I Will Fear No Evil

  “I can’t.”

  “Joe won’t drink. Oh, we keep beer for friends, when we can, but Joe never drinks it. He won’t touch pot. He won’t join a Circle if it calls for a high. You know how it is with drugs—all of them against the law but as easy to buy as chewing gum. I could show you three connections in this one complex where you can buy you-name-it. But Joe won’t touch any of it.” Gigi looked sheepish. “I thought he was some kind of a freak. Oh, I was never hooked but I couldn’t see any harm in an occasional trip with friends.

  “Then I shacked with him and he was broke and I was, too, and groceries were our only luxury and—well, I haven’t touched anything since he married me. And don’t want to; I feel grand. New woman.”

  “You certainly look happy and healthy. Uh, this ‘Big Sam,’ did he have a habit?”

  “Not a habit. But Sam would eat, drink, or smoke anything somebody else paid for. Oh, he didn’t mainline—doesn’t fit the image for a guru and needle marks show—and he was proud of his body.”

  “What did you do before you were his chela?”

  “His meal ticket, you mean. Same thing—model and whore. What else is there to do? Babysat. Served drinks in my skin for a while but they let me go when they found a girl who could write—discrimination and I could have fought it as I never got my orders mixed up; my memory is better than people who have to write things down. But, hell, no use trying to hang on when they don’t want you. Joan, you said you’d been giving money away all your life.”

  “I exaggerated, Gigi. Never had much until after World War Two. I just meant I wasn’t stingy even as a kid, when every nickel came the hard way.”

  “‘Nickel’?”

  “A five-cent piece. They used to be minted from a nickel alloy and were called that. Dimes and even dollars used to be silver. We actually had gold money when I was a kid. Then during the Great Depression I was flat broke for about six months—and other people helped me—and then later I helped some, sometimes the same people. But giving money away on a large scale I didn’t start until I had more money than I could spend or wanted to invest, and the tax laws at that time fixed it so that you could do more giving it away than by keeping it.”

  “Seems a funny way to run things. But of course I’ve never paid taxes.”

  “You just think you haven’t. You started the day you were born. We may eliminate death someday but I doubt if we’ll ever eliminate taxes.”

  “Well… I won’t argue it, Joan, you must know more about it than I do. How much money have you given away?”

  “Oh, it didn’t amount to more than a few thousand until after War Two and most of that was loans I knew I would never collect. Kept records for years—then one day I burned the record book and felt easier. Since then—I’d have to consult my accountant. Several millions.”

  “Several millions! Dollars?”

  “Look, cuddly, don’t be impressed. After a certain point money isn’t money, it’s just bookkeeping figures or magnetized dots in a computer.”

  “I wasn’t exactly impressed. Confused. Joan, I don’t have any feeling of any sort for that much money. A hundred dollars I understand. Even a thousand. But that much is like the National Debt; it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Nor does it to me, Gigi; it’s like a chess game—a game played just for itself, and one I’m tired of. Look, you wouldn’t let me buy groceries even though I am helping to eat them. Would you accept a million dollars from me?”

  “Uh…no! It would scare me.”

  “That’s an even wiser decision than the one you made before breakfast. But page Diogenes!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Greek philosopher who went around searching for an honest man. Never found him.”

  Gigi looked thoughtful. “I’m not very honest, Joan. But I think I’ve found an honest man. Joe.”

  “I think so, too. But, Gigi, may I say why I think you were smart to say No? Oh, it was a gag, sort of, but if you had said Yes, I would not have welched. But I would hate to do it to you. May I tell you why?—what’s wrong with being rich?”

  “I thought being rich was supposed to be fun.”

  “It’s fun, some ways. When you’re really wealthy—and I am—money is power. I’m not saying that power isn’t worth having. Take me, if I hadn’t had that much raw power, I wouldn’t be here chatting with you; I’d be dead. And I like it here, with your arms around me and Joe painting a picture of us because he thinks we’re beautiful—and we are. But power works both ways; the man—or woman—who has it can’t escape it. Gigi, when you’re rich, you don’t have friends; you just have endless acquaintances.”

  “Ten minutes,” said Joe.

  “Rest time,” said Gigi.

  “Huh? But we’ve been resting.”

