Shoot It Again

CHAPTER 5

Through the lace curtains I watched the lights going on in an apartment across the street. Syd's room was large and not too badly furnished—the English have a knack for finding decent and inexpensive lodgings. It was growing dark—and late.

Turning to reach for my watch, my hand fell across Syd's flat rump. Stroking the smooth skin, I felt fine. For this last sheet-exercise with Sydney I'd been as eager as a schoolboy, gone at her with passion which had startled me. Even if I kept thinking of the time—wanted to see Henri at his gallery before I left. But feeling sexually pooped, I knew —for sure—I only wanted to see Hank about my paintings—strictly business.

The room was comfortably quiet except for Syd weeping softly. Stroking her hips I thought of all the truly beautiful girls I'd slept with; the models, my second wife—Amy—with a better figure than any stage beauty—yet none of them had turned me on like scrawny Syd. Rolling her over, kissing her face—salty and messy with tears—I felt her trembling under me as she put her arms around my neck. Kissing again, her tongue trying to part my lips, I reached for my watch on the table. It was six-forty-five p.m. I started to get up but she clung to me. I sat Syd on my lap. She cried harder. Patting her lean belly, I told her, “Stop it, honey. I don't like to see you crying.”

“Clay, I can't help it. Does this have to be the end?”

“All things end—sooner or later,” I said, smartly.

“In a lousy three hours you'll be out of my life forever; I won't have it! I bloody well won't!”

“Aw Syd, we've had a great time, why spoil it?”

“This has been more than a 'great time' for me —Clay, you know that. I don't want it 'spoiled' by being over! I'm not being some sticky virgin gushing over her first man... it's been far more—for both of us.”

“Syd, what good is this kind of talk? No matter what you mean to me—I still have to go back to the States. I'm only marking time here.”

“Clay, go wherever you wish, but take me! Clay dear, please, marry me or don't marry me, but take me with you! Look, I was a bit windy... about being on a holiday as a college graduation present. I really did graduate—a London business school, and when my first position folded—I took all my savings and came here. But...”

Bending down to rub my nose against her breasts, I mumbled, “Syd, really, I have to make a plane... soon.”

“Do hear me out, Clayton. You want to shake Nice, fine. I'm a good secretary, can always find work, support us both. Don't you see, darling, you'll be able to paint and I'll work; in London, the States, or in Australia. I was telling you the truth about my land, Clay, I swear it. I own five thousand acres. Australia is a place of opportunity and frontiers. Once we save enough to build a house on the land, then we have a go at raising sheep, drilling for oil, farming...”

For a moment with my face still pressed against her childish breast, I seriously considered it. It would be something to never look at a paint brush or canvas again, starting all over in a new field... like... whatever you did on five thousand wild acres.

Placing both her hands on my fat face, she pulled my head up to her eye level. “Clay, oh you're not even listening!”

“Sure I was. We'd have a goal in life—work and save for the house. Once that's built, we tackle the land, working together. Maybe we'll hit it rich and maybe we won't, but we'll be together all the time... be happy. Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?”

“Yes, yes... oh yes!” It came out like a sex-moan. “Clay, don't you want that?”

“Oh, I do. It's a great little dream... and like all dreams, turns to crap when you wake up.”

Syd opened her eyes wide. “What a blooming nasty thing to say! We can try it... Can't we, Clay?”

I shook my head. “Honey, it wouldn't work. Face it, I don't know which end of a shovel is shove. Be different if I had a little money to vaseline our way, but—starting on a shoe string only ends with being tied in knots—if you'll pardon the lousy simile.”

“I'll sell my scooter, bring enough for my passage to America. I heard English secretaries are in great demand there. I'll...”

I closed her jabbering mouth with a soft kiss. “Syd, Syd, I'm not getting through—I'd be no damn good for you. I've been a bum all my life, plus now... I'm washed-out, jaded... feel old.

“Old? You were a bloody jack-hammer just now. A lovely pile driver tearing me apart with pleasure!”

Glancing at my watch again as I kissed her, I gently slapped her behind—dropped her on the bed. “Hon, I hate sounding like a soap opera, but I am all wrong for you. Maybe we're a big deal in bed, now, but I... Hell, in time you'll want kids, a home, a... I really don't know what I want. That's the most honest statement I've ever made. Syd dear, I've known too many women, was a bastard to them all... I'm trying not to hurt you because I do care for you and...”

