early ’60s, sometime when you were up studying at City College, Hock. Now I don’t think I want it hanging here anymore.”
“Because it’s her in the picture—Celia?”
“It’s her, please God.”
Angelo turned to the back bar and picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker red. He offered me a jar on the house, which I reluctantly declined in the interest of my dinner plans. He poured one for himself, though, and stared sadly at the thick amber. In the back room, where Celia threw craps once-upon-a-time, the uniforms were nearly finished with the happy hour types. I heard one of them complain, “But, Officer—this is, like, so inconvenient!” Angelo tipped his glass, spilling a few drops of Scotch out of respect for his circle of absent friends, now increased by one.
He put back the whiskey, then raised the empty glass to toast the painting of Celia and himself. I asked who the artist was.
“That would be Celia’s long-lost husband, Charlie Furman.”
“If Charlie had come in here today,” I asked, “would Celia have recognized him? Would you?”
“Charlie Furman, in here?” Angelo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you know him, too?”
“Well, I met him a few times if that’s what you mean. I only talked to him about what he wanted in the way of a drink, though.”
“But, here at the bar, that’s where you met him?“
“Yeah, a long time back when he would sometimes come by with Celia. She’d go in the back and shoot craps and he’d sit up here drinking and watching the scenery. Man, the guy was quite the watcher.”
“Why do you call him Celia’s ‘long-lost’ husband?“
“Celia and Charlie, they had lots of problems. First, Celia’s line is not conducive to long marriages; second, Charlie was an artist and artists are mostly nuts. He drifted off someplace and when he went Celia also cleared out the paintings the guy never sold, which in my case is what you see hanging over the bar.”
“There’s a street character here in the neighborhood who calls himself Picasso,” I said. There was no recognition in Angelo’s face. “Know him?”
Angelo thought and said, “No.”
I told myself, You’ve gone as far as you can... call up Logue tomorrow and tell him what you know; it’s his case, and besides, you’re on furlough!
I started to leave. The happy hour crowd was given its liberty; the front bar started filling up.
Angelo said, “Funny, isn’t it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Funny how she wore green in the painting and how she wore green today.”
“The lady liked green?”
“She almost always wore green. She said it was her lucky
color.”
FOUR
There sat I, at a small table in a warm room, looking into the candlelit face of Ruby Flagg with her chocolate eyes and almond skin and black, black hair and her fall lips touchée with maroon and her smooth slim neck flowing from the top of a white lace blouse. She raised a slender hand to her neck, pinched the edge of her blouse and fluttered the fabric to cool herself. And damn me! Damn me with my thoughts all crowded by images of Picasso and his crazed threats... and Celia and the unsurprised way her face had greeted death.
Ruby was talking. I had asked her to tell me more about herself, since this was only our second date, if we counted the night we met at a party in Soho and she had come with a foolish man who was indifferent to our spending most of the evening together in a far corner of the loft. I asked her to tell me about setting off for New York from her hometown, which was New Orleans; I asked her if she believed in the Emerald City. And my thoughts were crowded as she answered.
“…Oh, I knew it was going to be rough and tough,” she was saying. “And I had no end of relations back home who had never been outside Louisiana in their lives, but who knew all about New York City anyhow and how it was no place for me; how I’d come dragging my sorrowful tail back down South soon enough,
“Because it’s her in the picture—Celia?”
“It’s her, please God.”
Angelo turned to the back bar and picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker red. He offered me a jar on the house, which I reluctantly declined in the interest of my dinner plans. He poured one for himself, though, and stared sadly at the thick amber. In the back room, where Celia threw craps once-upon-a-time, the uniforms were nearly finished with the happy hour types. I heard one of them complain, “But, Officer—this is, like, so inconvenient!” Angelo tipped his glass, spilling a few drops of Scotch out of respect for his circle of absent friends, now increased by one.
He put back the whiskey, then raised the empty glass to toast the painting of Celia and himself. I asked who the artist was.
“That would be Celia’s long-lost husband, Charlie Furman.”
“If Charlie had come in here today,” I asked, “would Celia have recognized him? Would you?”
“Charlie Furman, in here?” Angelo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you know him, too?”
“Well, I met him a few times if that’s what you mean. I only talked to him about what he wanted in the way of a drink, though.”
“But, here at the bar, that’s where you met him?“
“Yeah, a long time back when he would sometimes come by with Celia. She’d go in the back and shoot craps and he’d sit up here drinking and watching the scenery. Man, the guy was quite the watcher.”
“Why do you call him Celia’s ‘long-lost’ husband?“
“Celia and Charlie, they had lots of problems. First, Celia’s line is not conducive to long marriages; second, Charlie was an artist and artists are mostly nuts. He drifted off someplace and when he went Celia also cleared out the paintings the guy never sold, which in my case is what you see hanging over the bar.”
“There’s a street character here in the neighborhood who calls himself Picasso,” I said. There was no recognition in Angelo’s face. “Know him?”
Angelo thought and said, “No.”
I told myself, You’ve gone as far as you can... call up Logue tomorrow and tell him what you know; it’s his case, and besides, you’re on furlough!
I started to leave. The happy hour crowd was given its liberty; the front bar started filling up.
Angelo said, “Funny, isn’t it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Funny how she wore green in the painting and how she wore green today.”
“The lady liked green?”
“She almost always wore green. She said it was her lucky
color.”
FOUR
There sat I, at a small table in a warm room, looking into the candlelit face of Ruby Flagg with her chocolate eyes and almond skin and black, black hair and her fall lips touchée with maroon and her smooth slim neck flowing from the top of a white lace blouse. She raised a slender hand to her neck, pinched the edge of her blouse and fluttered the fabric to cool herself. And damn me! Damn me with my thoughts all crowded by images of Picasso and his crazed threats... and Celia and the unsurprised way her face had greeted death.
Ruby was talking. I had asked her to tell me more about herself, since this was only our second date, if we counted the night we met at a party in Soho and she had come with a foolish man who was indifferent to our spending most of the evening together in a far corner of the loft. I asked her to tell me about setting off for New York from her hometown, which was New Orleans; I asked her if she believed in the Emerald City. And my thoughts were crowded as she answered.
“…Oh, I knew it was going to be rough and tough,” she was saying. “And I had no end of relations back home who had never been outside Louisiana in their lives, but who knew all about New York City anyhow and how it was no place for me; how I’d come dragging my sorrowful tail back down South soon enough,
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