Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

“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.”