Chapter 10: I've Heard That Song Before    (print this)

IT WASN'T HARD TO FIND Nap Hendryx these days. He had made a stool at the Double Down Saloon his afternoon home, playing video poker for hours and nursing his scotch as if it was in intensive care. Henry knew that Nap had finally thrown in the towel on steady PI work, having been reduced to divorce stuff and heartbreaking missing persons cases—children who would never be found and, worse, ones who would—and now merely did some "security consulting." Which meant whatever scraps his friends could throw his way. Henry hoped he still had enough motivation to do a little digging for an old friend.

Once Henry's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see Nap at the far end of the bar, the grooves in his face deepened by the blue-red glow of the screen below. The Double Down had been an average dive near the airport, until several local artists had been invited to give it some distinction. Now the walls were covered with an ever-changing riot of murals, everything from Hindi elephant gods to elongated Goth girls to skeletons holding aloft martinis. Henry always looked up at the ceiling, painted by a local poet now long gone, its dark green swirls the only part of the bar's artscape that had survived successive re-inventions. It struck him as soothing, no doubt meant to be seen from the angle of someone about to pass out.

While the Double Down was filled with college kids, punks and bohemian types at night, its daytime crowd of barflies had taken the changes in stride. After all, no one had dared to violate the shuffling faces of kings, queens and jacks. Henry slid into the empty stool next to Nap without saying a word, merely watching him as his fingers worked across the hold and draw buttons.

"Hello Henry," said Nap without looking up.

"Amazing how you can do that, Nap."

"Peripheral vision. Mine is honed to a high degree. Haven't lost it yet." Nap glanced up now and smiled. His hair had turned pure white, but he still had the soft-but-tough good looks of a Robert Mitchum-type.

"What can I get you?" asked the bartender.

"Stoli tonic," said Henry. He looked over at Nap's face, its oddly serene expression. Once, Henry escorted a visiting artist at the university to some function at Mandalay Bay. Henry recalled her bewildered, disdainful expression as she watched row upon row of video poker players, each with the same zombie like expression. "What do people see in it?" she had asked.
"Do they really think they'll win?"

"That's beside the point," Henry had said. "These are the sort of people who, if they lived anywhere else, would watch television every evening, or drink steadily till last call. They do it for the calming effect it has, the narcotic aspect. Playing, watching the hands, making the automatic, split-second decision to hold or throw away: it's simply soothing, taking their minds away from whatever they don't care to think about. And, unlike television, they might just walk away with a thousand dollars."

The bartender brought his drink. "So what can I do for you, Henry?" asked Nap. "Unless you just decided to start drinking before five and thought this was the place to begin." He said all this without missing a beat, his hands and eyes reading, holding, and drawing, the cards flowing from the hands of an invisible dealer.

"I've been drinking before five for a while now," said Henry. "But I do in fact need your professional expertise."

Nap snorted. "Such as it is," he replied. "Please tell me it has nothing to do with a woman."

"I'm afraid it does, but not in the way you're thinking." Henry proceeded to tell Nap everything that had happened: The cloak and dagger visit from Don Ix's flunky, Madison Monroe, and his odd proposal, the enigmatic stories behind Maude S—'s work, Henry's meeting with her, the feeling he was being watched.

When he was finished, Henry downed the last of his drink and studied Nap's face, unchanged throughout the tale. Nap continued in his silent video poker mantra, and Henry wasn't sure if he was mulling over the story or mulling over his dwindling credits.

"Well, it's fairly obvious," he said at last. "This Don Ix character approached the artist about her works and she turned him down for some reason. Now he's trying to get you hooked on her work, so you'll eventually buy the works for him. He wants you to be the beard."

Henry shook his head. "These works apparently aren't for sale at any price. They're Maude's private collection. Many artists have works that are too personal or important to them to let go of. Even if I eventually see the works, they still won't be for sale."

Nap shrugged. "Well, maybe he is just a rich weirdo, and he wants to know what they look like because Maude wouldn't show him. Rich people are used to getting their way, and they'll go to great lengths sometimes to get what they want when someone says no."

Henry thought for a moment. "That's what I thought as well. But… well, I can't explain it, Nap, but there's something more to all this."

Nap laughed. "Please don't tell me you have a hunch."

"No, just a feeling. But a very strong feeling, a feeling that something's not quite right. I need to know more about this Don Ix. And about Madison Monroe."

"What about Maude S—? She seems more cloak and dagger than anything else."

Henry paused. "I think Maude S— is less mysterious than she seems. Besides, I know artists. I think I can uncover what I need to know there. Rich weirdoes with creepy assistants are more your territory."

Nap sighed. "It's all random, all chance." Henry was unsure if he was talking to him or to the screen below. "Ever see Night Moves?"

"Gene Hackman, private investigator," said Henry. "A sunlit film noir."

"That great scene at the end," said Nap. "Hackman's shot, lying on the floor of a boat going around in circles, still doesn't understand what happened or how." Naps fingers punched the hold buttons, capturing three aces. "That's private investigation in a nutshell. You construct a narrative for your client, and maybe it's what they want to hear or maybe not, but you never really know yourself. You don't tell them everything, because there's too much that doesn't connect, too much uncertainty. You tell them the puzzle is solved, but the puzzle is huge, unbelievably huge, every time. It's too much, too many little details that don't fit. But you make them fit, because that's what you're paid to do. Even if it makes you feel like a fraud."

Henry looked over at Nap, startled. Even if it makes you feel like a fraud.

"That's part of the reason I went into Security," Nap continued.

"Of course, I can make it worth your while," said Henry.

Nap smiled. "Don't worry about it. For you, I'll do it. If not for you, than to Jack's memory."

Henry smiled, and lifted his empty glass. "To Jack Samson."

Nap lifted his beer. "To our friend Jack Samson." He took a swig. "The dumb bastard."

Henry laughed. Nap wiped his mouth and took out a cigarette. "I'll see what I can dig up on Don Ix. Probably made everything he owns on drug money, so it shouldn't be hard."

"Thank you, Napoleon," said Henry. "Call me when you have something."

Henry stepped out of the Double Down, blinking at the mid-afternoon sun. His eye began to twitch again. Good grief, he thought, perhaps I need to see a doctor instead of a PI. He moved toward his car when suddenly a thin man in a tracksuit stepped next to him. The next thing he felt was something jabbing him in the ribs.

"Let's go, Mr. Bethel. No scene."

Henry looked down to see the barrel of a .45 in his side.

"Can this week be any more ridiculous?" sighed Henry, as the man grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the dark, waiting maw of an opened door on a long, black limousine.