Duma Key (46 page)

“They look like Lucille Ball, don't you think? I give them to some of my patients, and of course they give them their own names. What did you name yours, Edgar?”

For a moment the old frost descended on my brain and I thought
Rhonda Robin Rachel, sit in the buddy, sit in the chum, sit in the fucking CHAR.
Then I thought,
It was RED
.

“Reba,” I said. “Just like the country singer.”

“And do you still have her?” Kamen asked. “Ilse said you did.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, and remembered Wireman talking
about the Powerball, how you could close your eyes and hear the numbers falling into place:
Click
and
click
and
click
. I thought I could hear that now. The night I'd finished
Wireman Looks West,
I'd had visitors at Big Pink, little refugees seeking shelter from the storm. Elizabeth's drowned sisters, Tessie and Laura Eastlake. Now I was meant to have twins in Big Pink again, and why?

Because something had reached out, that was why. Something had reached out and put the idea in my daughter's head. This was the next click of the wheel, the next Ping-Pong ball to pop out of the basket.

“Edgar?” Wireman asked. “Are you all right,
muchacho
?”

“Yes,” I said, and smiled. The world came swimming back, in all its light and color. I made myself take the doll from Juanita, who was looking at it with puzzlement. It was a hard thing to do, but I managed. “Thank you, Dr. Kamen. Xander.”

He shrugged and spread his hands. “Thank your girls, Ilse in particular.”

“I will. Who's ready for another glass of champagne?”

They all were. I replaced my new doll in her box, promising myself two things. One was that neither of my daughters would ever know how badly seeing the damned thing had frightened me. The other promise was that I knew two sisters—two
living
sisters—who were never, ever, going to set foot on Duma Key at the same time. Or ever, if I could help it.

That was one promise that I kept.

i

“All right, Edgar, I think we're almost finished.”

Maybe she saw something on my face, because Mary laughed. “Has it been that awful?”

“No,” I said, and it hadn't been, really, although her questions about my technique had made me feel uncomfortable. What it came down to was I looked at things, then slopped on the paint. That was my technique. And influences? What could I say? The light. It always came down to the light, both in the pictures I liked to look at and the ones I liked to paint. What it did to the surface of things, and what it seemed to suggest about what was inside, hunting a way out. But that didn't sound scholarly; to my ears it sounded goofy.

“Okay,” she said, “last subject: how many more paintings are there?”

We were sitting in Mary Ire's penthouse apartment on Davis Islands, a tony Tampa enclave which looked to me like the art deco capital of the world. The living room was a vast, nearly empty space with a couch at one end and two slingback chairs at the other. There were no books, but then, there was no TV, either. On the east wall, where it would catch the early light, was a large David Hockney. Mary and I were at opposite ends of the couch. She had her shorthand
pad in her lap. There was an ashtray perched beside her on the arm of the sofa. Between us was a big silver Wollensak tape-recorder. It had to be fifty years old, but the reels turned soundlessly. German engineering, baby.

Mary wore no make-up, but her lips were coated with clear goo that made them shine. Her hair was tied up in a careless, coming-apart twist that looked simultaneously elegant and slatternly. She smoked English Ovals and sipped what looked like straight Scotch from a Waterford tumbler (she offered me a drink and seemed disappointed when I opted for bottled water). She wore tailored cotton slacks. Her face looked old, used, and sexy. Its best days might have been around the time
Bonnie and Clyde
was playing in theaters, but her eyes were still breathtaking, even with lines at the corners, cracks in the eyelids, and no make-up to enhance them. They were Sophia Loren eyes.

“You showed twenty-two slides at the Selby. Nine were of pencil-sketches. Very interesting, but small. And eleven paintings, because there were actually three slides of
Wireman Looks West,
two close-ups and the wide-angle. So how many other paintings are there? How many will you be showing at the Scoto next month?”

“Well,” I said, “I can't say for sure, because I'm painting all the time, but I think right now there are about . . . twenty more.”

