The Philosophical Strangler(39)

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Jenny.

“Yeah, what’s your problem?” added Angela.

I bore up stoically under their childish complaints. “Well, you know, he’d probably want you to pose, you know, with your clothes off.”

“And so what if he does?” demanded Angela.

“You always like us to pose with our clothes off,” added Jenny.

I tried to think of a riposte. Alas, I failed. The only thought in my mind was: Ought to hang all artists. On general principle.

Fortunately, I had enough sense not to say it.

Benvenuti grinned, enjoying, I darkly suspected, my predicament.

“Actually,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking of a nude portrait. In fact, I wasn’t thinking of any sort of formal poses. I would just like to try and capture your spirit, if I could. The two of you are like liquid sunshine.”

“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed Jenny, blushing. With her peaches-and-cream complexion, a blush made her look especially angelic. Angela smiled, like a sultry cherub. Then, to me, in a loud whisper: “You never say things like that to us.”

I tried to think of a riposte. Failed.

“Let’s be off!” I said, and started hustling the girls out the door. Over my shoulder, I glared at Benvenuti.

He shrugged. “I assure you, sirrah, my intentions are quite honorable.”

I was not mollified. “Intentions be damned,” I muttered. “Anybody who’d seduce Gwendolyn is out of his mind in the first place, so who knows what he’d do?”





On our way back, Jenny and Angela chattered cheerfully. The Cat stared at her sketches. Greyboar was silent. Lost in thoughts of Gwendolyn, I imagine, but I didn’t ask.

I was too busy thinking my own silent thoughts.

Dark thoughts. Dark.

Despite what you might think, only some of my gloom was brought on by the prospect—inevitable, I could tell, from their chatter—that my two girls would soon be cavorting about in the studio of a damned artist who was not only the handsomest man I’d ever seen but had all the other accouterments, to boot.

But, mostly, my gloom was brought on by more general considerations. Almost philosophical, you might say, much as I hate the term.

I could feel the net of Fate closing in. Destiny’s doom. The Kismet Kiss of Death.

Or, to put it in my crude layman’s terms:

Shit kept happening, no matter what I tried to do. One damn thing after another. Philosophy! Leads to mad and reckless impulses. Leads to desperate flight. Desperate adventures. Hooking up with crazy women. Dragged back into the life of a crazy revolutionist sister. Mad artists.

Mad mad mad mad mad. All of it.

This is going to end badly. I just know it!

Those sorts of thoughts.

When we finally pulled up in front of Jenny and Angela’s house, I tried to restore my usual good humor.

“Tomorrow—back to business!” I exclaimed cheerfully. “Enough of all that other stuff.”

Greyboar shook his head. “Won’t matter, Ignace. Entropy rules. There’s no getting around it. It’s just the second law of thermodynamics, that’s all. The essence of the universe.”

I grit my teeth.

“You’ll see,” he said stoically.

I ground my teeth.

Greyboar grinned. “You can refuse to recognize philosophy, Ignace, but philosophy recognizes you.”





PART TWO: ANTITHESIS





Chapter 6.

Thermodynamic Fortune

You wouldn’t think the strangler would be sentimental about a client, but he was.

“He’s been our most regular customer for years,” complained Greyboar.

“Big deal,” I sneered. “The old bastard’s a cheapskate. And he drives me nuts! Every time he hires us he insists on haggling for hours. I wind up giving him a discount just to stop listening to his voice. Fine for you to wax philosophical about fond memories—you just do the jobs. You aren’t the one who has to listen to that quavering whine for hours. You aren’t the one—”

“All right, all right!” Greyboar glared at me. “I’ll do the job—just so’s I won’t have to listen to you whining for hours. But I’m not happy about it.”

He held up his hands, forestalling my outburst. “I know, I know,” he grumbled, “you’re the agent. You’re the wizard manager. You’re the financial genius. I’m just the muscle what does all the work and probably ought to be happy with whatever crumbs you drop from the table. But I still think it’s stupid, at least in the long run.”

“What long run?” I demanded. “He’s got to be a hundred years old by now. How much longer do you think he’s got, anyway? No, no, trust me on this one—better we take a big lump payment now instead of hoping for a few pennies later.”