He wore a vest of chain mail over bare skin and filthy black jeans gouged with holes and tucked into black plastic rain boots. A rusty razor blade dangling from a steel chain formed a necklace that came to rest over his sternum, and a feathered earring stretched one lobe. His belt was a section of rope, and from it hung a clasp knife. I remembered him as severely myopic, but his glasses were gone. I wondered if he was wearing contact lenses, or did physical correction clash with his new set of values?
The girl next to him was no more than fifteen and tiny -four feet ten or eleven. She had a petulant, snub- nosed, baby-doll face gravelled with acne and topped by a Medusa mop the colour of borscht. Her face was powdered white, and dark rings had been pencilled around her eyes, but bad living had begun to etch its own shadows. She had an overbite that made her lips hang slightly open; her lipstick was black, and beaming through the inky flesh was the silvery glint of orthodonture. I wondered if whoever had paid for the braces was still looking for her.
Despite the getup and a studied attempt at surliness, both of them looked soft and innocent, Hansel and Gretel corrupted by the witch.
'Okay, man?' pressed Stripehead.
I handed him the pair of fifties, and he scurried back inside. 'Gary?'
'Yes?' His voice was soft and flat, as emotionless as the music blaring inside the gallery.
With anyone else I'd have made an attempt at rapport, using small talk and the reeling in of memories sweetened by time. But the old Gary and I had never had much to do with one another, and the creature before me obviously had no appetite for chit-chat.
'Thanks for coming. I want to talk to you about Jamey.' He folded his arms across his chest and the chain mail tinkled.
I took a step forward, and he backed away. But his
retreat was cut short as he stumbled in a rut and lurched backward. The girl caught his arm and prevented him from falling. Once he was stabilised, she held on to him protectively. Up close I saw (hat his eyes were strained and unfocused. No contacts.
'What do you want?' he asked. The bare bulb backlit the spikes in his hair.
'You know about the trouble he's in.' 'Yes.' Unmoved.
'I've been asked by his attorney to evaluate his mental status. But I'm also trying - personally - to understand what happened.'
He stared at the blur that was my face, silent and impassive. His inflection and manner were mechanical, as if his personality had been excised, fed into a synthesiser, and ejected as something only partially organic. He'd never been easy to talk to, and the punk armour was yet another layer to peel. I continued, without much hope of success.
'The others at the project said that you were friends, that he talked to you more than to any of them. Do you remember his saying or doing anything that could relate to what happened?'
'No.'
'But the two of you did talk.'
'Yes.'
'About what?'
He shrugged.
'Don't remember?'
'That's the past. Extinct.'
I tried the direct approach.
'You did a sculpture that combined elements of his father's suicide and the Lavender Slashings.'
'Art imitates life,' he recited.
'You titled it The Wretched Act, Gary. That's a phrase Jamey used to describe suicide.'
'Yes.'
'Why? What does it all mean?'
A faint smile tiptoed across his lips, then vanished.
'Art speaks for itself.'
The girl nodded and clutched him tighter.
'He's a genius,' she said, and I noticed for the first time how thin they both were.
'Sometimes,' I said, 'geniuses aren't appreciated in their time. What percentage of each sale does Voids give you?'
He pretended not to hear the question, but something that looked like hunger filled the girl's eyes.
Starting to feel like a minifoundation, I reached into my wallet and peeled off some bills. If Gary saw the money, he chose to ignore it. But the girl reached out and took it, examined it, and tucked it in her waistband. It didn't guarantee cooperation by a long shot, but maybe they'd use some of it for food.
'Gary,' I asked, 'was Jamey on drugs?'
'Yes.'
The casual answer threw me.
'How do you know?'
'He tripped.'
'Like on acid?'
'Yes.'
'Did you ever actually see him drop acid?'
'No.'
'So you're just inferring it from his behaviour.'
He touched the feathered fringe of his earring.
'I know tripping,' he said.
'Dr. Flowers and the others were sure he was straight.'
'They're low-level androids.'
'Is there anything else you can tell me about his drug use?'
'No.'
'Did you ever see him take anything other than acid?'
'No.'
'Do you think he did?'
'Yes.'
'What kind of stuff?'
'Speed. Downers. Hog.'
TCP?'
'Yes.'
WHEN I got home, Robin was already in the kitchen, tossing a Caesar salad. She wiped her hands and gave me an anchovy-garlic kiss.
'Hi. Billy's manager called today and said Roland Oberheim can meet with you tomorrow at three. I left the address on your nightstand.'
'Great,' I said listlessly. 'Thank him for me next time you see him.'
She looked at me quizzically.
'Alex, it took some effort to set up. You could show a little enthusiasm.'
' You're right Sorry.'
She returned to the salad.
'Rough day?'
'Just a joy ride through the urban swamp.' And I gave her a capsulised version of the last ten hours.
She listened without comment, then said:
'Gary sounds really troubled.'
'He's gone from one extreme to the other. Five years ago he was as straight and compliant as they come. High
energy, a compulsive worker. Now that he's rebelled, all the energy's been focused into nihilism.'
'From the way you described those sculptures it sounds like he's still got plenty of compulsiveness in him.
