Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

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.”