“Lucy . .. this is my client; this is Mister Duke, the famous journalist. He’s pairing for this suite, Lucy. He’s on our side.”
She said nothing. I could see that she was not entirely in control of herself. Huge shoulders on the woman, and a chin like Oscar Bonavena. I sat down on the bed and casually reached into my satchel for the Mace can . . . and when I felt my tumb on the Shoot button I was tempted to jerk the thing out and soak her down on general principles, I desperately needed peace, rest, sanctuary. The last thing I wanted was a fight to the finish, in my own hotel room, with some kind of drug – crazed hormone monster.
My attorney seemed to understand this; he knew why my hand was in the satchel.
“No!” he shouted. “Not here! We’ll have to move out!”
I shrugged. He was twisted. I could see that. And so was Lucy. Her eyes were feverish and crazy. She was staring at me like I was something that would have to be rendered helpless before life could get back to whatever she considered normal.
My attorney idled over and put his arm around her shoulders. “Mister Duke is my friend,” he said gently. “He lovesartists. Let’s show him your paintings.”
For the first time, I noticed that the room was full of artwork – maybe forty or fifty portraits, some in oil, some charcoal, all more or less the same size and all the same face.
They were propped up on every flat surface. The face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t get a fix on it. It was a girl with a mouth, a big nose and extremely glittering eyes – a demonically sensual face; the kind of overstated, embarrassingly dramatic renderings that you find in the bedrooms of young female art students who get hung up on horses.
‘Lucy paints portraits of Barbra Streisand,” my attorney explained. “She’s an artist up in Montana.. .“ He turned to the girl.
“What’s that town where you live?”
She stared at him, then at me, then back at my attorney again. Then
finally she said, “Kalispel. Way up north. I drew these from TV.”
My attorney nodded eagerly. “Fantastic,” he said. “She came all the way down here just to give all these
portraits to Barbra. We’re going over to the Americana Hotel tonight, and meet her backstage.”
Lucy smiled bashfully. There was no more hostility in her. I dropped the Mace can and stood up. We obviously had a serious case on our hands. I hadn’t counted on this:
Finding my attorney whacked on acid and locked into some kind of preternatural courtship.
“Well,” I said, “I guess they’ve brought the car around by now. Let’s get the stuff out of the trunk.”
He nodded eagerly. “Absolutely, let’s get the stuff.” Hesmiled at Lucy. “We’ll be right back. Don’t answer the phone if it rings.”
She grinned and made the one – finger Jesus freak sign. “God bless,” she said.
My attorney pulled on a pair of elephant – leg pants and a glaze – black shirt, then we hurried out of the room. I could see he was having trouble getting oriented, but I refused to humor him.
“Well . . .“ I said. “What are your plans?”
“Plans?”
We were waiting for the elevator.
“Lucy,” I said.
He shook his head, struggling to focus on the question.
“Shit,” he said finally. “I met her on the plane and I had all that acid.” He shrugged. “You know, those little blue barrels. Jesus, she’s a religious freak. She’s running away from home for something like the fifth time in six months. It’s terrible. I gave her that cap before I realized . . . shit, she’s never even had adrinkf’
“Well,” I said, “it’ll probably work out. We can keep her loaded and peddle her ass at the drug convention.”
He stared at me.
“She’s perfect for this gig,” I said. “These cops will go fifty bucks a head to beat her into submission and then gang – fuck her. We can set her up in one of these back – street motels, hang pictures of Jesus all over the room, then turn these pigsloose on her . . . Hell, she’s strong; she’ll hold her own.”