Stealing Picasso (23 page)

‘He's in there. In a bar,' Winnie Blue tells him.

Laszlo wanders the length of Centre Way, peering down into Centre Place, up at Hell's Kitchen, frowning at the people sitting at cafés in the lower alley. ‘Night owls,' he says. ‘Witnesses.'

‘You want me to kick 'em out?'

‘No. We don't want the police here.' He walks out of Centre Way with Winnie Blue behind him and takes few steps down Collins Street, to where the drunk is asleep in the doorway. Laszlo makes a rasping noise in his throat, which wakes the small red terrier and draws him growling from his nest in the hollow of the drunk's crotch. Laszlo rasps his throat noise. The dog advances, barking now, and Laszlo swings a club down onto its head, crushing its skull. He peers at it in the dim light. It looks like a dog in a peaceful slumber. He hits it again. Some teeth break and an eye pops from its skull. Its nose is bloodied.
The drunk sits upright, a man grown old too early, dressed in rags, whiskered whitely. ‘What's going on?'

‘We're borrowing your dog. Don't worry, we'll bring him back.'

The drunk tries to stand, but Winnie Blue steps forwards and punches him, sending him sprawling back into his doorway unconscious. ‘You kill his dog?' Winnie asks.

‘It was either that, or you walk around with your cock out.'

Going back into Centre Way, Laszlo reaches above his head and pulls down the mesh roller-shutter and slides its bolts into its frame, sealing it off from Collins Street. He and Winnie Blue descend into Centre Place. Nearing Lustre Lounge, Laszlo says, ‘Now the pooch earns his keep.' He begins to stagger. Winnie almost leaps forwards to catch him, but Laszlo frowns him away and begins to snicker like a CBD lunatic, one of those lost men who live crab-like in doorways, troll-like under bridges, shouting at ghosts with whom they disagree. He staggers towards the patrons sitting in the alley outside Lustre Lounge, holding the dead dog at arm's length before him, its bloodied tongue lolling and an eye swinging pendulously on a tendon with each step he takes. He offers it to the bar patrons, who look up, one by one, dread dawning on their faces.

‘Kiss Timmy,' Laszlo offers. ‘Timmy's broken. Kiss him, lady. Kiss him better.'

He thrusts the dog at a woman, who reels backwards, one hand flat on her belly and one across her mouth, denying the urge to vomit. Laszlo then thrusts the dog at her man as he intervenes.

‘Please, you kiss him,' he begs in a voice from childhood or lunacy.

He proffers the dog to another man, who backs away, snatching his jacket off a chair. ‘Who'll kiss Timmy better?' In the middle of the bar he pirouettes unsteadily, holding out the dead dog. The bar empties, patrons wearing various expressions of pity or dread as they leave.

In this way, using the dead animal and his own unfortunate state, he clears the night owls from Lustre Lounge, before staggering down to Barbica Café and repeating the performance. When the alley is deserted, Laszlo returns to the doorway of Hell's Kitchen and hands the dog to Winnie Blue. ‘Your turn,' he says.

In Hell's Kitchen Winnie Blue tilts his head to one side and, with the ceiling lights flaring on his scar tissue, he quietly offers the punters a chance to breathe life into his soulmate. Benji, he names the dog. Who'll kiss Benji better? Behind Harry and Mireille's backs people flee to nightspots where they won't be required to resuscitate canines for madmen. Winnie touches the dog's wet, cold nose to one woman's neck and she screams.

Harry and Mireille turn to face the scream. There stands Laszlo Berg holding a black club. Beside him is a thug with his head craned sideways, his right ear touching his shoulder and a dead dog lying astride his left forearm with its head cradled in his hand. With his other hand the thug pulls a revolver from his belt. Both the thug and the dog have their tongues lolling, the one in imitation of the other.

But now the bar is cleared Winnie Blue lifts his head and retracts his tongue and flicks his eyebrows up and down twice to comment on the strange things a bloke is required to do.

‘Go and sit on the floor in the kitchen until I tell you to come out,' he tells the bar owner. ‘You do that and you're safe. Middle of the floor.'

Laszlo pouts and looks Harry up and down, as if there might be some clue as to where the lad went wrong. ‘Greenface has
resurfaced, the repercussions of which eventuality we have discussed.'

He pauses to give Harry a chance to explain. When he doesn't say anything Laszlo goes on. ‘We're all worse off. Don't think I walk away without my own share of troubles. I'm in the soup as well. True, you're about to become an artifact, as promised, but the difference between you and me is you're a stupid bastard who deserves it.'

Laszlo rests the club on his shoulder. ‘You really couldn't look me in the eye and tell me you don't deserve this, could you?' Without looking away from Harry he says, ‘Winston, do your bit for the evolution of mankind by killing these dumb bastards before they have a chance to propagate their dangerously stupid genes.'

Mireille stands, staring at Laszlo, her nostrils flaring. ‘Leave him alone. He's just a young man I hired. I have done this to you. Snuff out my genes. They are worthless. Better off gone. They are yours, after all.'

‘What? What are mine?' Laszlo asks, shaking his head, slightly annoyed.

‘My genes are yours. I am your daughter.'

Laszlo rolls his eyes at this absurdity. ‘
Voilà
. Like a rabbit from a hat – a daughter. Go ahead and kill me, but you should know I am your … daughter. Oh, that's good. That's Shakespeare. That's
Oedipus Rex
. You've studied the classics, haven't you?'

‘I am, you know.' She smiles wistfully, nods.

‘Oh, you are? Does your mother know?'

‘She does.'

‘Well, let's get acquainted. Does she have a name?'

‘She does.'

‘And it is?'

‘You refer to her as “Greenface”, I notice.'

