Garden of Evil Read Online Free PDF Page A

telling tall stories, and he has a child-friendly face.’
    â€˜So – what happened? Your Storyteller looks completely different.’
    â€˜I can’t paint him any other way, that’s why. I sketch his features, I mix my colors, and that’s how he always turns out. That face you’re looking at there, that’s the third fuckin’ face I’ve painted, one on top of the other.’
    Jim went close up to the painting and stared into The Storyteller’s eyes. There was no question about it, he did look very much like Simon Silence, except he was at least twenty years older. His hair was thinner and there were crows’ feet around his eyes.
    â€˜Can you explain it?’ asked Ricky. ‘Because I sure can’t. I think it’s something to do with the paint.’
    Jim heard a rattling sound, like a bead-curtain parting, and then a woman’s voice said, ‘It’s a message from the spirit world. I’ve told Ricky that over and over, but he doesn’t believe me.’
    â€˜Oh for Christ’s sake, woman! “A message from the spirit world,” my ass! There ain’t no fuckin’ spirit world, otherwise your ex would be sleeping in between us every night just to keep us apart!’
    A very emaciated woman with her white hair cut into a bob had entered the living room. She was wearing a silver Navajo necklace and several silver bracelets, but she was naked to the waist. Her breasts were small and flat, but with prominent brown nipples, both of which were pierced with silver rings. She wore gauzy brown harem pants and oriental slippers with curled-up toes. She was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.
    â€˜Hallo, Nadine,’ said Jim. ‘How’s the fortune telling?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m getting by. Business types mainly, these days, wanting to know when the next crash is coming.’
    â€˜So – this Storyteller – you think this is a message from the spirit world?’
    Nadine came sliding up to Ricky and twined her arm around his waist. ‘He
refuses
to believe me, but what else could it possibly be? All right, he’s not Norman Rockwell, but he’s not that crap at painting faces, are you, bunny-hugs?’
    â€˜It’s the paint,’ Ricky insisted. ‘It’s something to do with the paint, I’m sure of it. When it dries, it loses all of its pigmentation.’
    Nadine blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do, do you? You just don’t want to admit that there are forces in this world that you can’t explain. Jim knows all about them, don’t you, Jim?’
    Jim deliberately didn’t answer that question. ‘What do
you
think this means, then?’ he asked Nadine. ‘This face, always turning out different from the way that Ricky wants to paint it?’
    â€˜I think it’s a long-dead relative, desperately trying to communicate with him through the medium in which he is the most proficient – oil paint.’
    â€˜Oh, yes? Why not through music? Or why not simply
talk
to him?’
    â€˜Because he’s high most of the time, and he would forget. But if the message is in a painting, then he
can’t
forget. He needs to find out who this is, this Storyteller, and when he does, he’ll discover something greatly to his advantage.’
    â€˜Nadine, will you cut that out? I don’t believe any of your fortune-telling garbage!’
    â€˜But you could be rich without knowing it. This man could have left you an untold fortune, bunny-hugs, and then you and I could live in the lap of luxury for the rest of our lives!’
    Ricky turned to Jim and spread his arms wide. ‘Can you believe this drivel? This is what I have to put up with, every day of my life. I leave coffee grounds up the side of my cup, and that means I’m going to sell one of my paintings for a record price. I haven’t sold a