from the novel
Chapter Three - Secrets of the Old Masters
She came out of Sheehan's across Pleasant Street. Didn't look for cars. Walked straight toward her front door between the bike shop and music store. She held her coat close, elbows to her hips. She walked alone. Gypsy Blue carried his Bud along the narrow balcony to the black staircase. He heard
her steps up the stairwell. Her key scratched. The black staircase wobbled a little but was very sturdy. It had a railing on one side. The heavy platform under it had wheels to move the staircase from one part of the balcony to another. The wheels had brakes to hold the staircase in place. Gypsy Blue sat atop, his eyes on the front door. The door squawked when she opened it. She slammed it hard. He watched her stomp toward the kitchen. She did not bother to take off her coat. Didn't even turn on a light. The windows let in plenty. He could see just fine that she was grinning. She coughed twice. She had a skinny, cover-girl type of face. Something about her cheekbones right below her eyes. She was tall but way too flat-chested for his tastes. She had a lot of wavy black hair. He knew her name, Virginia Volente. She belonged to the New England Portrait Painters Association. It all started when he saw one of her paintings auctioned from a rich man's estate in West Hartford, Connecticut. He found her address in the NEPPA catalog in the Springfield Public Library. It amazed Gypsy Blue, what he could learn in a public library. As soon as she reached the kitchen, she yanked the cork out of a wine bottle. She half-filled the nearest glass. Then she chugged it -- three gulps, tops. After pouring a full glass, she recorked the bottle. Using her free hand, she began banging back the spice bottles, the ones Gypsy Blue had tossed into the rack any which way. He heard music faintly. She was humming to herself. What was she, happy? She walked into the bathroom. He heard the shower water start. The first time ... he had just knocked on the loft's front door. He showed her a pinch of the non-lethal stuff. Explained why it was safe compared to the stuff she made herself. She knew about it. Secrets of the old masters, she said. She didn't want to make one big withdrawal at the bank. So it took her a couple of days to gather two and a half thou. The four ounces would last her a decade or so, she told him. She always painted people with their clothes on. Maybe a low-cut dress would show the most skin. So those faces had to glow. The second time ... they had traded money for stuff. None too soon. He had a trailer payment to make. His Exxon credit card was way overdue. He needed new work jeans. He probably should make a child support payment, though it had been months. That third time ... he returned unbidden. The shower water still ran. Girlie, walking out of the bathroom, finally took her coat off. Gypsy Blue turned on the nearest lamp.
She started up the steps again. He started shaking them. With her weight on it, he was not likely to topple the whole staircase. If he kept shaking it, though, she might fall off. She was drunk enough to lose her hold on the railing. She shouted at him again and kept climbing, but he did not listen. He worked on shaking the staircase. [ add image ] She climbed to the top step, level with the balcony railing. But he stood on the balcony behind the railing. To hit him, she had to let go of the staircase. She got a fair swipe in across the side of his head. Yanked some hair. But now, on the top step, she made the whole staircase top-heavy. His rocking had given it some momentum. One final mighty heave tilted the staircase sideways onto two of its four wheels. Girlie, slipping off, shouted bloody murder. She had only ten, twelve feet to fall. Half-drunk, she hit the floor limply, shoulders first. Maybe got the wind knocked out of her. Maybe cracked a rib. The force of Gypsy Blue's pull carried the staircase onto its side. After falling ten feet, it smashed the middle of Girlie's body, so it did not make much noise at all. Thud. And she lay still and silent, long hair fanned out, palms beside her ears in surrender. The shower water still splashed. Steam wafted out of the bathroom door. Gypsy Blue scratched his stubbly cheek. Oh, shit. He swung his legs one after another over the railing. Oh, shit. He stepped off the balcony and hung by his hands. He still wore the surgical gloves. If Girlie were hurt as badly as it sounded, he'd be lucky to be wearing gloves. Gypsy Blue opened his palms. He hit the floor bent-kneed and sprang back up. Every scam, he feared someone would get hurt. Then number thirteen, someone did. He hoped Girlie was not hurt too badly by the falling staircase. But he wasn't going to wait around for the ambulance. First, he just had to check the freezer. Where her eyes flicked. He had stopped looking there earlier after he found the Bud. He ripped the door half off in his haste. Could not believe.... There it sat, right there in her freezer. Add freezers to his list of places to look first. It was still in the tupperware. Copper aceto-arsenite, even with the safety additive, was mineral, not animal or vegetable. Was she so dumb she tried to freeze it? If she had left it on her shelf with the other paints, he would have been long gone. It would have been days before she missed it. On his way down the long oak floor to the back window, he paused at her body in the shadows under the balcony. It was like she was in two parts, one on either side of the black wood. Should he try to shove the staircase off her? It must be suffocating. He knelt down. The blood looked black. It smelled like too-old hamburger. It had collected in two still pools of blood. A line of blood ran from her nose but had stopped flowing. "Holy shit," he said. "C'mon, Girlie, I didn't mean -- " He did not touch her. He ran the rest of the way to the back window. At the sill, he had one leg over when he saw the studio phone. It was right on the wall, not ten feet away. He took the time to climb back in and dial 911. He pressed his left hand between his lips and the receiver. It'd never sound like him. "Accident," he mumbled. Even though the man who had answered kept asking questions, Gypsy Blue spoke louder. "Second floor across from Sheehan's. Got that? Second floor across from Sheehan's." He slammed the receiver down. [ add image ] He flew through the tall back window, did not bother to close it behind him, and barreled down the fire escape. The last part fell slowly under his weight, which made him pause. Hurry, hurry. He jumped off, landed lightly, and scampered up the alley toward Pleasant Street. He heard the pulleys yank the fire escape back into position. On the sidewalk, he slowed to a walk, but his chest still heaved. "Holy shit," he kept muttering. He kept his ear cocked for sirens but did not hear any. He knew the rules. Don't run.
Don't panic. Don't give no one reason to remember you. His Chevy spool truck, two blocks east on Bridge Street, looked downright inviting. The heater worked. He tuned the FM to Albany, next stop for the Fortunati Bros. Circus. A couple of hours down the interstate. He had a six-pack and a half of Moosehead behind the front seat and his precious stuff in the glove compartment. Even when he was not thinking about Girlie directly, he felt like shit. |
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by Douglas Anderson
ust
after one a.m., Gypsy Blue sat upstairs on the arm of a stuffed chair. Where should he
look next? Then he saw her.
