“Clete, this is urgent,” Perky pleaded from outside. “I haven’t a minute to waste. Let me in!”
“You are a boorish bourgeois,” Clete said, eyes closed, “and I will have no truck with you.”
“But I have a commission for you, Clete. You want to make five hundred dollars?”
Clete’s eyes flipped open. He didn’t exactly spring to his feet, but there was no hesitancy in his action as he rose from the daybed.
Clothed in barefoot sandals, rumpled cotton pants and dingy T-shirt with a slight rip in the right shoulder, Cletus stood tall and lanky. His face was a weathered collection of aquiline features in a nest of wild, fearsome black beard and hair.
Clete made his way toward the door through a clutter and disarray that would have driven even a Picasso to the chore of housekeeping. Canvasses, paints, brushes, palettes, easels were mingled with pieces of junk, rumpled clothing, dirty dishes, bean cans, bread wrappers; it was as if a capricious wind had stirred the contents of the cottage for days on end and then raced off when nothing more could be misplaced.
Perky was all set to rattle the hinges when Cletus yanked the door open. He lowered his upraised knuckles and shoved into the cottage. Under his left arm, Perky awkwardly carried a package, wrapped in brown paper, that was thin but large in its perimeter dimensions.
Cletus recognized stress when he saw it. Normally, an action such as breaking into another person’s siesta would have brought a sheepish grin and mumbled apology from Perky. But not today. Instead, he shoved aside some dirty dishes, dropped his package on the table, and knuckled sweat off his forehead. “Boy, am I glad you were home!”
“What’s this about five centuries of bread?” Cletus asked. He regarded Perky remotely.
Perky and his wife, Lisa, lived a few miles down the beach, where the real estate was much less overrun with mangrove and palmetto, and considerably more valuable. Cletus had a private word to describe the pair. Images. Images from perfect little molds. Perky was boyishly handsome, and Lisa was lovely. Their beach house was small, but it was a sterile page from a decorator’s magazine. They lived within the limits of the income from a small trust fund which Perky’s father had set up. They devoted all their time to sophisticated little parties, sailing, swimming, bridge, teas, and chit-chat. They exercised religiously, dieted carefully, and took their vitamin pills punctually.
For some time now, Perky and Lisa, who had met Cletus when he’d had a one-man show in Sarasota, had frequently included the artist in their guest list. Cletus Higgins was unique; he was atmosphere; he was color. Perky and Lisa were as proud of him as they were of the modest, but shiny cabin cruiser bobbing at their private dock.
To Cletus, neither of the pair was quite real; merely porcelain images incubated in the kiln of an affluent society.
Recovering his breath and containing his anxiety, Perky slipped a Florentine silver case from the pocket of his natty slacks, chose a cigarette for himself, and extended the case.
Cletus helped himself to three cigarettes. Two of the butts almost disappeared in the black mane when he stashed one over each ear. The third he thrust between thin lips that were surrounded by a black thicket and waited impatiently for Perky to offer a light.
“You’re taking a long time to get down to cases,” Cletus said.
“I’m trying to think how to start. It’s the wildest thing ever happened to me. “ Perky snapped a lighter and held it forward, careful of Clete’s beard. “It’s—I want you to do a portrait. Without a model. From another portrait that isn’t all there.”
Cletus gave him a look. Perky took a nervous drag on his cigarette. “Maybe I’d better start back at the beginning.”
“Sounds reasonable. By all means proceed. You’ve ruined my siesta with an offer of five hundred dollars for what sounds like an impossible task.”
“I’m sure you can do it. You’ve got to do it, Clete!”
“Really? While I never sneer at bread, five hundred isn’t entirely vital to me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Perky said with alarm touching his voice. “I’m relying on your friendship. You’re the only person who can help me.”
“Then let us explore your woes,” Clete said. He scuffed toward the kitchenette and began rattling dirty pots in the sink as he collected the various component parts of a percolator.
Tagging along, Perky talked while Clete began preparations to make coffee in an old percolator.
“I have a cousin, Clete. She’s several years older than I. Her name is Melanie Sutton.”
“I’ve heard you and Lisa speak of her,” Clete said. “She’s the one who’s filthy with boodle.”
“She can buy yachts like I would buy canoes.”
“Hand me the coffee, will you? Not that can. It’s full of secondhand grease. That’s the one.”
“Cousin Melanie’s folks are all dead,” Perky said. “I’m the nearest of kin, surviving.”
Cletus dumped coffee into the basket and set the percolator on the two-burner hot plate.
“We haven’t seen Cousin Melanie in several years,” Perky went on. “She was educated in Europe, and has a decided affinity for the continent She returns to this country only occasionally.”
“I take it that one of those occasions is in prospect.”
“She phoned us less than an hour ago,” Perky said “She had to fly to New York to talk to some corporation lawyers, and decided it’s the right season for some Florida sun. She’ll be dropping in on us by the end of the week, which doesn’t give you much time, Clete.”
“Time for what?”
“I’m coming to that. The minute Cousin Melanie hung up, Lisa and I thought of the picture.”
“Picture? What picture?”
“Cousin Melanie’s portrait. She sent it to us from Paris three, four years ago. If she paid the artist anything at all, she got rooked. The portrait’s an abomination. We never did hang it.”
“But now,” Clete said, “you decided you’d better hang the rich relative in the choicest spot in your living room.”
“You’re dead right.” Perky
