[FIC] [Round 22] Yuri Noir, Private Eye, R
Author/Artist: seamusog
Characters/Pairings: Yuuri, Wolfram, Anissina, OC, (later Ryan/KG)
Word Count: 3115
Rating: R
Any Warnings: Language, AU
Theme/Prompt being used: Quote Prompt - "I didn't know the baths could hold that many people."
A/N: Quote is from A Prairie Home Companion. This will be multi-chaptered. The views and opinions of the narrator may not necessarily be the views and opinions of the author.
“A dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets. But on the 12th floor of the Acme building, one man is trying to find the answers to life's persistent questions...”
Yuri Noir, Private Eye
chapter 1
It was May in Minnesota and it had been raining like crazy all week as if the city was holding a convention for shamans specializing in rain dances. I felt as dreary and miserable as the weather and it didn't help that my favorite deli was closed because the owner thought it would be a good idea to take off for sunny Las Vegas and see if he could win the Megabucks Jackpot. Perhaps, I should have gone with him. He had a higher chance of winning 35 million dollars than me finding a good BLT sandwich in the neighborhood.
I stirred my cup-o'-noodles without enthusiasm as I scanned the want ads. This was my punishment for using up all my spare cash to get tickets to the Boston Red Sox vs. Minnesota Twins game. I only hoped it wouldn't get cancelled due to the rain.
The phone rang and I let the answering machine pick it up. I didn't need crank calls from bill collectors this late in the evening. I heard the familiar tune As Time Goes By and my best Bogart impersonation say, “Of all the phones in all the towns in all the world, you call into mine”, followed by a beep and the sound of my mother's sunny voice. The sound sent a chill down my spine. Not that her voice was particularly horrifying. She has a strange accent, a mix of Japanese and Boston. Her R's never know what to do with themselves. But it was not the accent that scared me. It was the content of her words. I stopped listening after the third high-pitched Yuu-chan and the first mention of “lifestyle”. The way she said that word, one could almost hear the quotes flanking it.
There was a sharp, imperious knock at the door. For a moment, I thought it was the Mormon missionary, Conrad, who had been trying to seriously discuss the Bible with me every Friday evening for the past two months. I put up with his lectures on Matthew 7, verses 1-6 because he always brought pizza. And he put up with my offers of coffee and whiskey because he thought he was on the threshold of saving my soul. But hearing the haughty sound made me think otherwise. Elder Conrad's knocks were gentle, humble and proper. They gave me the impression that Mormons took classes on the appropriate way to rap one's knuckles on doors. If they didn't, perhaps I should offer them. After all, knocking and doorbell ringing were the first things they had to do when they went out into the big wide world. That and bicycling. I wondered how much I should charge for such classes.
The impatient knock got louder (this person definitely didn't take classes on the manners of knocking); the noise pulled me out of my reverie. But before I could say, “Come in”, the door was thrown wide open.
He was tall and long-legged and his blond hair framed his face the way gold sets off the beauty of diamonds on extravagantly expensive engagement rings given to women who follow “The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right”. His eyes were a brilliant green that would compel Hollywood producers to make several returns to Oz. He wore a black turtleneck and jeans so tight that I could count how many barrels were in his gun. When he moved, he seemed to be conducting a heavenly orchestra and I heard an aria in the background. He was prettier than any woman I had ever met. And I had met plenty of pretty women.
Despite what my college roommate tells my mom, I am not gay. I enjoy fine women the way other men enjoy fine wine. If there was a Woman of the Month Club, I would purchase several subscriptions.
His presence was arousing inappropriate desires that were making me uncomfortable. I felt like a pimply teenager behind the gym trying to sneak a kiss from the girl who played tuba in the school band, and who wore black tortoise shell eyeglasses and braces complete with brightly colored elastics. Images of him and I playing in band camp popped in my head. Thankfully, they disappeared quickly as soon as he opened his mouth.
“You... you male secretary,” he said condescendingly, “where is your boss, this supposedly talented investigator, Mr. Noir.”
I put down my chopsticks which I realized were halfway to my open mouth. I leaned back on my desk chair being careful not to lean back too far and end up tumbling down on the floor. “What can I do for you Mr... ah?”
“Von Bielefeld,” he replied as he looked down his beautifully perfect nose. “Don't tell me you're Mr. Noir. You look too wimpy to be a private investigator.”
