Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel by John Locke Page A

master … plan,” he said. I covered the mouthpiece and said to Callie, “I take back what I said before, about you being insane.” Then I said to Victor, “Are there many more?”
    “Many,” Victor said in his weird, metallic voice. “Real … ly … Mr.
    … Creed … evil is … every … where … and … must … be pun… ished.”

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 9
     
    “ I must see the Picasso,” Kathleen said.
    “Then you shall,” I said.
    “And the maître d’,” she said. “They have one, right?”
    “They do indeed.”
    “Is he stu ff y? I hope he’s insu ff erably stu ff y!”
    “He will be if I don’t tip him,” I said. We were in the Seagram Building on East Fifty-Second, in the lobby of the Four Seasons restaurant.
    She touched my arm. “Donovan, this is really sweet of you, but we don’t have to eat here. I don’t want you to spend this much on me. Let’s just have a drink, see the painting and maybe the marble pool. We can share a pizza at Angelo’s afterward.”
    “Relax,” I said. “I’m rich.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    The Four Seasons is famous, timeless, and the only restaurant in New York designated as a landmark.
    “Do you mean really, you’re rich,” she said, “or that you’re really rich?”
    “I’m rich enough to buy you whatever you’d like to have tonight.”
    She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the Picasso!”
    Did I mention I liked this lady?
    I gave my name to the maître d’ and led Kathleen to the corridor where the Picasso tapestry had hung since the restaurant opened back in 1959. The twenty-two-foot-high Picasso was in fact the center square of a stage curtain that had been designed for the 1920 Paris production of The Three Cornered Hat . When the theater owner ran out of money, he cut the Picasso portion from the curtain and sold it. Now, with the economy in distress, Kathleen had heard the tapestry was about to be auctioned for an estimated eight million dollars. This might be her only chance to see it.
    “Oh my God!” she said, her voice suddenly turning husky. “I love it!”
    “Compared to his other work, the colors are muted,” I said. “But yeah, it’s pretty magnificent.”
    “Tell me about it,” she said. “Impress me.”
    “It’s a distemper on linen,” I said.
    “Distemper? Like the disease a dog gets?”
    “Exactly like that.”
    She gave me a look. “Bullshit!”
    “Well, it’s spelled the same way. Actually, it refers to using gum or glue as a binding element.”
    She made a snoring sound. “Boring,” she said.
    “Okay,” I said, “forget that part. Here’s what you want to know: Picasso laid the canvas on the floor and painted it with a brush attached to a broom handle. He used a toothbrush for the detailed work.”
    Kathleen clapped her hands together. “More!” she said.
    “It took three weeks to paint.”
    She looked at me expectantly.
    “He wore carpet slippers so he wouldn’t smudge the paint.”
    I struggled to remember what else I’d read about the thing. I shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got,” I said.
    Kathleen smiled and nudged up against me. “You did well,” she said.
    We had a drink at the bar. Among the small crowd waiting for tables, Kathleen spotted Woody Allen, Barbara Streisand, and Billy Joel. I said, “See those two guys by the palm frond? That’s Millard Fillmore and Jackie Gleason!”
    She sni ff ed. “At least the famous New Yorkers I’m lying about are still alive.”
    A number of seasonal trees surrounded the white marble pool in the main dining room, and the head waiter sat us beneath one of them. Spun-metal curtains hung in rows against the walls, undulating softly as the air fl ow from the vents teased them.
    “This is fantastic,” she said, looking around the room. “Everything is so elegant, especially the breathing curtains!”
    “Especially those,” I said.
    I tossed back a shot of bourbon and watched Kathleen sip her pomegranate martini. The waiter had