  “So get up and stretch, it’ll be a long day. If Joe says we’ve posed fifty minutes, we have; he uses a timer. And have a cup of coffee; I’m going to have one. Coffee, Joe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we look?”

  “No. Lunch break, maybe.”

  “Must be going well, Joan, or Joe wouldn’t even make a guess. Joe, Joan tells me that a rich person can’t have friends.”

  “Hey, waist, I didn’t finish. Gigi, a rich person can have friends. But it has to be someone who isn’t interested in his money. Like you. Like Joe. Even that doesn’t mean he’s a friend. First you have to find him. Then you have to know this about him, which may be—is!—hard to find out. There aren’t many such people; even other rich people aren’t likely to qualify. Then you have to win his friendship…and that’s harder for a rich man than it is for other people. A rich man gets suspicious and puts on a false face to strangers—and that’s no way to win friends. So in general, it’s true—if you’re rich, you don’t have friends. Just acquaintances, kept at arm’s length because you’ve been hurt before.”

  Gigi suddenly turned around from the kitchen unit. “Joan. We’re your friends.”

  “I hope so.” Joan looked soberly from Gigi to her husband. “I felt your love in our Circle. But it won’t be easy, Gigi. Joe looks at me and can’t help remembering Eunice—and you look at me and can’t help wondering what effect it has on Joe.”

  “We don’t! Tell her, Joe.”

  “Gigi’s right,” Joe said gently. “Eunice dead. She wanted you to have what you got. Me—over my gut ache, all done in t’ Circle.” (Boss, do you mind if I get out for a moment and trot around in my bones? A girl likes to be missed a little.) (Eunice, we must not hurt him. It was all we could manage to heal him.) (I know. But the next time he kisses us I’m going to be tempted to speak up and tell him I’m here.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum—and kark on you and Diogenes both. Let’s go home and phone Roberto.) (Sweetheart, we’ll stay here until we’ve cracked the bone and eaten the marrow.) (Okay, okay. That Gigi is as cuddly as Winsome, isn’t she?)

  “Joe, I want us three to be friends and never break our Circle in our hearts. But I’m not going to put too much strain on it. Not fair to you, not fair to Gigi—not even fair to me. Gigi, I wasn’t saying I didn’t have any friends. I do have. You two. A doctor who took care of me and honestly doesn’t give a damn about money. The nurse he is about to marry who is the nearest thing to a sister I’ve ever had. My four driving guards—I’ve tried very hard with those four, Joe, because I knew they were your friends and Eunice’s. But that’s an odd situation; I’m more their baby they take care of than I am either employer or friend. And one, just one, friend left over from the days when I was Johann Smith—rich and powerful and mostly hated.”

  Joe Branca said softly, “Eunice loved you.”

  “I know she did, Joe. God knows why. Except that Eunice had so much love in her that it spilled over onto anyone around her. If I had been a stray kitten, Eunice would have picked me up and loved me.” (More than that, Boss.) (Sweetheart.) “And Joe, you know, or at least have met, my one friend who carried over. Jake Salomon.”

  Joe nodded. “Jake
okay!”

  “You got to know Jake?”

  “Close. Good aura.”

  Gigi said, “Joe, is he the one you told me about? The fixer?”

  “Same.” Joe looked back at Joan Eunice. “Ask Jake. Throne now.”

  “Come on, Joan. He bites if you don’t pose the instant rest period is over.”

  Joe fussed over getting them back into position, then moved both of Joan’s legs and one of Gigi’s into positions somewhat different from the original pose—stepped back and scowled at the change…turned to his easel and started scraping part of the canvas with a palette knife. Gigi said quietly, “Now we won’t get to look at lunch break.”

  “Why not?”

  “God only knows. I’m not sure Joe knows why he makes a change. But something was wrong and now he’s abandoned the cartoon and is working directly from us. So it won’t be far enough along that he’ll be willing to let us look at it that soon. So freeze, darling. Don’t sneeze, don’t get an itch, don’t even breathe deeply.”

  “Not talk?”

  “Talk all we like as long as we don’t move.”

  “I won’t move. Gigi, I was so pleased to learn that Joe and Jake got to know each other well. Did you know Jake, too?”