I ignored the 'wimpy' comment. I was too hungry to be debating semantics with a potential client. “Well, Mr. von Bielefeld, is there a job you needed me to do?”
“I suppose you'll have to do,” he sighed the sighs of tragic heroes, the Greek ones who sleep with their mothers, “I don't have time to look for another detective.”
“Have a seat,” I said as I straightened my chair and put aside my instant noodles.
He looked at the chair with suspicion as if it was some shyster trying to sell him fake designer watches at Manhattan's Central Park. He tossed his cute little nose in the air and said haughtily, “I think I'll stand.”
He didn't just stand, he walked back and forth wearing a hole in the shoddy carpet with the regularity of a crazy Bavarian figurine in a cuckoo clock. The kinds that looked like Swiss chalets and had Edelweiss playing at each hour. Each time he reached a wall, he would eye the peeling paint with the criticality of an old Georgian spinster then he would snort in disgust and turn around to proceed to the other wall. I watched this with extreme fascination and almost forgot to listen to what he was saying.
“If you haven't guessed,” he said, “since you're a third rate wimpy gumshoe, I assume you haven't, I am Wolfram von Bielefeld the famous painter.”
He was right, I hadn't guessed. But I wasn't about to agree with the blond man who was obviously very much in love with himself. The only painters I knew were dead and were part of the curriculum of the required Art History class I took as a freshman in college. Artists were not the kind of people that ordinary middle-class citizens living in the Midwest like me understood. They were as alien as New Yorkers, Canadians and Trekkies dressed up as Klingons at the recent Star Trek convention in Minneapolis.
“Someone or several someones have been copying my technique and passing their paintings off as mine. Selling them in dirty stalls at vulgar flea markets. How dare they malign my name with their third-rate knock-offs. I need to find out who these wretched fools are. I have an exhibit that opens tomorrow at the Art Institute and it's embarrassing to have these criminals bandy the name von Bielefeld like it was some cheap perfume on a whore.
“I want you,” he stopped in front of my desk and pointed a manicured finger at my nose, “Mr. Noir, to go find these hoodlums so I can beat their wimpy asses from here to kingdom come.”
Looking at the gorgeous creature that was as delicate as a flower after a summer's rain, I doubted that Mr. Wolfram von Bielefeld would be doing any butt-whipping any time soon, whether or not I found the crooks he was looking for. A rose by any other name would not be so violent. He slammed his palms loudly on my desk and I got a sudden mental picture of a whole bouquet of roses with very sharp thorns whipping some harmless painters' naked buttcheeks painfully.
“Are you listening to me Noir?!!”
I almost jumped to my feet and saluted him. Thankfully, my shoelace got caught on something and I sat painfully back down before my bottom got more than a few inches above my old leather chair.
“Well, Mr. von Bielefeld, your case is interesting,” I said vaguely, “I assume you've already reported this to the fuzz.”
“You assume right,” he replied as he turned around, crossed his arms and leaned his pert behind on my desk. “But you know as well as I that it would be a cold day in hell before they get those damned assholes.”
“Your case interests me,” I said honestly. Yes, I was definitely interested. Interested in earning some dough that did not involve selling potatoes in a fast food restaurant or entering numbers in databases using ten-key. “Though I'm going to need more information from you. Plus, the short time to solve it...”
“I'll pay you however much you want if you find those bastards for me. And I want you to start now.”
“I am planning to start right away. In fact, let's go.”
“Go where?”
“To the Art Institute. I'll need to see what your paintings look like.”
I grabbed my raincoat, my umbrella and my hat and ushered the Greek god out of my office. We arrived at the Institute after a short taxicab ride with a driver named Sundeep who spoke with a very thick Indian accent and recommended that we eat at Tandoori Chicken Wings and Things. At least that's what he told my client. I knew better than to take restaurant recommendations from this joker. His real name was Stan and he was born and raised in the Buckeye State and, like most Ohioans, couldn't stand any spice more exotic than lemon pepper.
Mr. von Bielefeld got out of the taxi without paying and I was about to call him back when Stan stopped me.
“Hey, Noir, don't worry, he hired me for several days,” he said dropping the fake accent. He nodded towards the blond whose shapely legs was taking him towards the guard at the entrance, “Cute, isn't he?”
“I'm not gay.”