“Twenty,” she said, softly and tonelessly. “Twenty more.”

Something about the way she was looking at me made me uncomfortable and I shifted around. The sofa creaked. “I think the actual number might be
twenty-one.” Of course there were a few pictures I wasn't counting.
Friends with Benefits,
for instance. The one I sometimes thought of as
Candy Brown Loses His Breath
. And the red-robe sketch.

“So. Over thirty in all.”

I did the addition in my head and shifted around some more. “I guess so.”

“And you have no idea how amazing that is. I can see by your face that you don't.” She got up, dumped her ashtray in a wastebasket behind the couch, then stood looking at the Hockney with her hands in the pockets of her expensive slacks. The painting showed a cube of a house and a blue swimming pool. Beside the pool was a ripe teenager in a black tank suit. She was all breasts and long tanned legs and dark hair. She wore dark glasses, and a tiny sun blazed in each lens.

“Is that an original?” I asked.

“Yes indeed,” she said, without turning. “The girl in the swimsuit is an original, too. Mary Ire, circa 1962. Gidget in Tampa.” She turned to me, her face fierce. “Turn that tape-recorder off. The interview is over.”

I turned it off.

“I want you to listen to me. Will you?”

“Of course.”

“There are artists who labor for months over a single painting of half the quality your work shows. Of course many spend their mornings getting over the excesses of the night before. But
you
 . . . you're producing these things like a man working on an assembly line. Like a magazine illustrator or a . . . I don't know . . . a comic-book artist!”

“I grew up believing folks were supposed to work
hard at what they do—I think that's all it is. When I had my own company, I worked much longer hours, because the hardest boss a man can ever have is himself.”

She nodded. “Not true for everyone, but when it is true, it's
really
true. I know.”

“I just carried that . . . you know, that ethic . . . over to what I do now. And it's all right. Hell, it's better than all right. I turn on the radio . . . it's like I go into a daze . . . and I paint . . .” I was blushing. “I'm not trying to set the world's land-speed record, or anything—”

“I
know
that,” she said. “Tell me, do you block?”

“Block?” I knew what the word meant in a football context; otherwise, I was drawing a blank. “What's that?”

“Never mind. In
Wireman Looks West
—which is staggering, by the way, that
brain
—how did you set the features?”

“I took some pictures,” I said.

“I'm sure you did, darling, but when you got ready to paint the portrait, how did you set the features?”

“I . . . well, I—”

“Did you use the third-eye rule?”

“Third-eye rule? I never heard of any third-eye rule.”

She smiled at me kindly. “In order to get the right spacing between a subject's eyes, painters will often imagine or even block a third eye between the two actual ones. What about the mouth? Did you center it using the ears?”

“No . . . that is, I didn't know you were supposed to do that.” Now it felt as if I were blushing all over my body.

“Relax,” she said. “I'm not suggesting y'all start following a bunch of bullshit art school rules after breaking them so spectacularly. It's just . . .” She shook her head. “Thirty paintings since last November? No, it's even less time than that, because you didn't start painting right away.”

“Of course not, I had to get some art supplies first,” I said, and Mary laughed herself into a coughing fit that she washed away with a sip of Scotch.

“If thirty paintings in three months is what almost getting crushed to death does,” she said when she could talk again, “maybe I ought to find me a crane.”

“You wouldn't want to,” I said. “Believe me.” I got up, went to the window, and looked down on Adalia Street. “This is some place you've got here.”

She joined me, and we looked out together. The sidewalk café directly across and seven stories below might have been airlifted in from New Orleans. Or Paris. A woman strolled up the sidewalk eating what looked like a baguette, the hem of her red skirt swirling. Somewhere someone was playing a twelve-bar guitar blues, every note ringing clear. “Tell me something, Edgar—when you look out there, does what you see interest you as an artist or as the builder you used to be?”

“Both,” I said.

