“No. I still have work.”
James placed the lid back on one of the boxes of artwork, then flicked off the closet light and stood in the doorway.
“I think I need to wrap up some work for tomorrow’s closing,” he said. “Did you call your dad?”
“Yeah, he’s hanging in there,” Teresa sighed. “He’s still coherent, of course. Asked about you, how you’re coming with the case.”
“That’s good.”
“How is it coming, by the way?”
“Who knows, by this point? I’m defending every Italian-American stereotype rolled into one.” James rubbed his eyes. “If I don’t get him off, family’ll probably come over, pump me full of lead.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Teresa said. “Please.”
He headed to the door. “I’ll be downstairs.”
***
After tinkering with his closing argument, he sat on the couch, television flickering across the darkness. Fucking late-night TV. The news programs, jawing about the same story, the story that was constant across every station. The Rodney King Wallpaper. Endless reminder of the African savannah from which we came.
Jesus, listen to yourself.
Again, they played the video. More layers of commentary, diluting the word expert because there were so many said experts adding their two cents. Psychologists. Sociologists. Criminal justice people. Lawyers like him.
King thrashed in the center of a ring of cops raining furious blows upon him, their limbs strikes of lightning upon his crippled trembling body. Officers swarmed around him, scooting into better places to send their attacks.
He moved on.
The Spice Channel was nothing new. Butts and breasts and lathering. Stale. He turned off the television and sat back and fell into a late-night daydream informed heavily from his recent session at The Schoolhouse. Was it open this late? Maybe he could stop by. But Penelope probably wouldn’t still be there. And besides, he couldn’t overdo it. James cashed hefty checks but that shit was expensive. Not only that, the thing itself was best spaced out. He didn’t want his sessions with Penelope to grow stale, though right now such a prospect felt impossible.
And if it does, there’s always other girls.
He fell asleep on the couch.
***
IV
For the immersive and peerless entertainment if nothing else, Max often made the lengthy bus trip to Venice Beach, even without pieces to sell. He’d also made himself a promise that no matter the heights he might achieve as an artist, no matter the fame that might befall him, he would always craft works to be sold specifically here. He had started at the beach and, when he could, he’d always return.
He carried five pieces under his arm, all 9x12 canvases varying greatly in age: one of them, a piece called Geometric Skull, had been in his closet since his senior year at Rheta. Another, far more intricate piece titled Angel Grass, had only three weeks ago seen its last brushstroke.
Sandwiched among them, as it had been for the past ten years, was Moon Watch, the one bearing the likeness of his father. He’d never put it up for display. Maybe that would change. Talking to Karen Eisenlord—or Adams, or McAdams, whatever name she had now—had shaken his feelings toward the piece and he wasn’t sure in what way; like snow in a snowglobe, they would have to settle before offering any clarity.
A homeless man rested on a nearby bench, his torso propping up a cardboard sign. He jingled a cup of loose change.
“Support your local wino!” he shouted. “Help me to a liquor store!”
Max went to his usual spot and set up shop. Several yards over, he noticed another artist who appeared to be watching him. Kind of stocky, bearded, grungy hair jutting below an old ball cap. A giant lawn gnome regrettably granted modern life.
Max noticed a greater variety of media in the man’s offerings than his own: homemade blankets, woven baskets, sculptures and oil canvases. Outdoing me, Max thought. Maybe I should move.
Then the man approached him, casual, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket.
“Interesting stuff there,” said the man. “My kinda shit.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “Some of them are pretty old. But figured I’d flush them from storage.”
“I hear you.” He held out his hand. “Dwayne.”
“Max.” They shook.
After minor hesitation, Dwayne pointed to Moon Watch. “Looks like Germain there.”
“Germain?” Max said, blood running faster in his veins. “Who’s Germain?”
“The legend of Count Saint Germain. You know it?”
“No.” Impatient, impatient.
“He was a fellow from the eighteenth century. Alchemist. Jack of all trades. Still alive, supposedly. Achieved immortality through all his tinkerings. Of course, all kinds of crazies abuse this story, saying they’re the new Count and whatnot. That face in your piece there just reminded me of the latest.”
“What do you mean? How’d you hear about all this?”
“I’m obsessed, that’s how, with all that mysterious unexplained stuff. Got all those books, saved every article I could find. And you let me know if you missed any Twilight Zone episode, cuz I got ‘em all on tape, every goddamn season.”
“This is actually a portrait of my father,” Max said. “Or, at least who I thought was my father.”
Dwayne’s lips tried for a smile but fell short as he recognized Max’s discomfort.
“Your father?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I could easily be mistaken, Maximo, you know that. Don’t mean to insinuate that your dad is a crazy claiming to be a three-hundred-year-old count.”
Max said nothing. He also marveled silently at the man’s nickname for him, ‘Maximo.’ Who knew where that came from, but it had come quick.
Overhead, the sun struggled to crack the marine layer. People swarmed, bustled, the usual endless school of tattooed, skateboarding, dog-walking fish.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Dwayne. “What happened to your pop?”
“Disappeared.”
“Foul play?”
“Don’t know. Never knew if it was purposeful. He just...poof. Haven’t seen him since I was seven. He’s like a dream.”
“Sorry to hear.”
“Looks like something’s biting,” Max said, pointing toward Dwayne’s camp where an attractive couple, hands linked, snooped about the pottery section. The woman picked up a bowl with designs that looked almost hieroglyphic.
Dwayne rushed over to meet them. Max relieved his lungs
