Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“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.

Three days later, Milo phoned.

“No I.D. yet on my John Doe, just heard from the pathologist. Poor guy’s brain was full of bird shot and wadding and like we figured the amputations were postmortem, probably a motorized saw, best guess a band or a jig. His arteries weren’t great but no impending heart attack. But he did have some bad luck years before being killed: spleen and left kidney gone, coupla old breaks in his left femur, same for his left collarbone and four ribs.”

I said, “Car crash?”

“Coroner said it could be any sort of collision.”

“Would the leg breaks have caused a limp?”

“Likely,” he said.

“Any estimate when the injuries took place?”

“Probably within the last ten years. Age estimate on the guy is between fifty and sixty, so we’re not talking college football.”

I said, “Could be something work-related. A truck driver, heavy machinery.”

“Or just an unlucky fellow who tumbled down some stairs.”

“Fifty to sixty puts him in Trevor Bitt’s age range.”

“An old pal? Sure, why not, now let’s prove it. Bottom line: No magic from the crypt but maybe the injury will be helpful if I go to the media.”

“If, not when?”

“Yeah, it’s probably gonna end up that way,” he said. “But I’m spending today going over the missing persons files again, maybe something’ll jump out and I can avoid a ton of bullshit tips.”

I said, “John Doe didn’t lead a charmed life but Bitt did. Inherited wealth that goes way back.”

I filled him in on the input from Iggy Smirch and Lanny Joseph.