She laughed. “Fair enough. Davis Islands is entirely artificial—the brainchild of a man named Dave Davis. He was Jay Gatsby, Florida-style. Have you heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“That just proves that fame's a fleeting thing. During the Roaring Twenties, Davis was a god down here on the Suncoast.”

She waved an arm at the tangled streets below; the bangles on her scrawny wrist jangled; somewhere not too distant, a church-bell marked the hour of two.

“He dredged the whole thing from swampland at the mouth of the Hillsborough River. Talked the Tampa city fathers into moving both the hospital and the radio station here, back when radio was a bigger deal than health care. He built strange and beautiful apartment complexes in a time when the concept of an apartment complex was unknown. He put up hotels and swank nightclubs. He threw the dough around, married a beauty contest winner, divorced her, married her again. He was worth millions when a million dollars was worth what twelve million is today. And one of his best friends lived just down the coast on Duma Key. John Eastlake. Familiar with that name?”

“Of course. I've met his daughter. My friend Wireman takes care of her.”

Mary lit a fresh cigarette. “Well, both Dave and John were as rich as Croesus—Dave with his land and building speculations, John with his mills—but Davis was a peacock and Eastlake was more of a plain brown wren. Just as well for him, because you know what happens to peacocks, don't you?”

“They get their tailfeathers chopped off?”

She took a drag on her latest cigarette, then pointed the fingers holding it at me as she jetted smoke from her nostrils. “That would be correct, sir. In 1925, the Florida Land Bust hit this state like a brick on a soap bubble. Dave Davis had invested pretty much everything he had in what you see out there.” She waved at the zig-zaggy streets and pink buildings. “In 1926, Davis was owed four million bucks on various successful
ventures and collected something like thirty thousand.”

It had been awhile since I'd ridden on the tiger's neck—which was what my father called over-extending your resources to the point where you had to start juggling your creditors and getting creative with your paperwork—and I'd never ridden that far up, even in The Freemantle Company's early, desperate days. I felt for Dave Davis, long dead though he must be.

“How much of his own debts could he cover? Any?”

“He managed at first. Those were boom years in other parts of the country.”

“You know a lot about this.”

“Suncoast art is my passion, Edgar. Suncoast history is my hobby.”

“I see. So Davis survived the Land Bust.”

“For a short while. I imagine he sold his stocks on the bull market to cover his first round of losses. And friends helped him.”

“Eastlake?”

“John Eastlake was a major angel, and that's aside from any of Dave's bootleg hooch he may have stored out on the Key from time to time.”

“Did he do that?” I asked.

“
Maybe,
I said. That was another time and another Florida. You hear all sorts of colorful Prohibition-era booze-running stories if you live down here awhile. Booze or no booze, Davis would have been flat broke by Easter of '26 without John Eastlake. John was no playboy, didn't go nightclubbing and cathousing like Davis and some of Davis's other friends, but he'd been a widower since 1923, and I'm guessing that old Dave might have helped a pal with a gal from
time to time when his pal was feeling lonely. But by the summer of '26, Dave's debts were just too high. Not even his old pals could save him.”

“So he disappeared one dark night.”

“He disappeared, but not by the dark of the moon. That was not the Davis style. In October of 1926, less than a month after Hurricane Esther knocked the living hell out of his life's work, he sailed for Europe with a bodyguard and
his
new gal-pal, who happened to be a Mack Sennett bathing beauty. The gal-pal and the bodyguard got to Gay Paree, but Dave Davis never did. He disappeared at sea, without a trace.”

“This is a true story you're telling me?”

She raised her right hand in the Boy Scout salute—the image slightly marred by the cigarette smoldering between her first two fingers. “True blue. In November of '26, there was a memorial service right over there.” She pointed toward where the Gulf twinkled between two bright pink art deco buildings. “At least four hundred people attended, many of them, I understand, the sort of women who were partial to ostrich feathers. One of the speakers was John Eastlake. He tossed a wreath of tropical flowers into the water.”