“She’ll be here soon,” I assured him. Now I could worry about her, too. I expected that Laura, who had seemed almost as excited about the opening as Rico, would have been here an hour ago. His leather-clad lady called his name and he winked at me and walked away.
He hadn’t said a word to this supposed friend standing beside me. Not even hello.
“You’ve known Rico a long time?” I smiled because it seemed the thing to do.
“We’ve got a mutual friend,” he said, his pale face expressionless. “You’re his mother aren’t you?”
My smile this time was genuine. “It shows, doesn’t it?”
“Since Rico came into my life, I can’t work, can’t concentrate.”
Before I could ask why, he turned and was gone, maneuvering through the crowd to the large silver coffee urn.
He’d said he was a fan. But he never really said a fan of the paintings. It was Rico himself. He had a crush on Rico, and Rico, trying to discourage Peter, was ignoring him.
I stepped back to let someone pass and almost bumped into Catherine. “The Times critic told someone that Rico is a-quote-bright new talent-unquote,” she said. “I really am soaring.” And she drifted away, not quite on the ground.
The crowd should have been thinning but, apparently reluctant to go out into the snow, they continued to pick over the last crumbs of pat£ and drain the last sips of wine. Rico was at my side again, beaming as the front door flew open. “There’s Laura. I wonder how things worked out with her boyfriend. She was going to tell him that she’s ready to start seeing him again.”
Snow swirling around her head, Laura waved and stepped inside. Rico went to greet her.
I let out my breath and relaxed. The evening was almost over. David was here, Laura was here, and no one had tried to cut Rico’s face. Rico and Laura swept toward the champagne table. As I followed their progress, I noticed the young man, Peter what’s-his-name, standing with his back to Rico’s largest canvas.
Sling knotted at his neck, Peter held his good arm up. His thumb and forefinger closed into a circle and he held the circle up to his eye. As though he were looking through a lens.
As Laura had, that first morning I met her.
Her filmmaker boyfriend.
He was neither admirer nor art aficionado. His questions now made sense, not like Catherine-questions at all, but attempts to trick me into offering him information to confirm his suspicions.
I was half a room away. Peter backed up, two large steps, his fingers still held to his eye like a make-believe camera.
The air, vibrating with chatter and laughter and harp music, parted as I pushed my way toward Peter.
A glint of light caught an object in his right hand. A silver pen, perhaps, or a cigarette lighter. Or a knife.
He took a step toward one of Rico’s paintings, arm raised.
“Stop!” I screamed as I pushed past three people who stood frozen between me and Peter.
I was two steps away when Peter’s arm came down, dragging the knife across a corner of the canvas. I could almost hear the image-face scream, could almost feel the ooze of warm blood and fluid leak through the rent cloth. Peter pulled the knife out and raised his arm again.
I grabbed his elbow and slid my hand down to his forearm. I dug my thumb into the soft inner flesh of his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor and I snatched it up.
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
Someone took the knife from me. Frankie clamped his beefy hand on Peter’s good arm.
“I was evening the score,” Peter said, his body slack as Frankie led him toward the door. “A little suffering. A little pain. For both of them. For the hurt I feel every time I think of them together.” His misplaced jealousy and those sad, beautiful eyes filled his twisted angel-face.
Shocked and pale, Rico put his arm around me. “My painting… I’m glad you…” He shook his head and drew me closer; we watched Laura run to Peter.
Tears spilled over onto her cheeks when Peter shrugged away from her touch. Poor girl, all she had wanted was some quiet.
I turned away from her pain and found myself staring at the square white card beside the painting. In neat letters, dark and clear, it announced the title of the painting: Feature This.
The self-portrait.
Rico’s face had been slashed.
“Mom, it’s a pretty small rip,” Rico said, examining the canvas, “Don’t get all torn up about it. You stopped him just in the nick of time.”
I didn’t feel at all casual but I joined the old game anyway. “Maybe someday what happened tonight will seem like just another slice of life.”
Rico hugged me a good, long time and then smiled sadly. “I wonder if it’s always like this out here on the cutting edge.”
LOOKING FOR THELMA by Gillian Slovo
Born in South Africa, GILLIAN SLOVO has lived in England since she was twelve, A journalist and television producer, she has written several excellent mystery novels featuring London-based Kate Baeier, including Morbid Symptoms and Death by Analysis.
I was in the middle of doing my accounts when the doorbell rang. Or, to be more accurate, my accounts were in the middle of doing me. The center column was being cooperative: it was the ones either side of it that were making trouble.
The bell sounded again. I ignored it: I didn’t feel like visitors, and besides, I’d just made a momentous decision. I’d decided to compromise-a few pence to the left subtracted from the right would achieve the proper balance. It wasn’t entirely on the level, but if the customs and excise noticed, all they would learn was what they must already know-namely, that I couldn’t add to save my life.
“The door was open,” a timid voice said.
Frowning at the distraction, I looked toward the door. My eyes came to rest not on a face but on a wide patent-leather belt. I shifted my gaze upward.
The man in front of me was huge-nearer to seven than to six feet-with a body to match. He was made to be noticed, and he flaunted the fact. He had shaved his head clean, and his bald pate shone a deep black against the rest of his clothes. It was quite an outfit-his three-piece suit was tailored to fit his broad frame and sewed from all colors of the rainbow, a broad silver tie nestled under the garish waistcoat, and a pair of shining black shoes that seemed to go on forever had silver buckles the size of my hands. I gulped.
“The door was open,” he said again.
The voice was not only small but melodic with it. On the principle that there was no point in antagonizing giants, even ones with ingratiating voices, I threw a smile his way. My neck hurt with the effort of twisting so I stood in an attempt to equalize the distance. He strode toward me.
The man was big, real big, and close up he towered above me. There was no point in competing. I sat.
“Can I help you?” I asked. Good, I thought, my voice sounds normal.
He smiled, and the long gray-brown scar that ran the full length of his left cheek smiled with him. He lowered himself onto the chair in front of me and planted two huge fists on my desk. I backed away and hit the wall with my head. I rubbed it surreptitiously.
“I hope you can help,” he said.
I turned the rub into an encouraging nod and waited. I was ready for anything.
“I want you to find somebody for me,” he said. “Name of Thelma.”
Something clicked in my head, so tangibly that I bet I lost a hundred thousand brain cells making the connection. Got it in one, I thought. Smiling cynically, I leaned my chair against the wall and stretched my legs out so that my feet landed on the desk, right in the middle of my accounts book. My only regret was that I didn’t have a cigarette to hang out of the side of my mouth and complete the impression.