“Only care,' Clay?”

“Yeah, care, I've never been able to love.” Standing, I went to the wash basin in the corner of her room, cleaned up. I dressed as she sat on the bed, watching me—plain face all full of grief. She jumped off the bed. “I'll dress, go with you.”

“I... I have a few things to do, business matters. I'll be rushing around.”

“I'll call for you at your place, drive you to the airport.”

“Syd, never get my easel and things on your scooter.”

“Don't you want me to see you again, Clay?”

Something about the pathetic tone of her voice, the beaten way she stood there, aroused a kind of desire within me. “Now stop the dramatics, hon, of course I do. You be at the airport at nine-fifteen, or I'll beat you. Syd, believe me, if I thought we could make it, I wouldn't hesitate. If anything works out for me in the States, I'll get in touch with you.”

“Where can I write you, in New York City?”

“See hon, that's exactly how rootless I am—what I've been trying to say to you. I don't know—now —where I'll be tomorrow. Look, you'll still be in Nice for at least another week, moment I have any kind of address, I'll wire you. Now let me get on my horse, so we'll have a few minutes at the airport tonight.”

Walking me to the door for a final hard kiss, I held her tightly and whispered, “Syd, you don't know how good you've been for me. So damn good.”

“Lightning struck whenever you touched me, Clay,” she said, starting to cry again.

On that cliche I patted her behind and went out. The family who owned the pension were eating supper and they all nodded happily at me as I passed the kitchen, opened the front door.

I was hungry myself, but had to see Henri before he closed. I stopped at a bakery for bread sticks. The dumpy woman behind the counter glanced at me, then held up a copy of Nice-Matin she'd been reading—pointed to a picture of Noel and myself on the front page. Excited, she started to ask me about the thugs, but I explained I was in a hurry. I bought a copy of the paper at a corner stand, walked toward Henri's gallery eating the bread and trying to read the story.

I finally shoved the paper in my back pocket, aware of a mounting eagerness within me at the thought of seeing Henri. I kept telling myself it had to be part of my excitement at leaving—and wasn't certain I believed that.

Hank Dupri was about the most sophisticated person I'd ever known, and God knows I'd seen enough clowns trying for that title. Physically he was short and slim for his sixty years, with a sharp, handsome face, waxed moustache, and a monks ring of perfectly white and deliciously soft hair on his tanned bald head. His clothes were always in modest taste, immaculate, and his entire appearance added up to a man wise enough to never take the world seriously. Hank had a vast knowledge of art, was a highly respected critic—all over the Continent. I started hanging around him because I seemed to amuse him... and a critic and gallery owner of Hank's stature could make an artist's reputation. I kept seeing him because he made me understand painting, showed me what to look for in the masters. For example, he once spent the best part of a rainy afternoon showing me the similarity between a Picasso work and that of the 17th century Dutch artist, Vermeer. It was a terrific eye-opener for me to see how Picasso had demonstrated Vermeer could be translated into abstract terms. Not only gave me a tremendous lift, but courage to study technique. Once Hank cracked the door there seemed nothing to fear; it was all clear and reasonable... minus the gassy fog the clucks try to smother 'art' in.

If I amused Hank, he was a fascinating character himself. A beach and sun hound, a bum heart kept him from swimming, but he claimed to have swum from Nice to Monte Carlo in his youth. He had Foreign Legion medals, lived in the Far East, once worked in Hollywood as an 'adviser' to a star who found buying the works of Miro, and Dufy, brought him far more publicity than posing with his horses and six-guns. Speaking many languages, Hank hinted at having slept with the most beautiful screen beauties in Hollywood, Joinville, and Rome. He said one of his sons was an engineer on a top secret project deep in the Sahari, while there was a plaque on a side street near the Nice flower market where Henri's daughter had been shot by the Nazis. Hank considered it an ironical jest to have outlived his wife, who'd been a health nut. At present he was sharing the villa of a rajah's wife—strictly a platonic relationship since she was much older than Hank but full of deep and witty conversation—and once a month Hank had three young girls spend the day in his apartment.

Granted I only believed half of this, I enjoyed being in his company, hearing him talk. Only... lately I found myself trying to paw him, had this desire to hug him.

