Rum Punch by Elmore Leonard

Author:Elmore Leonard
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Detective, Mystery & Detective - General, Miami (Fla.), Illegal arms transfers, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Mystery, Bahamas, Fiction, Literary, Mystery fiction, Suspense, General
ISBN: 9780060082192
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2002-05-16T05:00:00+00:00

15

Gallery Renee was located on the street level of The Gardens Mall, in a dim area between Sears and Bloomingdale's: a deep rectangular space, high ceiling, white walls and turquoise trim that picked up the mall's color motif.

Twelve thirty Sunday afternoon Max was looking through showroom glass at the gallery's bare walls, a few paintings on the floor against the walls, and at three black metal containers spaced down the length of the room. He thought of Grecian urns, then realized what they were: the eight hundred twenty dollars' worth of olive pots Renee had called about last Monday, wanting him to drop everything and bring a check. There they were, COD, so she'd paid for them. Black rusted metal jars about three feet high. One near the entrance. He moved that way and saw the sign on the glass, SORRY, CLOSED TODAY. Renee's work, the ornate capital letters, the words underlined three times. Closed-but when he pushed on the brass handle the door opened. Max entered, pausing to look in the olive pot standing close by. Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, a Styrofoam cup . . . A skinny young Latin-looking guy with hair to his shoulders was coming out from the back with a painting, a big one. He lowered it to lean against a library table in the middle of the floor and looked at Max.

"Can you read? We close today."

Now he was going back, through a hall at the rear to a door that was open and showed daylight.

Max walked up to the painting: six or seven feet by five and greenish, different shades of thick green paint with touches of red, yellowish tan, black . . . He had no idea what it was. Maybe a jungle and those were green figures coming out, emerging from the growth; it was hard to tell. More paintings were propped against the other side of the table. Paintings coming down, the ones on the floor, the new ones going up, Renee getting ready for one of her cheeseand-wine shows. She could be in back, in her office. Max looked that way and saw the young Latin guy coming with another canvas.

He said to Max, "I told you we close," and placed the canvas against the first one he'd brought out. Rising, he tossed his hair from his face. Stringy, still more than he needed. He looked familiar . . .

Saying to Max standing there, "What's your problem?"

And Max almost smiled. "I'm Renee's husband."

The guy said, "Yeah? . . ." and waited.

"Where is she, in back?"

"She getting me something to eat."

"You work here?"

Max could see the little asshole didn't like that. He said, "No, I don't work here." Turned and went back to the rear of the gallery.

Max walked around the table to find more green paintings. He stooped to look at the signature, a black scrawl.

David de la Villa.

The guy had to be Da-veed, the Cuban busboy from Chuck and Harold's Renee had said weeks ago was about to be discovered.

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