The Closer (24 page)

And then, three days after she’d returned, she got a call on her cell from Richard.

“Remember me?” he asked. She didn’t, at first; it had been two and half years ago, and he’d never registered that strongly on her radar to begin with. Just another creep—but he’d been the creep that somehow pushed her over the line.

“Yeah, I remember you,” she said. “How’d you get this number?”

“I know all sorts of thing about you, Nikki. Welcome back.”

“I’m still not interested, Richard. I don’t work for pimps.”

“Please, Nikki—I’m not a pimp. I own an escort agency, very high-class. Very exclusive clientele. Wouldn’t you rather have a steady flow of generous, affluent businessmen than the trash you meet on the street?”

“I’ve worked for agencies before—didn’t like it. I have this problem following the rules of people I don’t respect.”

“But Nikki—you don’t even know me. And surely you’d rather take a cab to a five-star hotel than walk in the rain to some hourly fleabag off the Stroll?”

“I like the rain. Clears my head.”

“Look, I’m not trying to talk you into a free mattress dance. I just want you and me to sit down and discuss this, face-to-face. A job interview, okay? I’ll tell you about the setup, give you a few references. You can think it over.”

She hesitated. Normally she avoided agencies, mostly because she liked her independence. But they did provide stability and a certain amount of safety… and maybe that’s what she needed right now.

“All right, I’ll listen to what you have to say,” she said.

“Excellent! Why don’t we meet at my favorite restaurant, say tomorrow around two? I’ll give you the address….”

“Well, Jack?” Charlie asked. “How are you doing?”

“Better,” Jack said.

They were sitting on lawn chairs on the roof. The opening was done, the appetizers consumed, the wine and beer drunk. The artist had sold several pieces; everyone was happy. Falmi was downstairs, cleaning up.

“Better than when you got here, or better in general?” Charlie asked.

“Both. It’s been a long time since I even set foot in a gallery,” Jack said. He stared up at the overcast sky. “Feels good. Comfortable.”

“Of course it does. You put a scientist in a lab, an actor on a stage, a singer behind a mike. That’s where they belong.”

“You missed ‘jockey in a stable,’” Jack said. “You know, to fully round out that ‘get back on the horse’ metaphor you’re leading up to.”

“Okay, so subtlety isn’t one of my strong points,” Charlie said. “Feel like a cigar?”

“Why not?” Jack said. Tobacco wasn’t really one of his vices, but he indulged now and then. Charlie pulled out two
cubanos
and handed one to Jack. The rich, earthy aroma tickled his nose even before it was lit.

Charlie reached into his jacket, took out a small cigar lighter, snapped it to life. The blue hiss of the flame drew Jack’s eye, called up images he didn’t want to recall. He forced himself to lean forward and let Charlie give him a light.

There. Sharp, fragrant smoke. Burning leaves, not burning flesh.

“So…” Charlie began. “You want to tell me what you’ve been up to these last few years, or is that still a big secret?”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing much, really. Did a little traveling in the Northwest. Got into martial arts for a while to clear my head. Spent a lot of time reading.”

“Sounds restful. Make any new friends?”

Jack hesitated. “One.”

“Female?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t what you think.”

“Since when do you know what I think? What, my mind’s in the gutter all the time? This female, I’m sure she’s like a sister to you. No, a mother—a
grand-
mother. She’s like sixty years old, kindly, wrinkled face, boobs that hang down to her knees—”

“Okay, okay. She’s in her thirties. Attractive, unattached, straight. All right?”

Charlie exhaled slowly, squinted at Jack. “But?”

“Let’s just say Nikki’s a career woman.”

“Ah. How’d you meet her?”

“We worked together.” Too late, Jack realized he should have said something else.

“Oh? Doing what?”

Jack took a long, careful drag on his cigar, took the time to think. “She handled some investments for me, but they didn’t work out. I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks.” He said it flatly, and Charlie took the hint.

“Well, as long as she isn’t trying to sell your art,” Charlie said. He leaned back and blew a series of small, whirling smoke rings.