His Galeries D'Azur was a corner shop, open on three sides—at night he rolled down metal shutters. He had some cheap oils in the front, for the tourist trade, and the deeper you went into the store, the better the paintings. Mine were about halfway in the shop. I'd seen a small Chagall, even a Braque on display, and despite the wave of stolen paintings in Venice and Saint-Tropez, Hank didn't seem to worry about being robbed. He also had a counter of ceramics from Vallauris—good stuff: and—reflecting the sole corny flaw in Hank's taste—hideous, cheap, made-in-Japan ash trays, plus large and horrible glass cat figurines.

The metal shutters were down, disappointing and surprising me—between six and nine p.m. generally was a good time for the tourist trade. Although it was a fairly large gallery, Hank never had help, even dusted himself. I once offered to work part-time but he wasn't interested.

Standing on the corner for a moment, combing my hair as I wondered how I'd see him before I left... I saw Hank parking his ancient Citroen. He looked quite charming in sharp grey slacks, open white knitted shirt with a wildly colored shot-silk scarf boldly knotted around his strong neck. As I walked toward him, Hank smiled warmly, took a copy of the paper from the car. “Clayton, what a nice coincidence! I've come from your poor excuse for a hotel, looking for you.” He pointed the folded newspaper at me. “Never thought you the hero type. Wanted to have a talk before you leave tonight. Shame, those stinking bureaucrats ordered you out of the country.”

“It's okay. Suddenly realized I've been over here too long,” I said, resisting the desire to shake—touch—his slim hand.

“I agree with you.”

I didn't know what that was supposed to mean. “Hank, I came by to talk about my water colors. If you're willing, keep them on display here. I'll let you know my address in the States, of course, in case you luck up on a buyer.”

He nodded. “I expect to be in Paris next month, was thinking of placing some of your work in a gallery there run by a friend, perhaps doing an article on you.”

“Really, Hank?” In my excitement I grabbed his hand, squeezed it.

“We must talk—Care to take a ride, Clayton?”

“I'm starved, have supper with me.”

“Our talk isn't for a restaurant. Since you delight in savage sandwiches, I'll take you to a quiet place where the roast beef is tender, the beer properly chilled.”

“Okay, if it isn't far. I haven't much time.” I was rattled. Intimate talk... what was he trying to tell me?

Placing his arm around my shoulder, Hank said, “I'll have you back within the hour.”

“Let's go.” If Hank cared... the hell with returning to the States!

We drove up toward St. Roch, passing the dull palaces where Queen Victoria and other crowned heads sweated out the summers in the old days. Stopping at a remote and drab cafe, Hank took a corner table—away from the few customers, ordered sandwiches and beers. The roast beef was delicious and thick, with a sharp relish; the Austrian beer—dark and creamy. Lighting a small Dutch cigar, Hank told me, “We'll talk in English. This is a working man's cafe, I doubt if anybody understands English.”

“You sound so melodramatic,” I said coyly, feeling contented—with the food, having him near.

“Perhaps we are about to play out a real melodrama, cops and robbers stuff,” Hank said softly, tired eyes examining me. He had a number of delicate wrinkles around his neat lips. “Clayton, are you interested in making a sizable chunk of money?”

“Hank, are you for true?”

“Please! Your colloquial American sayings border the idiotic. Yes, I am for... true!”

“How much?” I felt some regret but mostly relief—that he wasn't treating me as a fruit—on hearing this was to be a business talk. “What's the deal?”

“Enough money to live comfortably on for—five years. Or, at the rate you're existing now, it could last the rest of your days. I can't tell you the details, unless you first agree to come in.”

“Sounds like a con talk. Why all the mystery?”

“Con? You mean... confidence man? Forget it, Clayton! Finish eating and I'll drive you back to town.” His handsome face was dark with anger.

“Cool it, Hank. How can I decide when I haven't the faintest idea of what I'm to do?”

“Merely decide to make more money than you've ever seen! You invest nothing, although there may be an element of risk.”

“Risk? Doing what?”

“Can't you understand—if I explain things to you, there's no backing out or... Let me put it this way: the risk involved is small compared to the risk if you refuse—once you know the details.”

“Well... I have to think... about whatever this is,” I said, confused.

“I've misjudged you,” Hank said, impatiently, puffing hard on his cigar. “Forget the whole thing... I was merely joking...”

“How did you misjudge me?” Staring at me hard, he said coldly, “I was certain you'd sell your soul—forgive the trite phrase—for a fat buck.”