“Sure, you aren't,” said Stan. “By the way, there is this study for airplane seats, it'll take a couple of hours and pays two hundred bucks.”
Stan gives me tips on studies at the Browser Research where they pay you for your opinions on new products. I've got plenty of opinions and they've got plenty of cash. It would be a perfect relationship if they didn't continually want me to either have two kids and a dog, be a recovering alcoholic or be a woman who regularly suffers from PMS.
“When?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“That's the Red Sox game, you know I'm going to that.”
“Like they're going to win. You know they're going to get their asses handed to them by the Twins. I'll bet you one hundred bucks they won't even score.”
I'm a die-hard Boston Red Sox fan and he's a die-hard Cleveland Indians fan, but he's the type of person that would root for your team's opponent just to piss you off. But before I could retort back, there was a loud projected 'ahem, wimp' coming from the entrance of the Institute. It hit my back like an angry missile with a targeting system locked on to me, it left me flailing with apologies and left Stan unharmed and smiling a big goofy grin.
After a few more pointed remarks sharp enough to punch holes through the thickest bullet-proof vest, we arrived at the entrance of von Bielefeld's exhibit. I stared at the first painting and thought someone mistakenly stuck a kindergartner's fingerpainting here. Surely, the talented ultra-famous von Bielefeld didn't paint this.
I gave a low harrumph and murmured under my breath incoherently hoping it would be taken as positive. This was a habit I learned at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School when I haven't done my homework and the teacher called on me; I would mutter as many words as I could and hope one of them was the correct answer. My client, meanwhile, stood like a peacock in full bloom as he watched me look at the paintings. I walked along the wall with my hands behind my back and imitated what I thought art critics do. What did they do anyway other than string incomprehensible words together and hope it was the right answer? So I strolled and I'd stop at a painting, looked at all the brown and red and blue and green and orange blobs. Then I'd stroke my chin and nod, sometimes I'd get creative and frown a little. If someone would have offered me a million bucks to identify the subject of any of the paintings, I would have had to weep. A million years would not be enough time for me to try and guess what those pictures were.
When I got to the end of the first wall, I was accosted by the sight of the largest canvas of them all. It sat by itself in all its ugly glory holding court for the lesser paintings. It announced itself as 'Masterpiece' just as surely as if it had a big flashing neon sign.
I stole a look at my client who was standing somewhat behind me. He had the biggest Cheshire grin on his face. I looked at the tag, it said 'Bloodbath'.
Curious I hazarded a comment, “This is an interesting forest.”
“Forest?” he gave me a thousand-volt frown, “You are such a plebe, wimp.” It was becoming apparent that this was either a favorite word of his or this was my new nickname. “Are you familiar with the battle of Thermopylae?”
I nodded. What red-blooded straight American male would not know? Admitting you've never seen the movie 300 would be admitting you've enjoyed watching Brokeback Mountain. You might as well turn in your heterosexual membership card.
“This is the battle of Thermopylae?”
“No, you idiot. Do you see the opposing army?”
“No...” Frankly, I couldn't identify anything except vicious reds, oranges and a bunch of short white lines. If I squinted, it reminded me of this one time when I was a kid and we went Candlepin bowling and they dimmed the lights and had disco music and a laser show. But I doubted the Spartans had invented disco bowling by that time much less Candlepin bowling which as far as I knew was only played in New England. Then again, perhaps it was artistic license.
The artist in question languidly rolled his eye in annoyance and I felt a touch warmer and my heart started beating faster the way it does when my sixth sense feels treachery in the vicinity. I looked around for danger, any lurking presence that might want to steal these... geez, who in their right mind would want to steal these? I relaxed again.
“This is a scene before the battle where they enjoyed a ritualistic bath to purge themselves of all worldly worries so that in the end there is only themselves and the battle,” he explained proudly.
“All three hundred?”
“Yes.”
“All together?”
“Yes. It signifies that their individualities have been washed away and they have become one in their goal to defeat the Persians.”
“All three hundred.”
“You already said that,” he replied with annoyance.
“In one bath.”
The sound of a chihuahua being strangled drifted to my ears and it took me a second to realize that there were no Taco Bell mascots in the gallery and the sound was coming from Mr. von Bielefeld's throat.
“I didn't know the baths could hold that many people.”
He shook his fist at me with great agitation. But before he could do anything more than wave it uselessly in the air, a loud voice reverberated in the empty gallery.