At this, a shade of confusion crosses Laszlo's face. ‘I was talking about a painting.'

‘A portrait.' Mireille nods.

As she says this, a window breaks down in the alley. They stop to listen. Some moments later another window breaks, louder this time. In the diminuendo rain of glass there is laughter. They wait. This destruction, getting closer, seems to portend a visitor – a giant, wending his way towards them through the flimsy walls of the city.

The Stinking Pariahs have followed Laszlo from the Savage Club. Bam Hecker, wearing his helmet and leathers, hooks his fingers through the mesh of the roller-shutter beside his head and groans thoughtfully and rattles the shutter. Adjacent to the roller-shutter, on the corner of Centre Way and Collins Street, is a luggage shop. He stands in front of its window and headbutts the glass and walks through it, laughing amid the splash and flow of the thousand triangulations, as if this were some showground experience he'd paid a buck to play. Kicking through the luggage he steps up to the shop window that looks on to Centre Way, before headbutting it and stepping through it, laughing again in the shower of glass. Once in the alley he removes his helmet and shakes the slivers of glass from his long hair. The other Stinking Pariahs follow him through the luggage shop into the alley.

Winnie Blue assumes a killer's face – a sneer of white, false teeth amid sallow skin, eyebrows glowered low over his eyes.
He moves to the door of Hell's Kitchen to greet whoever the hell these pissants might turn out to be. When he sees it is the Stinking Pariahs he moves back into the room and lays his gun on a table. There are six of them. Giants in this delicately furnished space.

Bam blinks at Winnie Blue. ‘That dog a dead dog?' he asks. Winnie Blue gives a barely perceptible nod.

‘That your party trick, is it? A dead dog?'

‘It's not mine.'

‘You don't have much spirituality, do you? Squiring a dead dog round town. What's your name?'

‘Winnie Blue.'

‘Winnie Blue? Like the smoke? Bad for your health?'

‘That's right.'

Two Stinking Pariahs are holding handguns. Another has a shotgun pointed at Winnie Blue.

‘You ever been avenged by a dead dog, Winnie Blue?' Bam asks. Winnie Blue doesn't respond. ‘Avenge the dead dog, Low Billy.' Gently, with utmost respect for the deceased, Low Billy Low takes the dead dog from Winnie Blue. He pats its head and tells it ‘Good boy,' and tickles its throat. Then he holds its mouth to Winnie Blue's ear and clamps down on it with both hands. The yellowed canines click audibly as they meet through the flesh. Winnie Blue sucks a breath while Low Billy Low continues to clamp the dog's jaws on his ear. Holding its head in both his hands he begins shaking it like a dog shakes itself to tear its prey, the dog's torso swinging like a pendulous adornment. Low Billy Low begins to growl, Winnie Blue to moan softly – even in this pain he's aware he's at the mercy of the Stinking Pariahs and he'd better mind his manners. He tries to move his head in time with the thrashing dog, but it comes away holding a ragged chunk of ear in its mouth.

‘Yow,' Bam says.

‘Terriers,' Low Billy Low smiles. ‘Manic.' He plucks the chunk of ear from the dog's mouth and stuffs it in Winnie Blue's shirt pocket.

Winnie Blue is panting, cradling his ear, blood dripping into his palm.

‘Ever been privately bit by a dead dog?' Bam asks him.

‘Privately?'

‘On your privates.'

‘Man, I don't know anything about this, apart from getting paid to whack these dudes,' he points to Harry and Mireille. ‘By him.' He points to Laszlo. ‘I didn't know the Pariahs were involved, man. I wouldn't have taken the job.'

Bam turns to Laszlo. ‘You ripped off a mate of mine.'

‘No.' He nods at Harry and Mireille. ‘It was these two.'

‘Down the line is down the line, man. I can't track every insult back to Adam.'

‘They ripped us all off. I'm in the process of redressing the problem now. Everything will be straightened out, all debts paid, all damages made good.' Laszlo flicks his fingers at Bam, at the inconsequentiality of the problem before them.

Anger crosses Bam's face. He doesn't like this man making judgements on the importance of these matters. He looks to Harry and Mireille and back at Laszlo. ‘She makes no mention of those dudes and redressing them. But you … Well, she's got that Prussian blood, you know, warlike and miffed and prone to episodes of vengeance. Insults washed away in gore. It's their culture – bloody revenge. The Italians make grappa and salami. The Prussians make restitution. So, here
we
are. The Stinking Pariahs. Instruments of that Prussian girl's traditional ways.' He steps forwards and gently unwraps Laszlo's fingers from the shaft of his club.

‘What if she sold that painting to the Hell's Angels, man? Or the Bandidos, or some bad fucker, instead of drooling over it like an art fan? She'd be getting killed herself now, wouldn't she? You didn't worry about that, did you?' Bam shakes his head in admonishment. He hefts the club once, twice, impressed.

Mireille seems to know what is about to happen before anyone else. She leaps between them, backing up against Laszlo, reaching behind herself to take hold of him. ‘Do not hurt him. I have the money. I will pay his debt.' Behind her, Laszlo's face, until now replete with scorn, is marked with the lines of a deep bewilderment.

‘You didn't hear all that about blood revenge?' Bam asks.

‘But surely you would want the money in preference? We have it,' she implores, her eyes blinking, blaring desperation. ‘It is close. We will get it.'

‘Okay,' Bam nods, ‘Yes. You go and get it. We'll wait here. You have an hour.'

Mireille starts towards the door. Harry knows this isn't how it's going to work. The Stinking Pariahs are not going to wait here for money and risk the cops showing up. Laszlo knows it, too. He sits heavily in a chair, resigned to what is to come.