“You’re just frustrated ’cause you’re not getting any work done. It happens to me all the time. I’ll get a block and my mind wanders. But the best way to cure a creative block is to work your way out of it. Forget about things that don’t matter. Forget about the bedrooms, for God’s sake. Just get to work.”
Veronica didn’t know whether to be mad or concessive. Ginny was probably right.
“And now that I’ve said that,” Ginny added, wiping her mouth with a napkin, “I must get back to my typewriter.”
“How are things going with you and Gilles?”
Ginny shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. And that’s good, because I’m too busy with my work right now.”
“Too busy?” Now Veronica could’ve laughed. “Yesterday you said you might be in love with the guy. Today you’re too busy?”
“Art is the ultimate conceit, Vern. When people become more important to you than what you create, you’re a phony.”
Veronica glared.
“Later, kid,” Ginny said, and walked away.
The impression left her steaming. More guilt? More jealousy? Ginny was in control of her creative life. Veronica, suddenly, was not. Why? she questioned herself. Was it true that selfishness was prerequisite to true art?
“Hey, Amy,” she abruptly called out. “Can I ask you something?”
Amy Vandersteen’s wet, white head bobbed in the water. She swam enfeebled, dog-paddling. That’s what she looked like just then, a skinny wet dog in the water. “Sure, sweetheart.”
“Is selfishness prerequisite to true art?”
Amy stood up in the low end. Her wet bikini top clung to her small breasts like tissue, showing dark, puckered nipples. “Honey, let me tell you something. True art is selfishness.”
“That’s the most egotistical shit I’ve ever heard,” Veronica countered.
“Of course it is.” Amy Vandersteen grinned like a cat, hip-deep in the water. “And that’s my point. You’re either a real artist with real creative focus, or you’re a fake.”
Veronica’s fuddled stare fought to stray but couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the slim, sneering figure in the water.
“Which are you, Veronica? Real or fake?”
Veronica stomped off. The worst question of all followed her like a buzzard: Was she more infuriated with Amy Vandersteen or herself? Behind her, the snide woman began to clutzily backstroke across the pool, laughing.
Passion, the word popped oddly into Veronica’s head. The heart. Khoronos’ words. Real creativity is rooted in the heart.
She jogged back to the house, to look for Khoronos.
The alarm clock clattered in Jack’s head. He turned, groped about the covers. Faye was gone, but her scent lingered on the pillow.
He got up, showered, and dressed, amazed as well as baffled that he had no hangover. Hangovers had gotten to be something he could count on — not having one nearly made him feel estranged. And now that he thought of it, he hadn’t had a drink in over a day.
Downstairs, he chugged orange juice, grimacing. A fruit magnet pinned a note to the fridge door. Gone to LOC, call you later at your office. Faye. Short and sweet. He wondered how she felt about things now. I slept with her last night, he fully realized. They’d kept their promise, they’d just slept. Did she regret it now, post fact? Jack hoped not. It had been nice sleeping with her, it had been soothing and unstrained and very nice. He’d wakened several times to find themselves entwined in one another. She’d murmured things in her sleep, nuzzling him.
He drove the unmarked to the station, whelmed in thought. Yes, he liked Faye Rowland a lot, and he was attracted to her. Yet the idea of sex with her almost terrified him. He thought of the proverbial bull in the china shop: having sex with Faye would shatter whatever strange bond existed between them. Jack liked the bond.
Besides, sex would remind him of Veronica.
The substation’s clean, tiled floors led him to his unclean, cluttered office. But before he could enter, the black mammoth bulk of Deputy Police Commissioner Larrel Olsher rounded the corner. “How you coming on the Triangle case, Jack?”
“Making some progress,” Jack said.
“Well, make more progress. You ever heard that shit runs downhill?”
“The axiom rings a bell, Larrel.”
“Let me just say that the people upstairs eat a lot. Pretty soon I’m gonna have to carry an umbrella, if you catch my drift.”
“Noted,” Jack said.
“How’s the state researcher working out?”
“Good. She’s only been on it a day and she’s already digging up a lot of stuff. She’s trying to get a line on the ritual.”
Olsher’s eyes thinned in the frame of the great black face. “How come you don’t look hung over?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Keep it that way, Jack. And get a haircut.”
“Which one?”
“That joke’s older than my grandmother.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as close to retirement as you. Har-har.”
“You look like something that walked out of Woodstock.”
“My hair is my strength, Larrel. You know, like Samson.”
“Samson doesn’t work for this department, and if you don’t bust the Triangle case, you won’t have to worry about hair regulations anymore. If you catch my drift.”
“Noted,” Jack repeated. Who tinkled in his cornflakes? he wondered.
Olsher began to thump off. “Oh, and you have a visitor.”
Jack went into his office. Dr. Karla Panzram sat primly before his desk, her nose crinkled above a Styrofoam cup. “I helped myself to your coffee,” she said. “It’s terrible.”
“Bad coffee fortifies the soul.” Jack poured himself a cup. “I’m living proof, right?”
Karla Panzram offered the most indecipherable of smiles. “I just stopped by to tell you I finished checking the recent psych releases and background profiles. Nothing.”
“I figured as much,” Jack said, and sat down.
“I’m getting some feedback from some of the out-of-state wards and lockups, too. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“I never get my hopes up, Doctor. It’s always the outer angles that let us into a case like this. But at least we know more about our man, thanks to you and TSD, and we’re getting closer to the ritual element. Knock on wood.”
“That’s Druidic.”
“What?”
“Knocking on wood. The Druids believed that knocking on wood appeased the gods and brought luck to the faithful.”
“I better start carrying a two-by-four around. No wonder things haven’t been going well.”
Karla Panzram crossed her legs. “How are the other things going?”
Jack wanted to frown. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know. You’ve been in the office several minutes already and you haven’t even lit a cigarette.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Jack said, and lit a cigarette. “But believe it or not, I haven’t had a drink in over a day.”
“Good. You’ve decided to quit?”
“No. I’ve just been too busy to drink. Besides, my liver is like the Rock of Gibraltar.”
“Oh? A healthy male liver weighs three pounds. The average alcoholic’s liver weighs fifteen. Alcohol clogs the hepatic veins with cholesterol; the liver distends from overwork.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I order my next Fiddich.” Jack snorted smoke. He didn’t like the idea of having a fifteen-pound liver. “Did you come here just to tell me about livers?”
“No. I have an additional speculation about Charlie. It didn’t occur to me until last night.”