He followed that with a furrowed brow, I wondered how often he sold anything.
'Get him here by six,' I said. 'Tell him Alex Delaware wants to buy The Wretched Act and talk to him.'
He shook his head.
'No messages, man. I can't remember all that.'
'Delaware,' I said slowly, 'like in the state. He knows me.'
He shrugged, defeatedly, and I left knowing he'd hustle for the money.
There was a phone booth in one corner of the parking lot. The door had been ripped off, and traffic sounds blotted out the dial tone. I covered one ear and punched in my service number. The only message of interest was a call-back from Milo.
I reached him just as he was leaving for County General Hospital.
'Heard your boy did himself up pretty good,' he said.
'It was ugly. He had to have been incredibly despondent.'
'Guilt can do that to you,' he said, but the glibness was forced, and he softened his voice. 'What's on your mind, Alex?'
I told him about the bikers breaking into Gary's loft.
'Uh-huh. And you heard this from a wino.'
'He was cleverer than he looked.'
'Hey, I'm not knocking it. Some of my best info's come
from juiceheads.' Pause. 'So you're connecting it with what I told you about the Slasher victims hanging out with bikers.'
'It does seem coincidental.'
'Alex, this Yamaguchi kid is a punker, right?'
'Right.'
'Which means ten to one he's into nasty drugs, like glue and speed. Outlaw bikers are one of the main sources of illegal speed in this state. They call it crank. You don't need much of an IQ to cook it up, which sticks it right in those scumbags' bailiwick. Yamaguchi was probably buying from them and didn't pay on time.'
'He was dealing,' I said.
'Even better. It was a business deal gone sour. The leather boys tend to favour violent retribution over binding arbitration.'
'All right,' I said, 'I just thought you should know.'
'You were right to call, and if you think of anything else, don't hesitate to give a toot - that is, if Souza doesn't get bent out of shape about your fraternising with the enemy.'
I considered telling him about The Wretched Act but knew it could be dismissed as nothing more than a pseudoartist's conception of murder, gleaned from the papers. Instead, I said:
'Souza fired me this morning.'
'No use for you anymore, huh?'
'That's the general picture.'
'Makes sense. The kid's got progressively worse since the arrest, and with the suicide attempt there's probably enough to back up a temporary incompetence order. Given sufficient shilly-shallying, the case may never come to trial.'
'What kind of shilly-shallying?'
'Paper games. One delay after another.'
'How long can that last?'
'Keep paying a guy like Souza, and he'll figure out how to delay sunrise. All he's got to do is keep the kid out of the public eye until nobody gives a shit about the case anymore. Great system, isn't it?'
'Terrific'
'Cheer up, pal. It's pretty clear Cadmus shouldn't be walking the streets. At least this way he'll have soft walls.'
'Yeah. I guess so.'
'Anyway, now that we're not on opposite sides of the skirmish, how about dinner and amusing conversation sometime?'
His voice was buoyant, and I made a silent guess.
'Two or four?'
'Uh, four.' Pause. 'He called, and he's coming back tomorrow.'
'I'm glad for you, Milo.'
'Yeah, I know that. Thanks for the shoulder when I needed it.'
'Anytime.'
I returned to Voids Will Be Voids just before dark. When Stripehead saw me, he jumped up and began bobbing his head nervously.
'All set?' I asked.
He bobbed at a blank space on the wall where The Wretched Act had hung.
'Someone came in, after you were gone and outbid you, man.'
'I thought we had a deal.'
'Hey, man, free enterprise - '
'Who bought it?'
'Some suit.'
'You can do better than that.'
'That's it, man. I never look at their faces.'
'How much did he pay?'
'What's the diff? You like that kind of shit, take another one.'
I could have pushed it, but purchasing the sculpture had just been a ploy to get to its creator. And Stripehead was still my only link to Gary.
'That's okay. Are we still in business on the other matter?'
'Sure.' Palm out. 'Two hundred.'
'One fifty added to the price of the sculpture. Since you ripped me off, it goes down to one twenty-five.'
He screwed up his face, shoved his hands in his pockets, and paced. The promise of temporary affluence had heightened his appetite for a chemical dream.
'Fuck, no. One fifty.'
I took three fifties out of the wallet, gave him one, and withheld two.
'When I see him, you get the rest.'
Cursing, he snapped up the money and went back to his desk.
'Wait here. I'll tell you when it's time.'
He went back to his doodling, and I spent ten stuporous minutes walking around the gallery. Nothing looked better at second glance. Finally he stood, motioned, and led me through a rear door through a storage area and out to the darkening alley. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he held out his hand.
'Give.'
'Where's Gary?'
'He'll be here soon, man.'
'Then you'll get paid soon.'
'Up yours,' he hissed, but he backed off and stood in the shadows.
I looked around. The alley was a band of lacerated asphalt, checkered with tilting, overflowing dumpsters. Garbage confettied the ground, and potholes full of waste water glistened stagnantly. More stink. I thought of Jamey's use of the word and wondered what kind of decay had fuelled his visions.
Within seconds there was movement from behind one of the Dumpsters and scratching, rodent sounds.
Two shadows slid along the backs of buildings, then stepped out into the open. A bare bulb above the gallery's rear door spat a triangle of cold light onto the asphalt. The shadows stood away from it but absorbed enough illumination to be rendered three-dimensional.
The larger of the two was Gary. His thick black hair had been sheared off except for a Mohawk centre strip, dyed aquamarine. Roofing nails had been glued to the strip and lacquered stiff, creating a high, jagged cock's comb.
