The Painter by Peter Heller

Author:Peter Heller [Heller, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780385352086
Google: rckPAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00GL3OJIY
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 2014-05-05T16:00:00+00:00

He called from the lobby. I invited him up. Don’t know why, but I placed the fresh canvas next to the hearth in the sitting room, face out. Maybe because I didn’t want him turning it around a la Sport, and because I knew he would see it eventually since I was going to let Steve show it. It could hang next to the others on the Wall of Confession.

A spirited double tap at the door, ta-da! announced Detective John Hinchman, homicide. He was fat and wheezed like a bulldog, and was the most cheerful man I’d ever met at death’s threshold. He seemed to be, anyway. Seemed about to drop from a cardiac at any second. He maneuvered through the door and was genuinely glad to meet me. His blurred smile was infectious. I say blurred, because it was hard to see him sharply through the cloud of good cheer he brought with him the way Pig-Pen brings his dust.

He said, “Been an admirer for years. Did you know you were the first man to paint magpies on furniture? I did the research.”

“Ouch.”

“I know, huh?” He chuckled. “You have a true creative impulse and within no time at all the market turns it into kitsch.” He shook his head in mirth. I offered him a seat in a wingback and he waved it away.

“May I?” he said.

“Be my guest.”

For such a big man he moved pretty smoothly, a little like a parade float. He studied the new picture.

“You paint that today? Still smells strong.”

“You must be a detective.”

A goofy smile stretched to his sideburns.

“One thing I love about this job. Nobody knows anything about being a detective except what they see on TV and in movies. So they talk like that. The dialogue, it usually runs along those lines. Even in interrogation. Makes it easier that way, everyone knows the protocol.” He laughed.

“What is it?” he said, bending down and looking more closely.

“Two guys. On a rough road.”

“Yep. Anyone you know?” He straightened.

“Probably Grant and Dellwood.”

His eyes widened.

“Well. Off script,” he said.

“Not really.”

“You’re a pretty straight shooter. I thought you would be. You can tell a lot about a person from his paintings.”

“You want a beer? That mini fridge is stuffed. I think there’s some fancy German beer in there.”

Waved it away again. “Any reason you’d be painting Mr. and Mr. Siminoe?”

“They’ve been on my mind a lot.”

Again his eyes. His smile at his own astonishment. Can a man really move through the world like this, with such droll good humor? I thought he was Buddha-like.

“How so? On your mind?” he said.

“Well, let’s see. Dellwood almost beat a horse to death in front of me, then fought me, then got himself murdered so everyone thinks I did it, so that’s Dellwood. Grant, well, he threatened my life a week ago and burned down my neighbor’s barn. Because of aforesaid horse and brother. So maybe that’s why.”

He nodded. He looked serious for the first time since he’d come through the door.

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