  “I’ve met him. Just in passing. Me leaving and Mr. Salomon arriving, it was while I was a hired model before I moved out on Big Sam.” (Twin, she’s being vague about this—and Jake has never mentioned laying eyes on Joe after clearing up business matters a long time ago.) (Eunice, what are you getting at? It was probably while Jake was straightening out your bank account, and the lease, and things.) (‘—and things,’ you are so right. Look, Boss, don’t be naïve. They were crying over the same girl—me—and Joe is ambi as an oyster when it suits him.) (Eunice, you have a dirty mind! (Coo! This from ‘No-Pants Smith.’ I know whereof I speak, twin; I lived with Joe for years. Don’t be so darned twentieth century.) (Eunice, of course you know Joe better than I do and I would never criticize Joe no matter what. I meant Jake.) (What makes you think you know Jake better than I do? And take a look at Joe—purty, ain’t he? Jake has eyes. Boss, what are we fussing about? Find out what Gigi knows.)

  “I suppose,” Joan said carefully, “that Jake had to come here on business. Eunice died without a will and I know Jake arranged it so that Joe could draw against her bank account. There may have been insurance to clear up, too; I’m not sure.”

  “Joan, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Jake, as Joe suggested?” (Because Jake will lie about it, Boss. Forget it, men lie about such things, far more than women do. Who cares where a man has lunch as long as he gets home in time for dinner? Not me. You give my ‘dirty mind’ quite enough to keep it busy. But, Boss, you’re a devious little slut—you can’t be truthful even to yourself.) (Wench, if I could get my hands on you, I’d spank you!) (And if you could, I’d let you. Kind o’ fun to be spanked, isn’t it, dear? Gets the action moving like a rocket.) (Oh, stuff it!) (Where, twin? What? And how big is it?)

  “I have no need to ask Jake, Gigi. I know they met through business matters, I know that Jake admires Joe’s integrity. I simply hadn’t realized that Jake thought of Joe as a close friend. If he does.”

  Gigi Branca looked thoughtful. “I couldn’t say. I was working Guild hours then, as Joe was paying me. Mr. Salomon—Jake, you call him—showed up one evening as we were quitting, and Joe introduced him to me as his former wife’s fixer—lawyer, he said; Joe doesn’t use jive when he doesn’t want to. Saw him a couple more times, I think, about the same way. But he hasn’t been here since we got married.” (Double talk, Boss. All it means is that she won’t spill other people’s secrets. Well, that’s nice to know—considering.)

  “No importa. Gigi, how did Joe get his art education? Or is it native genius with no instruction?”

  “Both, Joan. Let me tell it bang as it would take you forever to get it out of Joe. Joe says that all an artist can teach is technique. He says creativity can’t be taught and that each artist has his own sort. If he has any—Joe thinks that most people who call themselves ‘artists’ haven’t any. He calls ’em ‘sign painters’ and adds that he would rather be a good sign painter than a fraud who calls himself an artist.

  “You’ve seen what Joe has. That one of me he did yesterday and others around the studio. You’d see lots more if you prowled the coffee shops and bookstores and art shops at this end of town. Nudes that look better than life—you wouldn’t need to look for his pinxit. Most of them kind o’ square except that they grab. Oh, Joe can do sex pix, I’ve seen him prove it, then scrape off the paint—because I asked him why he didn’t do sex pix since they sell so well. He shrugged and said those weren’t his symbols.

  “Joe knows he’s not Goya or Picasso or Rembrandt or any of the masters—and doesn’t want to be; he just wants to paint his symbols, his way, and sell enough for us to eat. Oh, sometimes I get so mad, knowing that if he would paint just one frimp scene as grabby as he so easily can, it would keep us eating for months. But I’ve given up suggesting it because Joe just shrugs and says, ‘Don’ paint comic books, you know that, Gigi.’ Joe is Joe and doesn’t give a damn what any other artist does or whether his own work makes him famous or a lot of money or anything. He cares so little—well, many of our friends are artists or call themselves artists but Joe isn’t interested in what they paint and won’t talk shop. If they’re good people, warm people, good vibes, Joe likes to go see them or have them here…but Joe wouldn’t waste a floor cushion on Rembrandt if Joe didn’t like the way he behaved. Joe just wants to paint—his way. And not have to sleep alone.”

