The Vampire Files - Art In The Blood Part 7

"Fine. I can get it for you tomorrow, if that's okay."

"One thing, Fleming. I-I'm not sure I can do it... If I find I cannot, I'll return the money."

I nodded. "Fair enough. And if you can?"

"Then you get your portrait and I get the balance, of course."

"Deal." I held out my hand. He didn't seem to understand what it was there for at first, then hesitantly shook it. "What made you change your mind?"

From his wallet he gave me a business card with his name and number. "Call me sometime tomorrow and we'll work out a schedule for the sittings. Good night." He turned and went back to Sandra.Bobbi broke off her chatting with t.i.tus and came over. "What was that all about?

Who was-"

I slipped an arm around her. "The Alex Adrian, and that was about my Christmas present to you."

"I see what you mean about smoldering-what Christmas present?"

"Well, it might take that long for the paint to dry."

"Jack-"

"You said you didn't want diamonds, but what about your portrait done by-"

She gave out a soft shriek of pure delight and threw her arms around me in a stranglehold.

Chapter Four.

IT WAS NEARLY two-thirty by the time I'd dropped off Marza and Madison, saw Bobbi safe into her hotel apartment, and said good-bye. I had hours yet before dawn and these were always the hardest to fill. Bobbi invited me to stay, but she was exhausted, so I left her to her well-earned sleep.

The streets were fairly empty: only the odd carload of party goers hooting past and an occasional lonely figure wrapped against the night and out on G.o.d knows what business. I was driving north again and for the second time that week parked close to the Nightcrawler Club and walked up the steps past the big doorman. He nodded once at me, perhaps because someone had clued him in on Gordy's preferential treatment. It was his version of a polite greeting.

There was a new singer working with the band, a pretty brunette with a feisty manner. Whoever did Gordy's booking knew talent. I pa.s.sed by the club and went through to the casino without trouble. The games were still going strong and would continue until either the money 09 the night ran out. I recognized a slab-faced blackjack dealer and sat at his table for a hand or three.

His mug was immobile, but he couldn't control his heartbeat, which I was able to hear well enough. It thumped just a little faster whenever he got a good hand. I didn't consider my listening in on his reactions to be cheating. This was just using my unnatural abilities to help ease the odds in my favor. Not all the cards were good, but when I left the table I was a sweet two hundred ahead. It'd make a nice Christmas present for my folks when the time came.

The man in the money cage said Gordy was in his office, maybe. I didn't bother to ask for an escort through the back door of the casino into the halls beyond, but one of the boys followed-just to make sure I didn't get lost, he told me.

"You gotta 'pointment?" he asked, eyeing the lines of my suit for hidden weapons.

He wasn't sure if I required a frisk or not, my level of importance to his boss had yet to be established."Didn't know I needed one just to visit."

He looked vaguely familiar and I wondered if he'd been one of the boys who put a knife into Escott last month. I was about to ask, but the office door opened and Gordy told him to get lost. It was just as well.

"What's up?" He motioned me in and I took my usual chair.

"Nothing much, had a question or two."

"Maybe I'll answer." He sat behind his desk this time and I studied the rural landscape behind him. It certainly looked like Leighton Brett's work to my uneducated eye.

"Know anyone named Dimmy Wallace?" I asked.

"Small-time bookie and loan shark."

"Doesn't sound like much."

"He isn't. Why you want to know?"

"He's squeezing a friend of mine dry with interest on a debt he's already paid."

"It's a tough world."

"You know where I can find him?"

"I might. Who's your friend?"

"Some artist, not much sense and less money, but likable."

"Gambler?"

"Yeah. He's losing money he doesn't have."

"Name?"

"Evan Robley."

Gordy socked the name away into his memory, that much pa.s.sed over his deadpan face. "You won't have to find Dimmy, I'll get the word out."

"What'll you do?"

"Tell Dimmy he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 'round with a friend of mine and to lay off. I'll let some others know Robley's a bad credit risk, make it harder for him to place a bet in this town. I don't need my own bookies stretching themselves on a mark with no bucks.

They got enough troubles as it is."

"Thanks, Gordy, I didn't expect you to-" " 'S nothing. How's Bobbi doin'?"

"Just beautiful, finished a job tonight at a sw.a.n.k home by the yacht basin. Marza did the piano and they had a string quartet for in between sets."

"Marza, huh? That broad's like sandpaper on a cut."

"I know what you mean. The guest of honor was this big-time artist, I think he may have done the paintings you have here."

Gordy's eyes traveled the walls automatically. "That'd be something, wouldn't it?"

"He doesn't remember doing them, though. I sort of promised I'd see if he had or not."

He lifted a hand. "Feel free."

I did. None of them had Brett's distinctive signature. I turned the woodscape over and just saw the name of the framers. "Did you get them from a gallery?"

"The decorator's. They had a stack of these in a bin and I picked what I liked best."

"An oil like this was in a bin?" Even I could see some work had gone into it.

"That's what I wondered, but the lady there said people pick art to go with the color of their sofa. You Figure it."

"It's too screwy to figure, I'll pa.s.s." But it did sound pathetic and I could visualize hundreds of would-be Rembrandts daubing away to produce acres of mediocre canvas for the public just to make their rent payment. The difference in Gordy's case was the quality of the work. These were something I could live with, and I hadn't liked the stuff in Leighton Brett's home.

"What decorators?"

"Place downtown, they're in the book."

It was another sw.a.n.k place, but then between the club and casino Gordy could afford it. At this hour of the morning it was very firmly closed, not that that stopped me. I had nothing better to do. Going to an all-night movie or tiptoeing around the house so as not to wake Escott had no appeal at the moment. I slipped inside the street door of the decorator's and scented the air.

