Avenging Angel by Frank Rich

Author:Frank Rich [Rich, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_action
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

Driving back to the art party, I tried to get things straight in my head. First, most of what the Chamberlains had fed me was bullshit. They had Crawley made out to be some kind of demonic fiend from the Rasputin school of demagoguery, which he certainly hadn't been if first impressions meant anything. And unless Britt had undergone a radical personality transformation in the past three weeks, they were feeding me a line about her, too. Naive and impressionable. I laughed at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

There was also a lot the Chamberlains weren't telling me. As I expected, on Harry's forearm I'd found a crowned swastika tattoo, denoting him an oberfäuhrer of a skinhead clan. What was a Party director doing being guarded by a neo-Nazi gang leader? And if they loved their daughter so much, why did they have such a hard time remembering when she left? Inconsistencies galore. There was something funny going on, but I wasn't getting the punch line, just the punches. I scowled in the mirror.

It piqued me that they did all that song and dance and expected me to suck it all up. It was obvious that they didn't consider me one of the formidable intellects of the detective world. In fact, I suspected they thought me an oafish knave. I could use that impression to my advantage, but that didn't cheer my ego any.

The parking lot was nearly full when I got back. I found a place in the back and killed the lights. I took off my dirty coat, wrapped my pistol and shoulder rig in it and put it under the seat. My pants were a little soiled, but that couldn't be helped. I combed my hair in the rearview mirror, practiced some charming one-liners and headed inside with my invitation. Two large men in white suits took my invite at the door. After a thorough frisk they told me to have a good time. I promised I would.

The gallery was right off from the reception hall, so I didn't have to get lost finding it. A small crowd was slouching around the spacious anteroom, but the main action was in the gallery proper. I found Joe surrounded by a pack of babushkas, wearing a saccharine smile and rolling out his giggling amphetamine-alcohol rap. The middle-aged matrons, tipsy themselves, laughed and nodded at his rapidfire jokes and piquant observations. Nobody seemed to be looking at the paintings.

"Bonjour, Joey," I said.

He stopped giggling and tried to focus his eyes on me.

"C'est moi, Docteur Strait, de Paris," I said in a dense French brogue.

"Ah, yes, Dr. Strait," Joe said, remembering the act. "Did you finish the painting you were stuck on?"

"Oui, oui, though I am afraid I put more paint on my trousers than the canvas." I gestured to my pants, and everyone made sympathetic sounds except Joe, who appeared to be checking for bloodstains.

Distressed quiet descended until one of the matrons nudged Joe. "Oh, but what am I thinking?" Joe said aloud, like a man forgetful of his manners.

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