connected Picasso to Charlie Furman,” Reiser said.
“Naturally.”
“So, Picasso killed his wife in the bar and somehow got away?”
“That I don’t know, Doc. Celia was shot with a small-caliber pistol at close range in a crowded bar, and nobody saw anything. Which for once is the truth. And Angelo says he definitely would have remembered seeing Charlie Furman in the place—which he did not.”
“So naturally, you want Picasso for questioning.“
“Naturally.”
Reiser’s sunburned face did not look so sunburned anymore. He said, “He wants to be questioned, Hock. He wants to be found, but he sure isn’t going to make it easy for you.“
“What do you know, Doc? Help me.”
Reiser put down his cigar like it was suddenly making him sick. Weakly, he said, “I mentioned how we had our pleasant moments, Picasso and me?”
“You did.”
“Well, we also had a major falling-out. That was the last day I saw the man, which as I said before was six or seven months back.”
“And...?”
“And that’s when I presented him with my grand theory, which did not got over so well....
“You see, we always had this same exasperating talk about art whenever he’d come here. Which would be following one of his episodes.”
“By which you mean the hollering sessions?”
“Right. Always the same pattern. The cops would find him standing outside a gallery yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Philistines!’ Over and over, to the point where he was scaring off customers. So, of course, I asked him why he was doing that.
“He said, ‘Because they’re a bunch of numbnuts in there, why else d’you think they’re selling them lousy pictures by them no-talent painters?’ To which I would say, ‘You could do better?’ Then he would say, ‘I done plenty better!’ ”
I said, “I’m no medical expert, but that doesn’t sound like any sort of a path to progress.”
“Not directly, it isn’t. But at least it got us onto the subject of art sometimes, the only thing personal that Picasso would ever discuss. Otherwise, it was all about his ‘observations’ or his reliably dim view of life, or that damn alter-ego routine.
“But, Hock, you met him, you know what an intriguing bastard the guy is. You just want to solve the riddles of the guy, you know? Do you?”
I did not answer right away, thinking back to what Neglio had told me, by way of warning me about myself. Eventually, though, I managed, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Sure, you know how it is, Hock. I mean, I’ve talked with cops before. You’re the first one I’ve met with a measurable attention span.”
I shrugged.
Reiser went on. “Anyway, there were two main things I could never get out of Picasso like you did—his real name, and a look at one of his paintings. So finally, one bright day it dawns on me what this guy’s pathology is. However, I am not bright enough to keep the revelation to myself; I have to go blabbing my grand theory to Picasso.
“I told him on that last day of ours, ‘Picasso, my pixilated friend, what makes you the loon you are is that you’re the worst kind of artist there is, the kind that gets ignored.’ “To which Picasso says, ‘The way I see it, when a tree falls down in the forest and nobody’s around to hear it, you better believe it still makes a big noise! You’re calling that crazy, Doc, are you?’ ”
Reiser laughed. It was an unfunny series of snorts, really, and no doubt inherited from Picasso. “Guess what he does next?” Reiser asks.
I gave up.
“Picasso says, ‘Okay, I had just about enough of this bug house!’ Then he stands up from the chair where you’re sitting now, and he coldcocks me. Knocks me clear off my chair, the wacko! Then I was down on the floor, rolling around with a dislocated jaw. And Picasso is standing over me with his eyes rolling and his fists waving and he’s hollering, ‘Philistine!’
“I am in such agony, all I see is Picasso’s wild blurry head chasing
“Naturally.”
“So, Picasso killed his wife in the bar and somehow got away?”
“That I don’t know, Doc. Celia was shot with a small-caliber pistol at close range in a crowded bar, and nobody saw anything. Which for once is the truth. And Angelo says he definitely would have remembered seeing Charlie Furman in the place—which he did not.”
“So naturally, you want Picasso for questioning.“
“Naturally.”
Reiser’s sunburned face did not look so sunburned anymore. He said, “He wants to be questioned, Hock. He wants to be found, but he sure isn’t going to make it easy for you.“
“What do you know, Doc? Help me.”
Reiser put down his cigar like it was suddenly making him sick. Weakly, he said, “I mentioned how we had our pleasant moments, Picasso and me?”
“You did.”
“Well, we also had a major falling-out. That was the last day I saw the man, which as I said before was six or seven months back.”
“And...?”
“And that’s when I presented him with my grand theory, which did not got over so well....
“You see, we always had this same exasperating talk about art whenever he’d come here. Which would be following one of his episodes.”
“By which you mean the hollering sessions?”
“Right. Always the same pattern. The cops would find him standing outside a gallery yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Philistines!’ Over and over, to the point where he was scaring off customers. So, of course, I asked him why he was doing that.
“He said, ‘Because they’re a bunch of numbnuts in there, why else d’you think they’re selling them lousy pictures by them no-talent painters?’ To which I would say, ‘You could do better?’ Then he would say, ‘I done plenty better!’ ”
I said, “I’m no medical expert, but that doesn’t sound like any sort of a path to progress.”
“Not directly, it isn’t. But at least it got us onto the subject of art sometimes, the only thing personal that Picasso would ever discuss. Otherwise, it was all about his ‘observations’ or his reliably dim view of life, or that damn alter-ego routine.
“But, Hock, you met him, you know what an intriguing bastard the guy is. You just want to solve the riddles of the guy, you know? Do you?”
I did not answer right away, thinking back to what Neglio had told me, by way of warning me about myself. Eventually, though, I managed, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Sure, you know how it is, Hock. I mean, I’ve talked with cops before. You’re the first one I’ve met with a measurable attention span.”
I shrugged.
Reiser went on. “Anyway, there were two main things I could never get out of Picasso like you did—his real name, and a look at one of his paintings. So finally, one bright day it dawns on me what this guy’s pathology is. However, I am not bright enough to keep the revelation to myself; I have to go blabbing my grand theory to Picasso.
“I told him on that last day of ours, ‘Picasso, my pixilated friend, what makes you the loon you are is that you’re the worst kind of artist there is, the kind that gets ignored.’ “To which Picasso says, ‘The way I see it, when a tree falls down in the forest and nobody’s around to hear it, you better believe it still makes a big noise! You’re calling that crazy, Doc, are you?’ ”
Reiser laughed. It was an unfunny series of snorts, really, and no doubt inherited from Picasso. “Guess what he does next?” Reiser asks.
I gave up.
“Picasso says, ‘Okay, I had just about enough of this bug house!’ Then he stands up from the chair where you’re sitting now, and he coldcocks me. Knocks me clear off my chair, the wacko! Then I was down on the floor, rolling around with a dislocated jaw. And Picasso is standing over me with his eyes rolling and his fists waving and he’s hollering, ‘Philistine!’
“I am in such agony, all I see is Picasso’s wild blurry head chasing
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