  Joan said thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose Joe has had to sleep alone very often.”

  “Probably not. But Joe wouldn’t sleep with Helen of Troy if he didn’t like her attitude. You mentioned your Brink’s boys—the two who brought you here, and there are two more, aren’t there? One a big soul? Hugo?”

  “You know Hugo?” Joan asked in delight.

  “Never met him. He sounds like an African myth. I know just two things about him. Joe wants to paint him…and Joe loves him.

  “Spiritual love, I mean—although I’m sure Joe would sack in with Hugo if Hugo wanted to.” (He’ll have to stand in line! I saw Hugo first.) (Shut up, you bang-tail.) “Can never happen, I gather—and Joe never makes a pass. Never made one at me, I never made one at him; we just sacked in our first time without a word and combined as naturally as ham and eggs.” (Hmm! Some girls have all the luck. I had to trip him.) (You’re the eager type, sweetheart; Gigi isn’t.) (You’ll pay for that crack, Boss.)

  “I’m sure Joe never crowded Hugo about posing; he would rather have Hugo’s friendship than have him as a model—though Joe told me he has two pix in mind. One would show Hugo on an auction block. Historical background and honkie ladies in the crowd—close shot, full figure, Hugo looking patient and weary, and just heads and shoulders of the honks…and the honk females just barely not slobbering.

  “But Joe says he can’t paint that one; it would stir up old trouble. The second he really aches to paint—just Hugo, big as a mountain and no sex symbols at all—except that a big stud can’t help being sexy, I think—just Hugo, strong and wise and solemn dignity—and loving. Joe’s words, pieced together by me. Joe wants to paint it and call it ‘Jehovah.’”

  “Gigi! Maybe I can help.”

  “Huh? You can’t just tell Hugo to pose for Joe; Joe wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t hold still for it.”

  “Dear, I’m not foolish. But maybe I can make Hugo see that it’s all right to pose for Joe. Can’t hurt to try.” (Boss, let Hugo know that you have been posing naked for Joe. Then let it soak.) (Of course, Eunice, but that’s just the gambit.) (Twin! You’re not thinking of trying to seduce Hugo, are you? Damn it, I won’t stand for it! You leave Father Hugo alone.) (Eunice, I’m not that much of a fool. Hugo can have anything I’ve got; he killed the creep who killed you. But I would never offer what he won’t accept. If I did, I think he’d quit—and t
hen pray for me. I vote with Joe; I’ll take Hugo as he is, never try to twist his arm.) (You couldn’t. His arms are bigger than our thighs.) (I meant ‘psychologically,’ twin, and you know it.)

  “Just one thing, Gigi—Joe would have to give up that title for the pic.”

  “You don’t know Joe, Joan. He won’t change the title.”

  “Then he’ll have to carry it just in his mind. Hugo is as firm in his rules as Joe is in his. He won’t let a picture of himself be titled ‘Jehovah.’ It would be sacrilege in his eyes. But if Joe is willing to keep the title a secret, I think I can deliver the body. You talk to Joe. But you never did tell me where Joe got his training.”

  “Oh. Joe could always draw; I’m sure he could have learned to read, he remembers what he sees. When he was about fourteen, he was being held overnight with some other boys in the precinct lockup and the desk sergeant got a look at some sketches Joe had done while he was killing time, waiting to be taken up in front of the judge and warned. One was of the desk sergeant—and Joe had seen him only a few minutes.

  “That was Joe’s break. The desk sergeant turned him over to the priest and got him off the blotter and both of them took him to a local artist, and showed him the kid’s sketches.

  “This artist was a mixture, fine art and commercial—I mean he made money. He was another sort of mixture, too. An oyster. He may not have been impressed by Joe’s sketches but he made a deal with him. Modeling. Joe could hang around his studio and use his materials and sketch from his models—if Joe would pose when he needed him. They both won on the deal; you know how Joe looks now; at fourteen I’d bet he was more beautiful than any girl—and no doubt that oyster thought so.

  “So Joe did and soon he was eating and sleeping there and got away from his mother entirely, best thing that ever happened to him. Joan, it was a one-bed studio like this one.”

  “You mean Joe was his sweetheart? Gigi, I decline to be shocked. Even though I’m ninety-five, I try to think modern.”