“Volfram.” The accent was as German as Oktoberfest and the deep, booming quality reminded me of thick heavy-set nannies named Helga. Both the ill-tempered artist and I turned to greet the owner of this sonorous voice.
She was tall and slim with legs so long it would put departments store mannequins' to shame. Her hair was an unnatural carnival color of fuchsia and was gathered in a high ponytail streaming down her back like a cheerful waterfall from Willy Wonka's factory. She had tight jeans and a tight black top that displayed breasts bouncier than any inflatable in a six-year old's birthday party.
She swept in the room like a six-foot tidal wave and attached herself to the blond painter like a barnacle.
“Vhat are you doing here this late?” she asked.
“I am showing Mr. Noir my paintings. He's the detective I hired.”
Her eyes raked me from my worn leather shoes to my worn leather fedora. “Oh,” she uttered in a tone that told me there was no way in hell that I would ever have a chance of sleeping with her.
“Mr. Noir, this is Anissina Karbelnikoff.”
“Hello,” I greeted, “Miss Karbelnikoff, nice to meet you?”
She released Mr. von Bielefeld, grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically with the strength of ten healthy heavy-set nannies named Helga. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Noir. I have heard so much about you.”
“She's my --”
“I'm the manager and girlfriend.”
“A two for one?” I blurted.
“They're separate posts,” she replied coldly. She stared at me with the clinical stare of an entomologist. I started sweating bullets under the glare of the lights and the glare of that gaze. If I had been holding any secrets from Nazi interrogators, I would have happily spilled them.
“Vell... if you are going to get familiarized with Volfram's paintings,” she said as she grabbed my elbow and maneuvered me to the closest canvas. “I might as vell educate you.”
And she did for three interminable hours. My ears bled from all the unwanted lectures about recent art movements, lines, composition, chromatography, the history of the color magenta and the fact that the Blue Jays who had a 15-13 record were much better than the Red Sox who were 18-9. In the end I learned nothing except that Mr. von Bielefeld painted no worse than a six-year old and no better either and the three slashes at the bottom of each painting was a W for Volfram... I mean Wolfram.
Oh and that Miss Karbelnikoff was in fact Canadian.
to be continued...
Characters/Pairings: Yuuri, Wolfram, Anissina, OC, (later Ryan/KG)
Word Count: 3115
Rating: R
Any Warnings: Language, AU
Theme/Prompt being used: Quote Prompt - "I didn't know the baths could hold that many people."
A/N: Quote is from A Prairie Home Companion. This will be multi-chaptered. The views and opinions of the narrator may not necessarily be the views and opinions of the author.
“A dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets. But on the 12th floor of the Acme building, one man is trying to find the answers to life's persistent questions...”
Yuri Noir, Private Eye
chapter 1
It was May in Minnesota and it had been raining like crazy all week as if the city was holding a convention for shamans specializing in rain dances. I felt as dreary and miserable as the weather and it didn't help that my favorite deli was closed because the owner thought it would be a good idea to take off for sunny Las Vegas and see if he could win the Megabucks Jackpot. Perhaps, I should have gone with him. He had a higher chance of winning 35 million dollars than me finding a good BLT sandwich in the neighborhood.
I stirred my cup-o'-noodles without enthusiasm as I scanned the want ads. This was my punishment for using up all my spare cash to get tickets to the Boston Red Sox vs. Minnesota Twins game. I only hoped it wouldn't get cancelled due to the rain.
The phone rang and I let the answering machine pick it up. I didn't need crank calls from bill collectors this late in the evening. I heard the familiar tune As Time Goes By and my best Bogart impersonation say, “Of all the phones in all the towns in all the world, you call into mine”, followed by a beep and the sound of my mother's sunny voice. The sound sent a chill down my spine. Not that her voice was particularly horrifying. She has a strange accent, a mix of Japanese and Boston. Her R's never know what to do with themselves. But it was not the accent that scared me. It was the content of her words. I stopped listening after the third high-pitched Yuu-chan and the first mention of “lifestyle”. The way she said that word, one could almost hear the quotes flanking it.
