Chapter 15

 

 

Chapter 15

PAINTING NUDES

Don sat at the kitchen table, balancing his checkbook. His head was upright so he could focus the bottom of his trifocals on the entries. Three months of statements were piled in front of him; it was too tedious a task to do every month.

He heard the crunching of car tires on his drive, and looked toward the screened door. Mossie was looking out of the door toward the drive. He noticed that her tail was not wagging. That was noteworthy, so he put his pen down and walked to the door. The kitchen clock over the door read 11:30. Time to think about lunch.

A highly polished yellow Mercedes convertible sat in his driveway. The top was down. A yuppie couple rubber-necked as they took in his eccentric property and buildings. What the heck was this about?

Don watched the deeply tanned young man exit the car. He was almost six feet tall, with wide shoulders, but with a thin body profile. His black hair was slicked down with hair product. He wore a polo shirt with the collar turned up, and a light photographer's vest, but he certainly didn't look like a photographer. He wore ironed shorts. His hairy legs ended in leather loafers...without socks. Don hated that.

The woman, the wife, probably, stayed in the car. She wore sunglasses and a scarf to keep her bleached hair coiffed. Her look was not happy. Don thought his place was creeping her out, and guessed she would describe it to her friends as weird and 'way icky'.

Mossie growled lowly.

"Think we're jumping to conclusions?" Don asked her.

Mossie growled lowly again.

"Me either," Don agreed.

The stranger walked up Don's back steps, opened the screened door to the porch and crossed to the kitchen's screened door. Don and Mossie stood inside the door and didn't look pleased.

"Can I help you?" Don asked in an even voice.

"Hi! Are you Bree?"

"Only to my friends."

"I'm Rupert," the stranger said brightly. "My friends call me Rupes."

"What's up, Rupert?"

"My wife would, ah, would like you to do a painting of our cottage. We just bought it last year. It's over on West Lake Drive."

"What's the address?"

Rupert thought, then said, "It's 1555. Yes, that's right. Got so darn many numbers to remember! Had to think a minute!"

Rupert watched Don reach to the right at shoulder height, and seem to write the address on something that hung on his kitchen wall. Maybe a bulletin board or a pad. Rupert couldn't see.

"Sorry to disappoint your wife, but I don't do commissions."

Don looked at the wife. Rupert noticed and looked at his wife as well. She looked glum and bored, not much like how a person who was excited about art would look.

"How much do you normally charge?"

"Not doing it."

"How about if I double your fee?"

"I'm going to make lunch now," Don said, and turned away from the door.

Rupert smiled a little at Don's tactic. He enjoyed haggling because he thought he was good at it.

"I don't take no for an answer, Bree. I'm an attorney. I'm pretty good at negotiating. How about three times your fee?"

Don opened the 'fridge and said, without turning, "Why don't you negotiate your stinky feet back to your car and take, 'Hell no!', for an answer? It's a rhetorical question. That means you aren't expected to answer."

Rupert's smile went flat. He looked through the screen door as Don puttered around the kitchen, preparing lunch. The older man was ignoring him. Dismissing him. Treating him like a benign child.

Rupert turned his attention to Don's property, viewing the assortment of old buildings and oddities with a calculating eye.

"I've done some work with the DEQ, Bree. That's the Department of Environmental Quality, if you didn't know. I'll bet you have an uncommon number of environmental violations here. Think maybe we should have it checked out?"

That got Don's attention. Mr. Slick was trying to put the arm on him. Sort of pisses you off when that happens. Rupert wouldn't know that Don had submitted soil samples for contamination testing; things like fuel oil and machine oil and heavy metals. There had been some small problems and he had cleaned them all up. Soil removal, clean fill, bacterial rehabilitation, that sort of thing. He was concerned about the environment, especially his own environment since this place would stay in his family for, hopefully, generations.

Don walked to the screen door, thinking that it was best to bring this little pimple to a head so he could pop it.

"Call your wife over, Richard."

"Why?" Rupert asked.

"So I can talk with her about the painting."

"Jackie!" Rupert called toward the Mercedes.

Jackie looked. The look was annoyed.

"Jackie!" Rupert called again, and beckoned her with a demanding hand gesture.

"Why?" Jackie called back snottily.

Rupert walked to the porch's screened door, opened it, hung out of it and snarled, "Would you just come here?"

Jackie's chin pushed up, mushing her mouth into a clear signal of revolt, but she slunk out of the car and stiffly walked to the porch. She was almost as tall as Rubert, with a round, pasty face that might be cute-ish if she smiled. She was slender with oversized breasts.