No watchman, but it wasn't exactly a bank. The average thief isn't interested in pieces of fabric or carpet patterns, and the chances of cash on the premises were slim. I prowled through pseudo-living rooms, looked at pictures on display, and found the bin of oil paintings Gordy mentioned. Several bins, in fact: unframed canvases of all sizes, with every kind of art style from every period, they were determined to please everyone. A few were signed, but most were anonymous, which bothered me. Either the artists were too modest or not proud enough. One or two were interesting, but I didn't find any that resembled Brett's style.

The office was locked, which was no problem; I just slipped inside. The desk drawers were also locked. Problem. Breaking the drawers open wouldn't be very nice and I didn't have Escott's talent for undetectable burglary. One of these nights I'd have to ask him for a few basic lessons. My curiosity wasn't that urgent, though, and neither was Brett's, as far as I was concerned. He could have the name of the place and run his own investigation.

Escott wasn't home when I woke up the next night, but he'd read my note and gotten the requested cash from his hidden safe. Because of the big crash, neither of us trusted banks, and because of his a.s.sociation with me, we'd both ended up with a parcel of money that needed a cache. His solution was to purchase an extremely solid safe and then carefully hide it.

He had a pa.s.sion for secret panels, hidden doors, and similar camouflage, and the skill to indulge himself. The original bas.e.m.e.nt steps were made of wood, hardly more than a scaffold running along the wall. He thought they were too rickety for regular use and had a contractor come in and build something considerably more solid. He was careful to choose bricks that matched those on the outside of his house and then went to some effort to age them so that they would look like pan of the original construction. He supervised the whole thing and even tried his hand at bricklaying, then paid off the workmen before they had finished the job.

He lugged the safe into the dead s.p.a.ce under the stairs and started building up the courses. By the time he was finished, the safe was sealed in for the life of the house, but by pushing on a certain brick, four square feet of a solid-looking wall pivoted open, giving one complete access to the combination lock and door. He piled a few pieces of old furniture around the stairs to complete the effect of a derelict area. It was a neat job and he was proud of it.

I had the combination, but usually had him play teller whenever I needed money because he was particular about preserving the dust around the opening. When I checked, there was no evidence he'd touched the area in months, but the cash was in an envelope on the table next to my earth-lined cot. I switched the money to my wallet, picked out some clothes, and went upstairs to call Adrian.

Sandra answered.

"I thought you might be home by now," I said after identifying myself.

She had an unmistakable smile in her voice, which was very interesting. "No, Adrian insisted we stay a little longer, just in case. I don't mind."

The way she was looking at Adrian last night certainly supported that statement.

I told her I was dropping by in an hour and to let Adrian know about it. She said yes, hung up, and then I called Bobbi.

"Want to meet the man who's going to immortalize you?"

"I've only been waiting all day. No offense," she added."None taken, I'll be right by."

My last call was to Leighton Brett, and I left the name of Gordy's decorator with one of the maids. From there on he was on his own.

Bobbi was dressed in a beautiful cream-colored suit with touches of brown velvet on the lapels and wrists. The hemline was low enough to be in fashion, but high enough to maintain a man's interest; the neckline deep, but not scandalous. She looked perfect, and all I wanted to do when I saw her was rip off the wrappings and carry her to the nearest couch for some serious fooling around. I settled for a kiss of greeting for the moment and escorted her down to my car.

We were both full of talk, the kind of happy nonsense that all lovers indulge in.

She was still flying high from her job last night and her agent was arranging yet another radio spot.

"Will it be national again?" I asked.

"I don't know yet, but I've got that local broadcast next Sat.u.r.day. Will you come to the studio and watch?"

"Just try and stop me. Need a ride there?"

"Of course."

"Marza, too?" This was less enthusiastically offered.

"Not this time, she has a job elsewhere that night."

"Gee, that's too bad."

"Admit it, Jack, you're ready to turn handsprings."

"Not really, I'd have to stop the car first."

I parked in Adrian's drive just behind his black coupe and opened Bobbi's door.

"You nervous?"

"A little. I can't help but wonder about his wife."

The thought had occurred to me as well, but there wasn't much I could do about the situation. We walked up to the front door, which was immediately opened by Sandra. She'd exchanged her party clothes for some wide-legged slacks and a bright scarf to keep her curly hair in place. She had a dust cloth in one hand, a spotted ap.r.o.n around her slim waist, and looked very domestic except for the impishness in her eyes. She let us in and I did introductions.

"You're just in time for fresh coffee." She led the way to the kitchen, which had changed considerably since last night. The curtains were clean and the clutter cleared. You could actually sit at the table and see what it looked like. "It's funny, but it's so much easier to clean someone else's place than your own. Cream and sugar?"

Bobbi had a cup, I politely begged off. "I hope this wasn't too disruptive for you."

"What? Getting yanked out of my own home in fear for my life? Whatever gave you that idea?"

I thought of telling her it was all right to go back, but decided it would be best to let Evan know first. He may have had a rough time from Sandra today about his shortcomings and would be glad for some good news to give her.

"It hasn't been so bad, and I think the company's been good for Alex, but I'll want to go back soon."

"Too much housework?" asked Bobbi.

"Not enough paint. I never feel good about myself unless I paint a little each day, and cleaning isn't very spiritually fulfilling, if you know what I mean."

Bobbi commiserated, then I asked about Adrian.

"He's in his studio. He's been getting things ready since he got up this morning.

I'm so happy to see him starting work again. This is what he's needed for so long."