There was a sharp, imperious knock at the door. For a moment, I thought it was the Mormon missionary, Conrad, who had been trying to seriously discuss the Bible with me every Friday evening for the past two months. I put up with his lectures on Matthew 7, verses 1-6 because he always brought pizza. And he put up with my offers of coffee and whiskey because he thought he was on the threshold of saving my soul. But hearing the haughty sound made me think otherwise. Elder Conrad's knocks were gentle, humble and proper. They gave me the impression that Mormons took classes on the appropriate way to rap one's knuckles on doors. If they didn't, perhaps I should offer them. After all, knocking and doorbell ringing were the first things they had to do when they went out into the big wide world. That and bicycling. I wondered how much I should charge for such classes.
The impatient knock got louder (this person definitely didn't take classes on the manners of knocking); the noise pulled me out of my reverie. But before I could say, “Come in”, the door was thrown wide open.
He was tall and long-legged and his blond hair framed his face the way gold sets off the beauty of diamonds on extravagantly expensive engagement rings given to women who follow “The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right”. His eyes were a brilliant green that would compel Hollywood producers to make several returns to Oz. He wore a black turtleneck and jeans so tight that I could count how many barrels were in his gun. When he moved, he seemed to be conducting a heavenly orchestra and I heard an aria in the background. He was prettier than any woman I had ever met. And I had met plenty of pretty women.
Despite what my college roommate tells my mom, I am not gay. I enjoy fine women the way other men enjoy fine wine. If there was a Woman of the Month Club, I would purchase several subscriptions.
His presence was arousing inappropriate desires that were making me uncomfortable. I felt like a pimply teenager behind the gym trying to sneak a kiss from the girl who played tuba in the school band, and who wore black tortoise shell eyeglasses and braces complete with brightly colored elastics. Images of him and I playing in band camp popped in my head. Thankfully, they disappeared quickly as soon as he opened his mouth.
“You... you male secretary,” he said condescendingly, “where is your boss, this supposedly talented investigator, Mr. Noir.”
I put down my chopsticks which I realized were halfway to my open mouth. I leaned back on my desk chair being careful not to lean back too far and end up tumbling down on the floor. “What can I do for you Mr... ah?”
“Von Bielefeld,” he replied as he looked down his beautifully perfect nose. “Don't tell me you're Mr. Noir. You look too wimpy to be a private investigator.”
I ignored the 'wimpy' comment. I was too hungry to be debating semantics with a potential client. “Well, Mr. von Bielefeld, is there a job you needed me to do?”
“I suppose you'll have to do,” he sighed the sighs of tragic heroes, the Greek ones who sleep with their mothers, “I don't have time to look for another detective.”
“Have a seat,” I said as I straightened my chair and put aside my instant noodles.
He looked at the chair with suspicion as if it was some shyster trying to sell him fake designer watches at Manhattan's Central Park. He tossed his cute little nose in the air and said haughtily, “I think I'll stand.”
He didn't just stand, he walked back and forth wearing a hole in the shoddy carpet with the regularity of a crazy Bavarian figurine in a cuckoo clock. The kinds that looked like Swiss chalets and had Edelweiss playing at each hour. Each time he reached a wall, he would eye the peeling paint with the criticality of an old Georgian spinster then he would snort in disgust and turn around to proceed to the other wall. I watched this with extreme fascination and almost forgot to listen to what he was saying.
“If you haven't guessed,” he said, “since you're a third rate wimpy gumshoe, I assume you haven't, I am Wolfram von Bielefeld the famous painter.”
He was right, I hadn't guessed. But I wasn't about to agree with the blond man who was obviously very much in love with himself. The only painters I knew were dead and were part of the curriculum of the required Art History class I took as a freshman in college. Artists were not the kind of people that ordinary middle-class citizens living in the Midwest like me understood. They were as alien as New Yorkers, Canadians and Trekkies dressed up as Klingons at the recent Star Trek convention in Minneapolis.
“Someone or several someones have been copying my technique and passing their paintings off as mine. Selling them in dirty stalls at vulgar flea markets. How dare they malign my name with their third-rate knock-offs. I need to find out who these wretched fools are. I have an exhibit that opens tomorrow at the Art Institute and it's embarrassing to have these criminals bandy the name von Bielefeld like it was some cheap perfume on a whore.
“I want you,” he stopped in front of my desk and pointed a manicured finger at my nose, “Mr. Noir, to go find these hoodlums so I can beat their wimpy asses from here to kingdom come.”