“I’m not sure what my art is, anymore,” Jack said.

“That’s okay. Art changes. You know, for years I tried to come up with a definition of art, one that would fit every style, every medium, and here’s what I came up with: art is subjective. That’s it. You don’t even need an artist; you just need someone to
perceive
something as art in order for it to
be
art.”

“So the creator is incidental?”

“He can be. Look, let’s say you go down to the ocean, there’s a beautiful sunset, a particular play of light on the water. Did you create that? No. You take a picture of it, are you an artist? Yes. So what if you just look at it, you don’t take a picture; you memorize that scene, but you’re the only one who ever sees it. Was art created? I think so. The scene was there, someone experienced it, it affected them.”

“You put it that way,” Jack mused,
“everything
is art. All experience. All pain.”

“All
perception,”
Charlie said. “Art isn’t a thing—it’s a
sense.”

Jack thought about the things he’d done in the last three years. About his own, gradual shift in perception, his way of looking at what he did. “So something you never thought of as art,” Jack said slowly, “could
become
art. Without ever really changing.”

“Sure. Main difference between an artist and an audience is that the artist perceives the art
first,
then tries to convey his perception to others. In my humble opinion.”

“I always thought art was about communication,” Jack said. He studied the glowing tip of his cigar. “Using specific methods for relaying specific messages. The last few years, my view of that has kind of turned upside down. Now …now it’s about using specific methods to
get
specific messages.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know if I can explain. My point is…”

He trailed off. What was his point, exactly? That he thought he was starting to enjoy torturing people—not because he was causing pain, but because it was a form of self-expression?

“My point,” Jack continued, “is that I’m starting to think about art again.”

Charlie glanced at him, couldn’t keep the beam off his face. “That’s terrific, Jack! Only—” He leaned forward, the smile vanishing. “Only, you feel bad about it. I can tell. And I know why.”

“I doubt that,” Jack said.

“It’s guilt. I’ve seen it before. Something bad happens to an artist, his first impulse is to express that feeling through his art. Only, his art is how he makes his living—so, by extension, he’s profiting from his own misery. He even blames himself, thinks he somehow caused this so that he could make money.”

Charlie clasped his hands together, the cigar sticking up between his fingers like the chimney on a church. “It’s a loop, Jack, and it’s one you can’t let yourself get caught in. Every artist in this situation needs to be told this, so I’m the one who’s gonna tell you:
it wasn’t your fault.
And just as importantly, expressing your grief and loss and rage through your art isn’t wrong, it isn’t disrespectful to the memory of Janine or Sam or your folks. They’d
want
you to do this, Jack; they’d want you to let go of all that poison in your heart. Let it out, let it go, move on. You feel bad about making money off it, donate the profits to charity. Hell, don’t even show your efforts to another living soul. But
do the work.”

Jack sighed. “Do the work.”

“Yeah. I know it’s hard, but—what else are you gonna do? It’s who you are, Jack. It’s
what
you are. You know, some people, they go their whole lives without knowing what they’re supposed to do; they get up, they go to work, they come home. You’ve got more than that. You’ve got a purpose, a passion. You try and bury that, it’ll come out one way or another.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “One way or another….”

The restaurant Richard chose for their meeting was called DV8. It was a small, hip place, more bar than bistro, only a block off the Stroll. He was waiting for her at a table upstairs, wearing a green silk suit and drinking an oversize martini with four olives in it.

“Hello, Nikki,” he said as she sat down. He was just as unattractive as she remembered, with a pushed-in looking face and tiny eyes that reminded her of one of those yappy little dogs. His hair was spiked up with gel, and she could smell his cologne before she ever got to the table.

“Richard,” she said with a professional smile.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Scotch and water.” He signaled the waiter and made a point of ordering their best single malt.

“How’d you know I was back in town?” Nikki asked.

“Oh, I have a lot of contacts,” Richard said breezily. “One of them gave me your cell number. Don’t ask who, though—confidentiality is something I take very seriously.”

“Just not mine.”

