'If Yates is in bad hock with his loan shark,' reasoned Mulvane, 'that's a big problem for him. He might rather make it a big problem for you.'
'He has paintings,' Nina said. 'And he rented a turquoise car.'
'But in the meantime,' the detective said, 'it's the agent who seems antsier than anybody else.'
'She has the most to gain,' said Nina. 'And I don't see why she's got this shoot-the-moon attitude about this one auction.'
'And then there's the crazy man,' the cop added to the tally. 'The chicken slayer. What's his angle?'
'He is evil,' Reuben said.
Mulvane nodded. He knew from evil. 'But there's no money motive?'
'His painting is still on the wall,' said Augie. 'Reuben saw it. Besides, mere greed would be too bourgeois for Robert. He'd have to find a way to make it philosophical.'
The four of them were sitting in the backyard near the pool. The sun had slipped below the level of the trees, the drooping fronds absorbed the last of the day's battering, and the dappled air that filtered through seemed no temperature at all. Fat summer clouds towered here and there. Their bottoms were lavender, they were voluptuous with swelling curves, and they roamed the sky like sniffing dogs, deliberating as to where they'd drop their rain.
Mulvane sipped his beer. He felt suddenly irritable, out of his depth. Conniving art dealers. Philosophical poets who choked chickens. Key West was a weird town, and the weirdness extended even to why and how inhabitants got murdered. Mulvane wanted to bring the discussion back to more familiar grass-roots criminality.
'The other people on your list,' he said. 'Jimmy Gibbs. You know he once killed a man?'
There was a general recoil, but less so than there would have been a week ago. People could get used to anything.
'I knew he'd been in trouble,' Augie said. 'I didn't know…' His voice faltered, he gestured weakly, he thought about the time he'd spent on the water and at the Clove Hitch with the gruff, grumpy, always-bitching-and-moaning Jimmy Gibbs. Damnit, he enjoyed the guy.
'Was a long time ago,' Mulvane said. 'Almost thirty years. And supposedly there were some mitigating circumstances, maybe he was even justified. But still, there are people who can kill and people who can't.' He raised his beer; the timing made it seem like some macabre toast to homicide. 'So who else?'
He glanced from face to face and Reuben piped up. 'Meester Pheeps. Who brought the cake.'
'Right,' said Joe Mulvane. 'That excellent poison cake.'
'Come on,' said Augie, 'he's my oldest friend. And he isn't selling his paintings.'
Mulvane put his glass down on the low iron table in front of him and glanced at the painter from under his eyebrows. 'How do you know?' he asked.
Augie was drinking white wine. It looked greenish in the fading light. The artist gave a nervous little laugh, and squirmed. 'Look,' he said, 'I started giving him pictures-Jesus, it must be twenty, twenty-two years ago… And I've spoken with him, we've talked. I mean, he had a chance to tell me, he would have said something… And it's not like he's strapped for funds. At least I don't think he is… No, he would have told me, I know it.'
There was an embarrassed silence, a pained silence such as might surround a person who'd just come to suspect a spouse's infidelity that had been long before surmised by others. Nina reached out gently and put a hand on Augie's wrist. Reuben pulled a deep breath in, as though trying to take the hurt into himself and thereby cleanse the air.
Joe Mulvane softly cleared his throat. 'Try to find out for sure,' he said.
Augie nodded. He slumped down in his chair, his thin bare knees splayed out. Far away there was thunder, the sound was less heard than felt. It was dim enough now for the headlight bugs to glow, they flew by slowly, their red eyes bright before their blurring wings.
Nina steeled herself to press on. 'And we've yet to decide about this interview,' she said.
'Pros and cons?' said Joe Mulvane.
'The argument against,' said Nina, 'is Do we really want any more attention? The argument for-'
'The argument for,' Augie roused himself, 'is that, goddamnit, I will not be cowed.' He was forcing himself upright in his chair; he pressed down on its arms so that his bony shoulders hunched up almost to his ears. 'I keep silent, I hide-whoever's after me, they've won. I won't roll over.'
'Who cares who wins?' said Nina.
But Augie went right on. 'Besides, why should we imagine that this auction passes and suddenly the threat is over? There'll be other auctions, other shows, other reasons to kill me. Something like this doesn't just go away.'
'He's right about that,' said Joe Mulvane. 'As a rule.'
'So you're saying he should do the interview?' Nina asked.
The detective fended off the suggestion with the lift of a meaty hand. 'I can't give protection, I'm not giving advice. Look, you do the interview, you're raising the stakes, putting yourself out there-'
'Setting a trap,' said Augie, 'with myself as bait.'
'Something like that,' Mulvane resumed. 'It's a risk. Keep quiet, maybe you're protecting yourself, maybe you're just prolonging things. It's a tough call.'
'I'm doing it,' said Augie.
Nina sipped her wine. Reuben checked around to see if anyone needed another drink, a fresh dry cocktail napkin. Off to the east, lightning made orange pulses inside a purple cloud.
'Well, listen,' said Mulvane, 'if your mind's made up, I'll say one thing. General rule, there's two ways to stay out of trouble. Say nothing to nobody or say everything to everybody.'
'Meaning?' Augie said.
'Meaning that if you're doing interviews, don't just talk to this one guy, talk to everyone who's interested.'
Augie could not help giving forth a little laugh. 'Joe, I think you have an exaggerated notion of how many people give a damn about me.'
'Local paper does,' said the detective. 'This I know for sure.'
Augie shrugged. 'O.K., I'll talk to the local paper. World famous in his hometown. Why not?'
38
That night Augie Silver couldn't sleep.
He lay in bed and watched the lazy turning of the ceiling fan, listened to the fleeting showers that hammered briefly on the metal roof then stopped as abruptly as if someone had turned off a faucet. He looked at his sleeping wife, now and then brushed a stray hair from her face. At around 5 a.m. he slipped out from under the thin damp sheet.
Nina roused herself enough to ask if he was all right.
'Fine, darling, fine,' he said. He leaned over with some difficulty and stroked her shoulder. 'There's something I need to do.'
'What?' she asked fuzzily.
'Go back to sleep,' he whispered.
He pulled on his khaki shorts and a blue work shirt with paint spots on the sleeves. Then he tiptoed through the hallway, past the closed door of the guest bedroom where Reuben was now staying. From a basket on the kitchen counter he took the key to the lock on Nina's old fat-tire bicycle, and he left the house.
Key West is a very quiet place at 5 a.m. A soft electric hum spills out of the pinkish streetlights; if a cat wails, fighting or fornicating, you can hear it many blocks away. Augie's tires made a nice sound, a sticky sound, as he slowly rode and, nub by nub, the rubber treads were stretched off the damp asphalt. The high parts of the streets had steamed themselves almost dry; along the curbs were shallow puddles that would be gone by daybreak. Nothing moved. The waxy flowers of the night-blooming cirrus gave off an uncanny lacquered gleam.
Augie's legs were tired by the time he'd pedaled the eight flat blocks to Clay Phipps's house. He gave himself
