Stone Junction

in North Beach alone could still provide you with the squalid details.’

‘What about his series of sculptures with the Mickey Mouse theme?’

‘Drivel,’ Quentin Lime sniffed, ‘pure, witless, kitschy drivel.’

‘It received some good reviews.’

‘Most reviews are written by morons about morons. Sensibility is at a premium in American culture these days.’

‘Did you know him personally?’

‘Never,’ Quentin Lime said icily. ‘We tended to frequent different social circles. Gideon considered himself a beatnik. He and Charles Miller wrote a miserable piece of self-promotion called the Three M Manifesto – essentially the crucial culture concept of “Mickey Mouse Moment,” which they, with childish illogic and grand infelicities of expression, advanced as a beatific state.’

‘I thought the Three M Manifesto had been published anonymously?’

‘I assure you that my sources, while I’m not at liberty to disclose them, are impeccable.’

‘This Charles Miller – who’s he? I haven’t heard him mentioned before.’

‘You’ve probably heard him referred to as High Life. Do you get it? Miller High Life. Bohemians are so witty.’

‘High Life, right, I’ve heard about him – but he’s in Spain isn’t he?’

‘Unfortunately, he returned two days ago, which means that in about a half hour he will be slouching at a back table in Cafe Trieste, holding court to an empty house. I hear he’s now billing himself as the Last Beatnik. Let us fervently hope so.’

‘Sit down, man,’ High Life motioned before Daniel could even introduce himself. ‘You know what the real work of art is, man? Life. Not just human life, but all life.’ He leaned forward confidentially as Daniel took a chair. ‘I used to be a painter. Now I’m the paint. You digging that?’

Daniel said carefully, ‘I think I know what you mean.’

‘But do you dig the tragedy of it?’

‘I thought it sounded fine.’

‘No, man. And you know why? There’s no canvas. They’re all turning into fucking robots out there. Power- suckers. Women are buying electrical vibrators to fuck themselves with, man. Personal appliances – it’s a whole new market. You see, man, Marx got it right for his time, but hey, who could have imagined advertising? A whole industry devoted to the creation of desire! Like we didn’t have enough, right?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ve spent most of my time in the mountains.’

‘Go back, man. It’s your best shot at sanity.’

‘I probably will, but right now I’m trying to gather some information on a sculptor named Gideon Nobel.’

High Life looked blankly at a spot just over Daniel’s head.

‘I’m not a cop,’ Daniel assured him.

‘Man, everybody’s a cop or a reporter. Anybody that calls the cops is a cop. Anybody trying to write their way into the fame game is a reporter. You know what I’m saying? I mean, a person that calls the cops is a person that doesn’t have any friends. I don’t need that action, dig,’ cause I have friends. Maybe even this Gideon cat was a friend. Why would you want to know?’

Given High Life’s clear antipathy to reporters, Daniel tried a different cover. ‘I’m writing a graduate paper on his life and work.’

High Life cocked his head. ‘Oh yeah? Where you studying?’

‘Cal.’

‘Who’s department chair in art over there now?’

‘Polansky.’

‘You read the right catalogue, man, but Polansky had a stroke about three months ago.’ High Life started to rise from his chair. ‘See ya later.’

‘Actually,’ Daniel said, ‘I want to know about Gideon because I think he killed my mother.’

High Life sat down. ‘Hey, that’s too much. What was her name?’

‘Annalee Pearse.’

High Life looked at Daniel sharply, then shook his head. ‘Let’s fall by my pad, man. Do a little of the good shit and see if we can’t get this back on track.’

Charles ‘High Life’ Miller hadn’t been properly stirred in the melting pot. He had General Custer’s flowing blond hair and the dirt-brown eyes of Sitting Bull. His upstairs apartment on Columbus was furnished with a mattress, three orange-crate bookcases, wine bottles shoved in a corner, and a refrigerator that ran constantly and noisily. High Life sat on the mattress and rolled a joint. He lit it, sucked down a little hit, passed it to Daniel. As he exhaled he said, ‘Brought this shit back with me from Spain. Basques grow it in the highlands. Best kept secret on the planet, this weed. It’ll knock your dick in your watchpocket.’

Daniel took a few hits and passed it back, imagining Mott snorting in derision at the size of the joint. Mott’s, usually rolled in newspaper in the Rastafarian mode, required both hands just to hold on.