Hemlock Bay

“I’m sure sorry we haven’t heard of you.”
    “You’re a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”
    “I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”
    “Well, just maybe I’m more famous with certain people than with the common public.”
    “What does that mean?” Simon asked.
    Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn’t painted them.”
    “I don’t understand,” Lily said.
    “It ain’t so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”
    Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”
    “Hey, I don’t like that word. What do you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”
    “No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I’m really impressed.”
    “Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man? Come on, what’s going on here?”
    “I’m Simon Russo.”
    That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize you now. Dammit, you’re that dealer guy . . . Russo, yeah, you’re him. You’re Simon Russo, you son of a bitch. You’d better not be here to cause me any trouble. What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Mr. Turkle, we—”
    “Dammit, give me back that painting! You aren’t on any honeymoon now, are you? You lied to me. As for you, Russo, I’m going to have to wring your scrawny neck.”

16
    Lily didn’t think, just assumed a martial arts position that Dillon had shown her, the painting still clutched in her right hand.
    She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared at her. “You want to fight me? You going to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”
    She moved back and forth, flexed her arms, her fists. “I won’t hurt your bloody painting. Listen, pal, I don’t want to fight you, but I can probably take you. Yes, I can take you. You’re big but I’ll bet you’re slow. So go ahead, if you want, let’s just see how tough you are.”
    “Lily, please don’t,” Simon said as he prepared to simply lift her beneath her armpits and move her behind him. To Simon’s surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head. He laughed, and then he laughed some more.
    “Jesus, you’re something, little lady.”
    Abe made to grab the painting from Lily’s hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle. It really is beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.”
    “Oh, hell, keep the stupid thing. I don’t want to fight you either. It’s obvious to me that you’re real tough. Hell, I might never get over being scared of you. All right, now. Let’s just get it over with. What do you want, Simon Russo? And who is the little gal here?”
    “I’m just here to see which Sarah Elliott you’re working on now.”
    Abe Turkle glanced back at his easel, and his face blotched red as he said, “Listen to me, Russo, I barely heard of the broad. You want to look?”
    “Okay.” Simon smiled and walked toward Abe.
    Abe held up a huge hand still stained with daubs of red, gold, and white paint. “You try it and I’ll break your head off at your neck. Even the little lady here won’t be able to hold me off.”
    Simon stopped. “Okay. Since there were no paintings missing from the Eureka Art Museum, you must be having trouble working from photographs they brought to you. Which one is it? Maybe The Maiden Voyage or Wheat Field? If I were selecting the next one, it would be either of those two.”
    “Go to hell, boyo.”
    “Or maybe you had to stop with the Sarah Elliotts altogether now that they’re gone from the museum? So you’re doing something else now?”
    “I’d break your head for you right this minute, right here, but not with my new stuff around. You want to come outside?”
    “You were right about the lady,” Simon said. “She isn’t my wife. She’s Lily Savich, Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter. The eight paintings that were in the museum, including the four you’ve already copied, belong to her.”
    “Are you finishing a fifth one, Mr. Turkle? If you are, it’s too bad because you won’t get paid for it.