Looking at the gorgeous creature that was as delicate as a flower after a summer's rain, I doubted that Mr. Wolfram von Bielefeld would be doing any butt-whipping any time soon, whether or not I found the crooks he was looking for. A rose by any other name would not be so violent. He slammed his palms loudly on my desk and I got a sudden mental picture of a whole bouquet of roses with very sharp thorns whipping some harmless painters' naked buttcheeks painfully.
“Are you listening to me Noir?!!”
I almost jumped to my feet and saluted him. Thankfully, my shoelace got caught on something and I sat painfully back down before my bottom got more than a few inches above my old leather chair.
“Well, Mr. von Bielefeld, your case is interesting,” I said vaguely, “I assume you've already reported this to the fuzz.”
“You assume right,” he replied as he turned around, crossed his arms and leaned his pert behind on my desk. “But you know as well as I that it would be a cold day in hell before they get those damned assholes.”
“Your case interests me,” I said honestly. Yes, I was definitely interested. Interested in earning some dough that did not involve selling potatoes in a fast food restaurant or entering numbers in databases using ten-key. “Though I'm going to need more information from you. Plus, the short time to solve it...”
“I'll pay you however much you want if you find those bastards for me. And I want you to start now.”
“I am planning to start right away. In fact, let's go.”
“Go where?”
“To the Art Institute. I'll need to see what your paintings look like.”
I grabbed my raincoat, my umbrella and my hat and ushered the Greek god out of my office. We arrived at the Institute after a short taxicab ride with a driver named Sundeep who spoke with a very thick Indian accent and recommended that we eat at Tandoori Chicken Wings and Things. At least that's what he told my client. I knew better than to take restaurant recommendations from this joker. His real name was Stan and he was born and raised in the Buckeye State and, like most Ohioans, couldn't stand any spice more exotic than lemon pepper.
Mr. von Bielefeld got out of the taxi without paying and I was about to call him back when Stan stopped me.
“Hey, Noir, don't worry, he hired me for several days,” he said dropping the fake accent. He nodded towards the blond whose shapely legs was taking him towards the guard at the entrance, “Cute, isn't he?”
“I'm not gay.”
“Sure, you aren't,” said Stan. “By the way, there is this study for airplane seats, it'll take a couple of hours and pays two hundred bucks.”
Stan gives me tips on studies at the Browser Research where they pay you for your opinions on new products. I've got plenty of opinions and they've got plenty of cash. It would be a perfect relationship if they didn't continually want me to either have two kids and a dog, be a recovering alcoholic or be a woman who regularly suffers from PMS.
“When?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“That's the Red Sox game, you know I'm going to that.”
“Like they're going to win. You know they're going to get their asses handed to them by the Twins. I'll bet you one hundred bucks they won't even score.”
I'm a die-hard Boston Red Sox fan and he's a die-hard Cleveland Indians fan, but he's the type of person that would root for your team's opponent just to piss you off. But before I could retort back, there was a loud projected 'ahem, wimp' coming from the entrance of the Institute. It hit my back like an angry missile with a targeting system locked on to me, it left me flailing with apologies and left Stan unharmed and smiling a big goofy grin.
After a few more pointed remarks sharp enough to punch holes through the thickest bullet-proof vest, we arrived at the entrance of von Bielefeld's exhibit. I stared at the first painting and thought someone mistakenly stuck a kindergartner's fingerpainting here. Surely, the talented ultra-famous von Bielefeld didn't paint this.
I gave a low harrumph and murmured under my breath incoherently hoping it would be taken as positive. This was a habit I learned at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School when I haven't done my homework and the teacher called on me; I would mutter as many words as I could and hope one of them was the correct answer. My client, meanwhile, stood like a peacock in full bloom as he watched me look at the paintings. I walked along the wall with my hands behind my back and imitated what I thought art critics do. What did they do anyway other than string incomprehensible words together and hope it was the right answer? So I strolled and I'd stop at a painting, looked at all the brown and red and blue and green and orange blobs. Then I'd stroke my chin and nod, sometimes I'd get creative and frown a little. If someone would have offered me a million bucks to identify the subject of any of the paintings, I would have had to weep. A million years would not be enough time for me to try and guess what those pictures were.
When I got to the end of the first wall, I was accosted by the sight of the largest canvas of them all. It sat by itself in all its ugly glory holding court for the lesser paintings. It announced itself as 'Masterpiece' just as surely as if it had a big flashing neon sign.