"Bree wants to talk with you about the painting," Rupert explained, holding the door for her.

The married couple crossed the porch to the kitchen's screened door, which Don did not open. He stood on the inside, thinking.

"Is Jackie short for Jacqueline?" Don asked.

"Yes," Jackie answered in a small voice.

"May I call you Jacqueline?"

"Yes."

"Jacqueline, are you really interested in having me paint your cottage, or is it Robin's idea?"

Jackie looked confused for a second, then answered, "Oh, you mean Rupert. Right, it was his idea. We were at a neighbor's, one of the big law partners, and they had one of your paintings. He's been hot for one ever since."

Rupert shot a look of daggers at his truthful wife.

"Ricardo," Don said, looking at Rupert, "you have been disingenuous with me."

"It doesn't change anything," Rupert said. "I want a painting from you, I'm willing to pay well, and I'm willing to be persuasive if you are reluctant."

"I figured that out, Ruby. Tell you what I'll do. I'll paint Jacqueline instead."

Both of the strangers considered that.

"Of course, I only paint nudes."

The strangers considered that, too.

"But don't worry about your skin, Jacqueline, I'll use hypoallergenic paints..."

Jackie smiled, getting the joke. Rupert frowned, getting the picture.

"...especially around the sensitive areas. We want to be sure your sensitive areas are happy," Don continued.

Rupert stepped closer to the screened door. Jackie blushed, covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle and moved back and to the side.

"I never allow an audience when I paint, Ripley. It'll just be Jacqueline and me. I should probably be nude, too, to make her more comfortable, you know. Well, not completely nude. I'll wear socks. I'll need a place to keep my brushes."

Jackie chuckled out loud.

Rupert scowled and said, "You're crossing the line, here. If you don't shut-up I'll call the DEQ just out of spite, and still end up owning your painting!"

Don looked confused, and said, "I don't see the problem. You'll get the painting when I'm finished with her. And you know what? She'll probably be able to give you some tips on how you can do a better job of painting her yourself! That is, if you can paint, which I kinda doubt, with the obvious tension between you two, and the pee-pee mobile, and the wannabe clothes."

Rupert's face showed considerable strain. His eyes widened. His lips parted over clenched teeth. He asked through those clenched teeth, "Pee-pee mobile?"

"That's what I call them, Ricky. It's when rich guys buy big powerful cars when they can't get it up. It's compensation. It's kinda strange, because everybody sees it but them. And convertibles? They're the worst! Especially when the top is down...foreskin drawn back...see? And your clothing, well where to start? How about those leather shoes without socks? Don't you get tired of slipping around in your own sweat? Don't you get tired of people holding their noses and avoiding you because of the stink? And how about the raised collar on your shirt? That's too cool, man. And the vest, who wears a vest in the sum..."

"You want to know why I wear a vest?" Rupert said in a low, menacing whisper.

"Let me think," Don replied, holding a finger up, requesting a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and said, "I've got it. Shitty Harry...that Clint Eastwood character. That's who you're doing right now. Shitty Harry!"

"Dirty Harry! It's Dirty Harry, you ass! And here's why I wear a vest."

Rupert held the right side of his vest open. Don saw a pistol in a clip holster on Rupert's belt.

"Dirty Harry, huh?" Don said, and reached to his right at shoulder height, as if writing on a bulletin board or a pad of paper on the unseen kitchen wall and repeated, "Diiirrrty Haarrry," as if writing it down.

But he wasn't writing it down. His right hand dropped to grab the barrel of a ten gauge single shot shotgun, and he slammed his shoulder into the screen door like a brahma bull coming out of the chute at a rodeo.

Rupert couldn't react before he was smashed backwards. Don kept on him, driving, driving, driving the younger man in a circle, keeping him off balance as he stumbled backwards, holding the shotgun sideways and bunting Rupert until he banged his back against the side of the house. Without pausing, Don gave a final hard bunt with the barrel to Rupert's forehead.

Rupert put his hands to his head to contain the ringing and Don pushed the barrel of the shotgun into his mouth. Rupert tasted steel and burned gunpowder, and could feel the bead of the front sight rubbing against the roof of his mouth, then he felt and heard the distinct click of the gun's hammer being cocked.

"Now, Rosey, you'll want to be very still while I take your pistol. This is awkward, with me holding the shotgun with one hand, and with my finger on the trigger at the same time. See, if my trigger finger slips it releases the hammer, and if the hammer drops it drives the firing pin into the primer, and the primer ignites the gun powder, and then, well then you lose the back of your head."