“Well, that would change if you came to work for me. I meant what I said about our clientele; they’re very affluent, very private. Very careful. I like you, I think you’d be quite popular, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to check you out first.”

“You seem to know a lot already.”

“Not as much as you might think. For instance— what have you been doing since you left town?”

“Same thing I did when I was here—just different cities.”

“Ah. Which ones?”

“Let’s see …Des Moines, Calgary, Seattle. Portland for a little while.”

He’d taken out a pad of paper and was making notes. “Uh-huh. Work for anyone there?”

“No. Strictly independent.”

“Any arrests?”

“No.”

“Can you give me some dates? Just roughly.”

She felt a spark of irritation, but fought it down; it was a fair question. She gave him an approximation of the times she’d spent in various cities for the last two years. Her drink arrived and she accepted it gratefully.

“You know why I like coming here?” he asked her abruptly.

“The abundance of olives?”

He laughed. “No. It’s the art.” He pointed at the nearest wall, where a huge painting hung. The canvas was black velvet, like the cheesy ones you could buy in Mexico, but rather than depicting a matador, sad clown or doe-eyed child, the subject was a soulful-looking Captain Kirk. “It’s always changing, too. Lots of local artists display and sell their stuff here.”

“Yeah, it’s a real cultural nexus. Now,
I’ve
got a few questions for
you.”

“Ask me anything.”

“Who’s backing you? A Triad?”

“No, no—nothing like that. No Tongs, no Triads. I’m just a successful local businessman.”

“Right. Who’s working for you—anyone I might know?”

“Perhaps. I’ve prepared a list of a few of my girls; you can call them yourself and ask. I’m sure they’ll have nothing but good things to say.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it up, scanned it. The letterhead at the top read
Exquisite Ecstasy Escorts,
with a dozen or so first names and phone numbers underneath it. A few looked familiar, but you could throw a used condom anywhere on the Stroll and hit a hooker called Jennifer or Brandy.

She asked him about rates and rules—both seemed acceptable. He said he retained a lawyer in case of trouble, though they hadn’t any yet. Everything was done on an out-call basis; the girls never came into the office itself. They used a credit card system, which would show up on their clients’ bills as “shipping expenses.” Cash tips belonged to the girls.

It seemed reasonable. Richard was well-spoken and polite. And yet…

She told him she’d consider it and get back to him. He smiled and shook her hand when she got up to leave.

So why did she feel something wasn’t right?

Afterward, Jack walked home.

“Home” was a third-floor walk-up on Commercial Drive. The neighborhood was low-rent but funky, frequently doubling for New York in locally-shot films or TV shows. A light rain was falling, the kind of sporadic, almost-mist that longtime Vancouverites wouldn’t even acknowledge with an umbrella.

He walked past pool halls, bodegas, closed shops advertising hemp-weave clothing and African art. The damp air carried invitations of many kinds: fresh-ground coffee beans from the late-night cafés, cheese and pepperoni from the pizza-slice joints, laughter and samba rhythms from a Latin restaurant. He realized, abruptly, that he’d chosen this part of town for more than just the affordability; he’d chosen it because it was
alive,
ripe with people and food and activity. With potential.

Not that it didn’t have its dark side. A homeless man with a scraggly beard wandered past, a stained blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were vacant, his cracked lips moving silently as he communed with something only he could see. Jack wondered if Charlie would consider the man’s perceptions art.

Neon painted wet blacktop. Electric trains, powered by railed lightning, rumbled their faint and polite thunder in the distance. His muscles felt loose and purposeless, his head pleasantly buzzed by the wine.

He wondered what Nikki was doing right now.

He could probably track her down, if he tried. He had a few phone numbers in various cities, names of people she knew. People she’d asked him to contact if anything ever happened to her. “You do it for strangers, you can do it for me,” she’d told him. “Let people know how I died.
Why
I died. What we do is the only goddamn thing I ever accomplished that has any meaning, and I don’t want it to end with me in some unmarked fucking grave.”

Then she’d added, “You sell the movie rights, get Cameron Diaz to play me.”