I stole a look at my client who was standing somewhat behind me. He had the biggest Cheshire grin on his face. I looked at the tag, it said 'Bloodbath'.
Curious I hazarded a comment, “This is an interesting forest.”
“Forest?” he gave me a thousand-volt frown, “You are such a plebe, wimp.” It was becoming apparent that this was either a favorite word of his or this was my new nickname. “Are you familiar with the battle of Thermopylae?”
I nodded. What red-blooded straight American male would not know? Admitting you've never seen the movie 300 would be admitting you've enjoyed watching Brokeback Mountain. You might as well turn in your heterosexual membership card.
“This is the battle of Thermopylae?”
“No, you idiot. Do you see the opposing army?”
“No...” Frankly, I couldn't identify anything except vicious reds, oranges and a bunch of short white lines. If I squinted, it reminded me of this one time when I was a kid and we went Candlepin bowling and they dimmed the lights and had disco music and a laser show. But I doubted the Spartans had invented disco bowling by that time much less Candlepin bowling which as far as I knew was only played in New England. Then again, perhaps it was artistic license.
The artist in question languidly rolled his eye in annoyance and I felt a touch warmer and my heart started beating faster the way it does when my sixth sense feels treachery in the vicinity. I looked around for danger, any lurking presence that might want to steal these... geez, who in their right mind would want to steal these? I relaxed again.
“This is a scene before the battle where they enjoyed a ritualistic bath to purge themselves of all worldly worries so that in the end there is only themselves and the battle,” he explained proudly.
“All three hundred?”
“Yes.”
“All together?”
“Yes. It signifies that their individualities have been washed away and they have become one in their goal to defeat the Persians.”
“All three hundred.”
“You already said that,” he replied with annoyance.
“In one bath.”
The sound of a chihuahua being strangled drifted to my ears and it took me a second to realize that there were no Taco Bell mascots in the gallery and the sound was coming from Mr. von Bielefeld's throat.
“I didn't know the baths could hold that many people.”
He shook his fist at me with great agitation. But before he could do anything more than wave it uselessly in the air, a loud voice reverberated in the empty gallery.
“Volfram.” The accent was as German as Oktoberfest and the deep, booming quality reminded me of thick heavy-set nannies named Helga. Both the ill-tempered artist and I turned to greet the owner of this sonorous voice.
She was tall and slim with legs so long it would put departments store mannequins' to shame. Her hair was an unnatural carnival color of fuchsia and was gathered in a high ponytail streaming down her back like a cheerful waterfall from Willy Wonka's factory. She had tight jeans and a tight black top that displayed breasts bouncier than any inflatable in a six-year old's birthday party.
She swept in the room like a six-foot tidal wave and attached herself to the blond painter like a barnacle.
“Vhat are you doing here this late?” she asked.
“I am showing Mr. Noir my paintings. He's the detective I hired.”
Her eyes raked me from my worn leather shoes to my worn leather fedora. “Oh,” she uttered in a tone that told me there was no way in hell that I would ever have a chance of sleeping with her.
“Mr. Noir, this is Anissina Karbelnikoff.”
“Hello,” I greeted, “Miss Karbelnikoff, nice to meet you?”
She released Mr. von Bielefeld, grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically with the strength of ten healthy heavy-set nannies named Helga. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Noir. I have heard so much about you.”
“She's my --”
“I'm the manager and girlfriend.”
“A two for one?” I blurted.
“They're separate posts,” she replied coldly. She stared at me with the clinical stare of an entomologist. I started sweating bullets under the glare of the lights and the glare of that gaze. If I had been holding any secrets from Nazi interrogators, I would have happily spilled them.
“Vell... if you are going to get familiarized with Volfram's paintings,” she said as she grabbed my elbow and maneuvered me to the closest canvas. “I might as vell educate you.”
And she did for three interminable hours. My ears bled from all the unwanted lectures about recent art movements, lines, composition, chromatography, the history of the color magenta and the fact that the Blue Jays who had a 15-13 record were much better than the Red Sox who were 18-9. In the end I learned nothing except that Mr. von Bielefeld painted no worse than a six-year old and no better either and the three slashes at the bottom of each painting was a W for Volfram... I mean Wolfram.
Oh and that Miss Karbelnikoff was in fact Canadian.
to be continued...