Don couldn't resist a little irony. He continued, "So you want to ask yourself one question; 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya...punk?"

Rupert made a negative sound around the barrel of the shotgun.

"Good, then work with me here and don't move."

Don pulled the pistol and clip holster off Rupert's belt, put the gun in the left pocket of his shorts, then demanded Rupert's wallet. The stunned lawyer carefully withdrew his wallet and handed it over. Don gently eased the hammer down on the shotgun.

"Open your mouth a little, Ribeye. I'm going to pull the barrel out and I don't want to chip your brilliant teeth with the bead."

Don withdrew the shotgun, turned and tossed the wallet to Jackie.

"Take his driver's license out for me, will you?"

Stepping away from Rupert, Don pushed the release lever sideways and broke the shotgun so he could hang in over his forearm. Both Rupert and Jackie saw the brass end of the huge, exposed shotgun shell.

Don took the license from Jackie and left the wallet with her. He noted, as he pulled his cell phone off his hip, that she showed absolutely no sympathy for Rupert.

Hanging onto the heavy shotgun and working the cell phone was awkward, so Don turned, snapped the gun shut and leaned it against the wall. Then he concentrated on the phone. This was one time he would have used speed dial if he knew how to program the damn thing.

"Who are you calling?" Jackie asked.

"A Deputy friend of mine. Your husband needs a little legal therapy. It isn't acceptable to enter a person's home and threaten them with a gun."

"Did he do that?"

"Actually, he did. You witnessed it, though as a spouse you can't be compelled to share it. He entered my enclosed porch without permission, and then made a point of unconcealing his concealed weapon. Kinda defeats the concept of concealment. He'll lose his Concealed Carry permit for sure, and who knows how those big law partners will regard such reckless behavior? Maybe lose his job? Maybe lose his law license?"

There was a grunt and a scraping, and they looked to see Rupert lifting the shotgun he had lunged for. He pointed it at Don and said, "Close the phone."

Don closed his eyes and tried to remember Copper's cell number.

"Close the phone!" Rupert repeated, and cocked the hammer back. "We'll just leave and forget the whole thing. No painting. No trouble. Forget everything."

"Shhh," Don said. "I'm trying to remember Copper's number. It starts with 775."

Jackie moved between Don and Rupert and said, "You're in enough trouble already. Put the gun down. Lean it against the wall. Do it!"

Don began dialing.

"Get out of the way!" Rupert desperately commanded.

Jackie held her ground. Don finished dialing. They all heard the call begin to ring through.

"Put...the...gun...down," Jackie said again.

The shotgun hammer dropped.

Jackie gasped.

Don said into the phone, "Copper, I need help ASAP! This is not a drill!" and flipped the phone closed.

"You tried to kill me, you miserable little..." Jackie shouted, and assaulted her cowering husband with a lengthy splurt of crude and colorful words.

She jerked the shotgun from his hands, then broke it and saw the chamber was empty. She snapped the gun closed, turned to face Don, raised it to port arms and threw it to him so sharply that his hands stung from catching it. He felt lucky that he had been able to catch it.

Jackie turned to Rupert again.

"Oh, Jackie, Jackie, it was an accident! I didn't mean to pull the trigger! I'm sick to my stomach over this! It was an accident!"

Jackie hit her blubbering husband's throat with a straight-from-the shoulder karate punch. It immediately complicated his breathing. Then she beat the living hell out of him. It was the most painful and longest ten seconds of his life.

Jackie stepped back from the whimpering pile that was Rupert and spun on Don, saying with stern accusation, "You palmed the shell before you closed the shotgun!"

Her voice was different. She was no longer mousy and quiet. Her voice projected power and authority.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Don replied, clearly wary of the startling transformation. "What martial arts school taught you to fight like that?"

"The Marines."

Mossie had been barking on the fringes of the tussle. Now she went to Jackie and whined as she nudged the warrior's hand. Jackie protectively stroked Mossie's head.

Mossie's ears perked up, and she looked down the road. Then the humans heard the approaching siren.

"You gonna keep the cottage after the divorce?" Don asked.

"Affirmative."

"May I give you a painting of the place, no charge?"

Jackie's eyes flamed less when she looked at Don and said, "Thank you, I would like that."

"No, thank you."

"For what?"

"For kicking his butt, and not mine."

Jackie frowned toward Rupert and said, "Him I don't like."