“I will do so, then,” replied the artist.
Greyboar turned and left, after ushering the Cat through the door. I started shooing Jenny and Angela after them, eager to make an escape.
“One moment, please,” came Benvenuti’s voice. We stopped and turned around.
The artist was smiling at Jenny and Angela. “The moment I saw the two of you,” he said, “I wanted to do your portrait. Now, after witnessing your gallantry in my defense, I must insist. At no cost to yourselves, of course.”
Jenny beamed. “Oh, that’d be great!” exclaimed Angela.
Well! I didn’t think it was great!
“I don’t know about this,” I growled, in my best man-of-the-world tone. “Two innocent young girls—an artist—who knows what might—”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Jenny.
“Yeah, what’s your problem?” added Angela.
I bore up stoically under their childish complaints. “Well, you know, he’d probably want you to pose, you know, with your clothes off.”
“And so what if he does?” demanded Angela.
“You always like us to pose with our clothes off,” added Jenny.
I tried to think of a riposte. Alas, I failed. The only thought in my mind was: Ought to hang all artists. On general principle.
Fortunately, I had enough sense not to say it.
Benvenuti grinned, enjoying, I darkly suspected, my predicament.
“Actually,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking of a nude portrait. In fact, I wasn’t thinking of any sort of formal poses. I would just like to try and capture your spirit, if I could. The two of you are like liquid sunshine.”
“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed Jenny, blushing. With her peaches-and-cream complexion, a blush made her look especially angelic. Angela smiled, like a sultry cherub. Then, to me, in a loud whisper: “You never say things like that to us.”
I tried to think of a riposte. Failed.
“Let’s be off!” I said, and started hustling the girls out the door. Over my shoulder, I glared at Benvenuti.
He shrugged. “I assure you, sirrah, my intentions are quite honorable.”
I was not mollified. “Intentions be damned,” I muttered. “Anybody who’d seduce Gwendolyn is out of his mind in the first place, so who knows what he’d do?”
* * *
On our way back, Jenny and Angela chattered cheerfully. The Cat stared at her sketches. Greyboar was silent. Lost in thoughts of Gwendolyn, I imagine, but I didn’t ask.
I was too busy thinking my own silent thoughts.
Dark thoughts. Dark.
Despite what you might think, only some of my gloom was brought on by the prospect—inevitable, I could tell, from their chatter—that my two girls would soon be cavorting about in the studio of a damned artist who was not only the handsomest man I’d ever seen but had all the other accouterments, to boot.
But, mostly, my gloom was brought on by more general considerations. Almost philosophical, you might say, much as I hate the term.
I could feel the net of Fate closing in. Destiny’s doom. The Kismet Kiss of Death.
Or, to put it in my crude layman’s terms:
Shit kept happening, no matter what I tried to do. One damn thing after another. Philosophy! Leads to mad and reckless impulses. Leads to desperate flight. Desperate adventures. Hooking up with crazy women. Dragged back into the life of a crazy revolutionist sister. Mad artists.
Mad mad mad mad mad. All of it.
This is going to end badly. I just know it!
Those sorts of thoughts.
When we finally pulled up in front of Jenny and Angela’s house, I tried to restore my usual good humor.
“Tomorrow—back to business!” I exclaimed cheerfully. “Enough of all that other stuff.”
Greyboar shook his head. “Won’t matter, Ignace. Entropy rules. There’s no getting around it. It’s just the second law of thermodynamics, that’s all. The essence of the universe.”
I grit my teeth.
“You’ll see,” he said stoically.
I ground my teeth.
Greyboar grinned. “You can refuse to recognize philosophy, Ignace, but philosophy recognizes you.”
PART TWO: ANTITHESIS
Chapter 6.
Thermodynamic Fortune
You wouldn’t think the strangler would be sentimental about
a client, but he was.
“He’s been our most regular customer for years,” complained Greyboar.
“Big deal,” I sneered. “The old bastard’s a cheapskate. And he drives me nuts! Every time he hires us he insists on haggling for hours. I wind up giving him a discount just to stop listening to his voice. Fine for you to wax philosophical about fond memories—you just do the jobs. You aren’t the one who has to listen to that quavering whine for hours. You aren’t the one—”