I was so upset I couldn't eat. “You've got a hell of a high opinion of me. Henri, I thought we were friends?”

“We are, or I wouldn't be risking my life talking to you. Clayton, the world is full of hustlers, everybody has larceny in them—it's the intelligent man who admits it, isn't afraid to take it from there. I'm also in this for the fast franc. Honesty means facing up to life. Clayton, you're a snot-nose.”

“Thanks!” His eyes seemed to be grinning at me —although the thin mouth was a stern line—as if enjoying my hurt. The hell of it was: I knew I felt the way many of my girls must have—when I was brushing them off.

“A snot-nose kid is cute, or merely annoying, but to find a forty-year-old...”

“I'm only thirty-nine, louse!”

“Biner, you're a tramp. A painting bum is no better than any other kind of tramp. In your case, there's not even the excuse of talent. You've been a pimp with a brush, a small time...”

“You're blowing hard—for a smug old man with a bad ticker!” I cut in, showing him the check from the New York City gallery. “Even if you can't, they sold one of my abstracts! You've heard of this gallery—big time.”

Hank laughed in my face. “Clayton, remember who you're talking to! I can sell a piece of used toilet paper if it's framed right! One sale doesn't prove a goddamn thing.”

“I thought you liked my work? Hung it halfway back in your shop, so...”

“I didn't bring you here to discuss art. You've learned a little technique, have a nice feeling for color. Right now you're a primitive—but you'll never be another Grandma Moses, believe me! Best you can ever become is a bad commercial artist who... Clayton, since you've never done an honest lick of work in your life, don't act goddamn offended when I offer you a chance to turn a large trick!”

“As a gallery owner, living off the talents of others, you shouldn't knock pimping! And Hank, what the devil do you know of honest work? You think a season as second tackle on a pro football team was a piece of soggy cake? Sure, I left it because modeling was easier money, and if I've tried making it as an artist, so what? Just you damn well remember I've always been a working artist! I've kept producing, good or bad, working hard at my... Hank, as of this second you represent nothing but a sharp pain in my can!”

His charming smile turned gentle again as he held up a slim hand. “Arguing will not get us anyplace. Clayton, I offered you a good proposition and all you do is start playing things coy.”

“You've been beating around a fat bush, what did you expect me to say?”

“To shout yes at the chance to make quiet money, ask what it's all about later!” He started to stand. “Come, I shall drive you back.”

“Easy, Hank, old boy; I never said I wasn't interested. It's... How come you never mentioned this... eh... great deal before, during all the months I've known you? When I'm rushing to go home, after a hell of a rugged day, you pop off with a hazy offer.”

“Hazy?” Hank stared at me again, eyes angry. “You haven't been listening to me carefully: told you I'm risking my life talking about this! That's the kind of deal this can be—I can say no more. Are you interested or not? Yes or no!”

“Interested,” I mumbled, certain he was putting on some kind of act—his cracks about my work still steaming me.

“You clearly understand, once I tell you the details, there's no backing out—whether you like the deal or not? They'll see to that.”

“Who's 'they'?

Hank placed his palms flat on the metal table, shrugged. “Frankly, I don't know. But 'they' won't hesitate at murder. Be absolutely certain you want in, Clayton.”

I started eating again, and talking. “One second you're nagging, insulting me because I didn't jump through the hoop. Now, you seem to be discouraging me. Talk about playing it coy...!”

“Merely reminding you there's no turning back.”

“Okay. I'm in.”

“You're positive?”

“I'm in... in... in,” I told him, hamming it up, a trifle bored with his silly games.

Hank motioned for the waiter. “Finish your sandwich in the car, while I tell you the details.”

When I was sitting on the front seat, stuffing my fat trap with the last of the roast beef, Hank reached for a package on the rear seat. Unwrapping it, he held up one of the big, ugly glass cats he sold. “Clayton, tonight you will take such a cat back to New York City. Tomorrow you register at a certain hotel. Within a few hours a man calls for the statue. He will pay you fifty thousand dollars, take the cat with him. That's it.”

Brushing crumbs from my face, I waited for the punch line to this sorry gag. “Fifty big bills for carrying one of these crummy cats? What's it made of, gold?”

“The modern day gold, Clayton... inside the cat will be seven kilos of the purest heroin.”