Read Online Artist's Proof by Gordon Cotler - Free Book Online

back and Sharanov dodged with a quickness I wouldn’t have expected from him. The flailing foot met only air. Now Nikki increased the pressure on Paulie’s throat and Sharanov stepped forward and slapped him smartly across the face. Once, with his weight behind it. The sound carried.
    Few things humiliate a grown man more efficiently than a slap in the face. A punch is a man-to-man act, a slap a punishment from one’s betters. Paulie’s eyes glistened with held-back tears. Sharanov, energized by what he saw, hauled off for a second slap.
    â€œHey!” I called. “Cut that. Right now.”
    Sharanov turned to me; his face registered surprise. He was not used to being dissuaded from anything he did.
    â€œOr what?” he asked mildly. It was not a challenge; not yet. He was merely curious. But his eyes were glacier chips.
    â€œI’ll tell you when your hired hand releases Mr. Malatesta. By the count of three.” I wasn’t going to give him time to think. “One, two—”
    Calmly, not in the least intimidated, Sharanov muttered something in Russian. Nikki unwrapped his hand from Paulie’s neck and let go of his hair. Paulie adjusted his coveralls and assumed a defiant stance—sheer, face-saving bravado on his part. His dark cheek had an overlay of red.
    Nikki turned toward me; he was waiting to be unleashed by his boss. Walter was somewhere in my peripheral vision; he was letting me handle the situation because I had done so well with the last one.
    â€œOr what?” Sharanov repeated, soft but insistent.
    Jesus, this guy didn’t let go. I walked up close to him, but the cop’s trick of looking him steadily in the eye didn’t work; he looked back just as steadily.
    I said, “That’s information I release on a ‘need to know’ basis. You no longer need to know.” I turned to Malatesta. “Paulie, shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”
    Paulie knew when he was outgunned, and he was grateful to be able to leave in response to a suggestion from me; there would be no loss of face in that. With a final glare at each of his adversaries, he marched out the driveway.
    And now Walter lent his weight to the scene. “I’ll clear the Caddy for you folks,” he called and waddled back to the police car that was blocking it.
    â€œThat young man may have come on too strong,” I said to Sharanov, by way of a half-assed apology for Paulie; I didn’t want some Russian goon sandbagging him late one night. “But you have to understand why he’s upset. Cassie Brennan was his girlfriend.”
    â€œWe are all upset,” Sharanov said evenly. “And I don’t think Cassie was anybody’s girlfriend.”
    That ended our close eye contact. He turned and walked toward his car, Nikki at his heels.
    He said, “Nikki, we will stop in the village for something to eat.”
    It was lunchtime and he was going to eat lunch. Period.

F IVE
    I SURFED THE radio dial on the drive home. The story hadn’t broken. It would soon enough, and reporters would climb over each other to get to Beach Drive. “Teenage Beauty Murdered in Beachfront Mansion.” Couldn’t miss.
    It was now close to two and I had forgotten to confirm with Lonnie that I would come to the city to meet her Texas “collector” at the gallery. It was the last thing I wanted to do that day, but I couldn’t afford not to.
    The phone was ringing as I opened the front door. It was Gayle, nearly breathless. “I’ve been calling you for half an hour. I heard. Sid, I feel awful. Sick.”
    â€œYou knew Cassie?”
    â€œShe’s been working for me. Two afternoons a week holding down the shop while I was upstairs doing my line for the new season.”
    â€œCould she do that? Wait on trade?”
    â€œThe number of walk-ins I get this time of year, believe me, she could handle. And she had the figure for the