by a Taiwanese collector.

I said, “You’d have switched artists, anyway.”

Iggy Smirch said, “That’s the truth, Dr. A, even if Bitt was as harmless as cornflakes.”

“You think he’s dangerous.”

“You don’t?” He smiled. “Don’t bother answering, I get it. Next you’re going to ask me did I ever see him do anything scary. Not really, but there was something going on in that brain of his. Like he was pressure-cooking. You’d talk, he wouldn’t answer. Quiet, but not in a Zen way, more like a latent volcano. Then again, I spent maybe two hours with him, total.”

“The producer who referred you,” I said. “Would he know more?”

“Lanny Joseph,” he said. “He might, if he has a working brain. He’s even older than me, walking fucking fossil. Last I heard, he retired to Arizona. Or Florida. Or... somewhere... hold on.”

Out came a phone in a black glitter case printed with red skulls. “Gift of the shredder grandbaby. I prefer Gucci but don’t want to hurt her feelings.” He scrolled, speed-dialed, spoke to someone named Oswald.

“Looking for Lanny Joe, he still breathing?... well, that’s good to hear. Do you know if he’s compos mentis — that’s Latin for has his shit together, Oz... ha, yeah, I know, man, yeah we were all a little distracted back then... ha... so where’s Lanny’s crib nowadays?... no, we’re all square on money, Oz, I just want to talk to him about a mutual friend, got his number? Okay, thanks, man.”

He hung up and read off seven digits from memory. “Florida, Fort Myers Beach.”

I copied and thanked him.

He turned to Robin. “What is that, an old Lyon and Healy?”

“New York Martin.”

“What year?”

“Eighteen thirty-five.”

“Almost as old as me — that an ivory bridge?”

“It is, Ig.”

“Good, fucking elephants step on people, who needs ’em — hey, want to build me another ax?”

“You’re getting back into playing, Ig?”

“Not a chance, baby. Give me an excuse to see more of you.”

She walked Smirch back to his car, guiding his now quivering elbow with her hand and giving him his biggest thrill of the day.

I went to my office and phoned Lanny Joseph in Florida. A woman with a thick Cuban accent asked who I was.

“A friend of Iggy Smirch.”

“Okay,” she said. “Abou’ wha’?”

“Trevor Bitt.”

“He also a musicia’?”

“An artist.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Hol’ on, I see.”

Dead air for several minutes before a low, congested voice said, “This is Lanny, who’re you?”

I began to explain.

He said, “Iggy. My favorite fascist. He’s finally seeing a shrink? Good idea, what does it have to do with me? I was in the middle of looking for dolphins, they jump around this time of day.”

I repeated the recitation. Lanny Joseph broke in again. “LAPD? One Adam Twelve, got a call at Lexington and Fifth, heh heh. Bitt did something bad?”

“We’re just trying to learn about him.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, he’s messed up. The art he used to make. Very sick stuff.”

“Used to,” I said. “He’s retired?”

“Far as I know, he quit,” said Lanny Joseph. “Easy for him, big-time family money.”

“Where’s his family from?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Iggy tell you about Karl Marx’s Toilet?”

“Bitt got paid more than anyone else.”

“A lot more. Including Giger, who everybody wanted. He got more than when we shelled out big bucks to use a photo of a freakin’ Hieronymus Bosch painting owned by some dude in Germany. That one we used for Exit to Oblivion, I’m talking serious money but Bitt got more. He freakin’ robbed us, then he delivered something totally off the rails. We used it because we had a deadline. When I found out he quit, I said lucky for the rest of the world.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Couldn’t tell you, Doc... someone must’ve let me know... oh, yeah, guy I knew, produced Tommyrot, they wanted to use Bitt because Karl sold so good. He found out Bitt quit, called me complaining, like it was my fault. Wanted me to try to talk Bitt into it, like I’d have anything to do with that psychotic ass-wipe. Why’re the cops after him? Why do they have a shrink on it, because he’s nuts?”

“Sorry, can’t get into details.”

“Forget I asked, who cares,” said Joseph. “Curiosity kills non-hip cats. So Iggy told you I found Bitt for him, huh? He’s blaming me?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I asked him how he knew Bitt and—”

“What’s your connection to Iggy?”

“My girlfriend built him a guitar.”

“Girlfriend,” he said. “The little gorgeous one with the studio up in the hills?”

“That’s her.”

“That’s your girlfriend.” He whistled. “Iggy liked her.”

“How’d you come to know Bitt?”

“Same old story,” said Joseph. “A chick.”

“Which chick?”

“Bitt’s girlfriend, intellectual type, I met her at a benefit for something, couldn’t tell you.”

“Here in L.A.?”

“San Francisco, I was up there a lot, producing a bunch of bands, renting a houseboat in Sausalito, going to parties. Like this benefit. For something... the usual boring shit, I spot this hot chick, move in, drop a bunch of names, I’m thinking it’s going good. Then all of a sudden this guy materializes, never saw him coming, all of a sudden he’s just there. Like the fog. Standing between me and the chick, smoking a blunt but wearing a suit and tie. He gives the chick a death-ray look, she splits. Then he gives me the look. I say who are you? He says, ‘The Rembrandt of this century,’ and walks away. I ask someone who is that asshole, they tell me. I knew his name, had seen his stuff at this exhibit of comix guys in some fancy gallery, I didn’t figure he’d look like a CEO. Few months later, the Karl cover comes up, Ig was in a dark place, I’m thinking Bitt could be perfect. I get Bitt’s number from someone, couldn’t tell you, don’t ask. The rest is what Ig told you. It was a crazy time, once some guys used to be in Zappa’s band show up at Gold Star Studios and...”

I listened to several minutes of free-form reminiscence until Lanny Joseph caught his breath and said, “End of story.”

“Anything else you can tell me about Bitt?”

“Guy could draw like crazy but that was his only good point. Hey, there’s the dolphins. Ciao.”

Internet research on Trevor Bitt revealed a tendency to evoke strong opinions pro and con. It also confirmed Lanny Joseph’s rich-boy tag.

The cartoonist’s wealth had descended from a great-great-grandfather, a New York financier and Rockefeller associate named Silas Bitt. No mention of professional accomplishments by any other descendants. Maybe the rest of the family had coasted.

I keyworded silas bitt. Just the Rockefeller connection so I returned to his great-great-grandson.

Like everything else about the cartoonist, Bitt’s wealth sparked polarized judgments: He was either a wastrel tool of the Capitalist Monster or a genius who’d used his good fortune to make groundbreaking art.

I moved on, surfing. Bitt hadn’t been active for nearly two decades and all his books were long out of print. Secondhand prices suggested gone and forgotten.

Theories explaining his dropping out included drug addiction — heroin/crack/meth/take your pick — or a prolonged psychiatric hospitalization for schizophrenia/manic depression/Vincent van Gogh syndrome, whatever that was, or a debilitating physical disease (Huntington’s chorea/mad cow), or simply “burnout.”

All of that wisdom offered by the kind of people who spout off anonymously online.

Nothing in Bitt’s history came close to suggesting criminality.

Calling Milo with bad news seemed inconsiderate.

Better a twenty-four-karat silence.