Hemlock Bay
Page 66
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“So,” Abe said, and he put down the brushes, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth to get off the bit of turpentine, and shook Lily’s hand. “The little gal here likes snails, which means she knows about me, but I don’t know who the hell you are, fella.”
“I’m Sully Jones, and this is my wife, Zelda. We’re on our honeymoon, just meandering up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay that you were an artist and that you liked snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we thought we’d stop by and see if you had anything to sell.”
Lily said, “We don’t know yet if we like what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you show us something? I hope you’re not too expensive.”
Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I’m real expensive. You guys aren’t rich?”
Simon said, “I’m in used cars. I’m not really rich.”
“Sorry, you won’t want to buy any of my stuff.”
Simon started to push it, then saw that Lily looked on the shaky side. Simon nodded to Abe Turkle and just looked at him.
“Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel and wiped his hands. Then he walked past them to the far wall, where there were about ten canvases piled together. He went through them, making a rude noise here, sighing there, and then he thrust a painting into Lily’s hand. “Here, it’s a little thing I did just the other day. It’s the Old Town in Eureka. For your honeymoon, little gal.”
Lily held the small canvas up to the light and stared at it. She said finally, “Why, thank you, Mr. Turkle. It’s beautiful. You’re a very fine artist.”
“One of the best in the world actually.”
Simon frowned. “I’m sure sorry we haven’t heard of you.”
“You’re a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”
“I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”
“Well, just maybe I’m more famous with certain people than with the common public.”
“What does that mean?” Simon asked.
Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn’t painted them.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said.
“It ain’t so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”
Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”
“Hey, I don’t like that word. What do you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I’m really impressed.”
“Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man? Come on, what’s going on here?”
“I’m Simon Russo.”
That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize you now. Dammit, you’re that dealer guy…Russo, yeah, you’re him. You’re Simon Russo, you son of a bitch. You’d better not be here to cause me any trouble. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Turkle, we—”
“Dammit, give me back that painting! You aren’t on any honeymoon now, are you? You lied to me. As for you, Russo, I’m going to have to wring your scrawny neck.”
16
Lily didn’t think, just assumed a martial arts position that Dillon had shown her, the painting still clutched in her right hand.
She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared at her. “You want to fight me? You going to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”
She moved back and forth, flexed her arms, her fists. “I won’t hurt your bloody painting. Listen, pal, I don’t want to fight you, but I can probably take you. Yes, I can take you. You’re big but I’ll bet you’re slow. So go ahead, if you want, let’s just see how tough you are.”
“Lily, please don’t,” Simon said as he prepared to simply lift her beneath her armpits and move her behind him. To Simon’s surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head. He laughed, and then he laughed some more.
“Jesus, you’re something, little lady.”
Abe made to grab the painting from Lily’s hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle. It really is beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.”
“I’m Sully Jones, and this is my wife, Zelda. We’re on our honeymoon, just meandering up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay that you were an artist and that you liked snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we thought we’d stop by and see if you had anything to sell.”
Lily said, “We don’t know yet if we like what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you show us something? I hope you’re not too expensive.”
Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I’m real expensive. You guys aren’t rich?”
Simon said, “I’m in used cars. I’m not really rich.”
“Sorry, you won’t want to buy any of my stuff.”
Simon started to push it, then saw that Lily looked on the shaky side. Simon nodded to Abe Turkle and just looked at him.
“Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel and wiped his hands. Then he walked past them to the far wall, where there were about ten canvases piled together. He went through them, making a rude noise here, sighing there, and then he thrust a painting into Lily’s hand. “Here, it’s a little thing I did just the other day. It’s the Old Town in Eureka. For your honeymoon, little gal.”
Lily held the small canvas up to the light and stared at it. She said finally, “Why, thank you, Mr. Turkle. It’s beautiful. You’re a very fine artist.”
“One of the best in the world actually.”
Simon frowned. “I’m sure sorry we haven’t heard of you.”
“You’re a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”
“I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”
“Well, just maybe I’m more famous with certain people than with the common public.”
“What does that mean?” Simon asked.
Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn’t painted them.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said.
“It ain’t so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”
Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”
“Hey, I don’t like that word. What do you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I’m really impressed.”
“Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man? Come on, what’s going on here?”
“I’m Simon Russo.”
That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize you now. Dammit, you’re that dealer guy…Russo, yeah, you’re him. You’re Simon Russo, you son of a bitch. You’d better not be here to cause me any trouble. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Turkle, we—”
“Dammit, give me back that painting! You aren’t on any honeymoon now, are you? You lied to me. As for you, Russo, I’m going to have to wring your scrawny neck.”
16
Lily didn’t think, just assumed a martial arts position that Dillon had shown her, the painting still clutched in her right hand.
She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared at her. “You want to fight me? You going to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”
She moved back and forth, flexed her arms, her fists. “I won’t hurt your bloody painting. Listen, pal, I don’t want to fight you, but I can probably take you. Yes, I can take you. You’re big but I’ll bet you’re slow. So go ahead, if you want, let’s just see how tough you are.”
“Lily, please don’t,” Simon said as he prepared to simply lift her beneath her armpits and move her behind him. To Simon’s surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head. He laughed, and then he laughed some more.
“Jesus, you’re something, little lady.”
Abe made to grab the painting from Lily’s hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle. It really is beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.”
