Dark Maze

should never have been allowed to die that way, with nobody to give you his memory,” she said. “Nobody survives without memories.”
    And was that not the very thing I would begin to discover that day in Coney Island?

    They think they’re closing in on me, hey? So let them think I’m just another dumb maniac. I tried to tell them, didn’t I? Didn’t I go turn my old sick soul inside out so everybody could see me die?
    Damn straight I did.
    But they don't want to see!
    Okay, so I’ll show them some more. Knife, gun—those I already done. Something a little more interesting for next time, hey?
    Sure, and why not? Variety is the spice of death.

FOURTEEN

    Naturally, I was very anxious to see Johnny Halo and Big Stuff again at the Neptune Bar. Which I would—eventually.
    Right now, though, they were the last I had to consult. First things first. That meant a long day of leg work, talking to lots of other characters out in Coney Island; that way, maybe I could get an angle on riddle number one in my notebook: Why had Halo and the dwarf denied knowing Picasso?
    “You had a hunch those two were lying the other day, didn’t you?” Ruby asked me.
    “Of course I did.”
    After all, we had gone to Coney Island for the express purpose of seeing Picasso’s “masterpiece” at the Fire and Brimstone, which the once-living, breathing Dr. Ronald Reiser had urged me to behold when he handed over the disturbing Polaroid mailed to him by an equally disturbing ex-patient. On top of that, Benny from the Horny Poodle told me that Picasso kept a room at the Seashore Hotel. That was easily confirmed by the desk clerk who, during our telephone conversation, let drop the arresting item about
    Picasso torching said room in response to his being dispossessed.
    To say the least, Picasso was a known quantity on the boardwalk at Coney Island. Especially to somebody like Johnny Halo, who proudly hailed himself as so Coney he knew from Archie Leach on stilts and Abie Relis falling out a window of the Half-Moon Hotel accidentally on purpose; to Big Stuff, too (“... him and the woman, they as’t about Fire and Brimstone”).
    And, there was that very first thread to Picasso’s Coney Island fabric: an old black-and-white snapshot in Celia’s handbag, the picture of a bathing beauty with her two attentive escorts, one of them wearing glasses with whiskers on his chin and a beret on his head; the writing in fountain-pen ink —Coney I., summer ’54.
    I tapped my shirt pocket. Inside was the old snapshot. And Ruby and I were on our way to the boardwalk again.
    “You knew right off that Halo and the little fellow were lying, so how come you didn’t call them on it?” Ruby asked.
    “Because that serves no purpose,” I said with great patience. “Whenever I am given bald lies—what my Uncle Liam on the other side would call ‘a fine load of codswallop’—I am thankful for the gift.”
    “The gift?”
    “Eight times out of ten, a liar presents me with a helpful shortcut. Here’s how it works being a cop: Most of the time, I spend my days stumbling around and around for what I’m supposed to be after. You’ve got no idea how tiring this is. But when somebody kindly lies to me, there’s my breather. A lie allows me to slow down, get off the track and just look, because it’s likely there’s something useful behind a lie.”
    There was a bright dawning in Ruby’s face. She said, “And when people tell the truth...”
    “The truth is the long way around,” I said, finishing her thought. “I’m a detective; the truth doesn’t hold the same v alue for me as it does for other people, not that I’m knocking it. Lies, though—now, that’s my bread and butter.”
    “Well then,” Ruby said, “we’re professional cousins.”
    I was now the naif. “We are?”
    “Certainly. You’re the detective, so you look for useful lies. I’m the actor. I get up on a stage full of wooden scenery, I wear costumes instead of just plain clothes, and I deliver made-up lines that ring true only when I’ve rehearsed the playwright’s script.” Ruby smiled. “So, you see? I give the audience the gift of lies.”
    “In your case, that’s art.” And as soon as this had escaped my lips, there was Neglio at my ear: " You're an artist among cops ..."
    We had been riding the F train and now we sat for several minutes without speaking, listening to the subway sounds and to our separate thoughts. The train pulled into East Broadway