I Will Fear No Evil

24

Joan woke with her head on Gigi's shoulder. Gigi was looking at her, which helped Joan to remember where she was. She yawned and said, "Good morning, darling. Is it morning? Where's Joe?"

"Joe's getting breakfast. Had enough sleep, dear?"

"Guess so. What time is it?"

"I don't know. The question is, are you rested? If not, go back to sleep."

"I'm rested, I feel grand. Let's get up."

"All right. But I charge one kiss to get past me."

"Outrageous," Joan said happily, and paid toll. But Joe was not at the kitchen unit; he was projecting the photographs he had taken the night before. Gigi said, "Look at that, Joan. Forgotten all about offering to get breakfast."

"It's no matter," Joan said softly.

"Don't bother to keep your voice down, Joe can't hear when he's working. Unless you shout. Well, let's scrounge, then we'll try to get him to eat. Hmmm... not much to offer a guest."

"I don't need a big breakfast. Juice and toast. Coffee."

"No juice." Gigi poked around futilely. "I could give you a Reddypak. Spaghetti or something. I've got a grocery ­shop. Send Joe out for groceries and he comes home with a new picture book and some paint, happy as a kid. No use scolding him."

Joan Eunice caught an undertone in Gigi's voice, said softly, "Gigi, are you broke?"

Gigi did not answer. She kept her face turned away, got out half a loaf of bread, prepared to make toast. Joan persisted, still speaking quietly, "Gigi, I'm rich, I suppose you know. But Joe won't take a dime from me. You don't have to be that stubborn."

Gigi measured out powder for six cups of coffee. Then she said almost as softly, "Joan, I was a whore when Big Sam and I were together. Somebody had to pay the rent and half his pupils never paid what they promised, and the rest paid so little it hardly made up for the coffee and doughnuts they ate. Hell, some of them came to class just to eat. So somebody had to work. I never hustled men much—Sam didn't like it if I made it with another man—unless it was a swing scene that he had set up. But an old butch is often generous. When we had to have money I would go sit in one of the Lez coffee shops and bring some money home—Sam didn't mind that.

"I finally got wise that I was being used, not just supporting him. Those swing scenes—a guru needs a young chela for openers or it won't get off the ground. Joan, a woman will do anything for a man—but she hates to think it's a one-way street. Now take Joe. Doesn't sell many paintings and we usually have to split fifty-fifty to get them hung. But Joe doesn't use a woman no matter how thin things are." She looked around at Joan.

"When I first posed for Joe he paid me guild rates, none of this kark about a fin now and another fin when he sells the picture. He had some money from Eunice. Insurance, I suppose. But Joe is a soft slob and everybody borrowed it and everybody spent it and nobody paid it back and it was gone before I shacked in with him and started minding his money. Somebody's paying the rent and utilities on this studio. You, maybe?"

"No."

"You know about it?"

"Yes. A man who greatly admired Eunice took care of it. Joe can live here the rest of his life if it suits him. And I can drop a hint and the phone will be turned back on. The phone was an oversight when the rent and power and water and such were arranged for."

"We don't need a phone. I think half the people on this level used Joe's phone as a free public phone—some still try and get sore when I tell ‘em there's no phone here, please go away; Joe is working. Uh, that man who admired Eunice—named ‘Johann' maybe?"

"No, not ‘Johann' and his name isn't ‘Joan' now. Gigi, I can't tell you without his permission and I don't have it. Has Joe ever said anything about the rent?"

"Truthfully I don't think he's thought about it. He's a child, some ways, Joan. Art and sex—doesn't notice other things until he bangs his nose into them."

"Then maybe he wouldn't notice this. I've got my car radio link in my purse, I can call for it. If you tell Joe you've got to grocery-shop, he'll let you go, won't he?"

"Oh, sure. Won't even fuss—even though he has his heart set on painting us all day today."

"So you tell him you must and I offer to take you in my car. We can pick up a big load, with a car and two guards to carry for us. Maybe Joe won't suspect that I've paid for it. Or maybe you can tell him that a picture sold."

Gigi looked thoughtful. Then she sighed. "You tempt me, you cuddlesome little broad. But I had better hold off and eat pizza till we sell another painting. And we will. Best not to monkey with a setup that works, I think."

(She's right, Boss. Leave it alone.) (But, Eunice, there's not a thing for breakfast but coffee and dry toast. That's no matter but there are only four Reddypax in there and three pizzas—we ate three last night. A few other items, not much. I can't leave it alone.) (You've got to leave it alone. You trying to cut off his balls? Or split him up with Gigi? Gigi's good for him, she'll find a way. Do I, or do I not, know more about Joe than you do?) (You do, Eunice—but people have to eat.) (Yes, Boss, but it doesn't hurt to miss a couple of meals.) (Damn it, girl, what do you know about being hungry? I went through the thirties.) (Okay, Boss, louse it up. I'll keep quiet.) (Eunice—please! You said I did fine last night.) (So I did, and you certainly did. Now keep up the good work by leaving them alone or by finding some way to let Gigi-come by groceries honestly... but don't give them anything.) (All right, sweetheart, I'll try.)

"Gigi, here in the fudge—bacon grease in this can?"

"Yes, I save it. Can be useful."

"Can indeed! And I see two eggs."

"Well, yes. But two eggs split three ways is sort of feeble. But I'll fry one for you and one for Joe."

"Go soak your head, cuddle baby; I'm going to teach you Depression cooking I learned in the nineteen-thirties."

Gigi Branca suddenly looked upset. "Joan, you gave me goose bumps. I can't realize how old you are-but you're not, really—are you?"

"Depends on which rubber ruler you use, dear. I remember the Great Depression of the thirties; I was about as old as you are now. By that scale I'm ninety-five. Looked at another way, I'm only weeks old and not able to crawl without help. Always making mistakes. But by still a third way to measure it I'm the age of this body—Eunice's body—and that's how I like to be treated. Don't let rue be a ghost, dear—hug me and tell me I'm not." (What you got against ghosts, Boss?) (Nothing at all, some of my best friends are ghosts—but I wouldn't want my sister to marry one.) (Very funny, Boss—who writes your gags? We did marry a ghost—in Dr. Olsen's examining room.) (Ouch! Sorry about it, Eunice?) (No, Boss darling, you're just the old goat—old ghost, pardon me!—I want for our little bastard.) (Love you, too. Busybody.)

Gigi hugged her.

"First we melt the bacon grease and make sure it's not rancid—or not too rancid. Then we soak the bread in it and fry it. We scramble the eggs and since we don't have cream to stretch them, we use what we find. I'll settle for powdered milk, or flour, or cornstarch. Even dry gelatin. We don't salt the eggs, the grease may be salty enough—salt to taste, afterwards. But if you have Worcestershire sauce, or A-l, or anything like that, we add a little before we scramble. Then we spoon this goop onto six slices of fried bread, two to a customer, and garnish with paprika, or dried parsley, or chopped most anything, to make it look fancy.

This is creative cookery a la W.P.A. We set the table the best we can manage—fancy cloth and real napkins, if you have them. A flower, even an artificial one. Or a candle.

Anything to swank it up. Now—do I fry the bread while you stretch the eggs? Or vice versa?"

Joe reluctantly came to the table, absentmindedly took a bite—looked surprised. "Who cooked?"

"We both did," Joan answered.

"So? Tasty."

"Joan showed me how and we'll have it again sometime, Joe," Gigi amended.

"Soon."

"All right. Joan, you can read, can't you?"

"Why, yes."

"Thought you could. There's a letter from Joe's mother, been here three days. I've been meaning to find somebody to read it, but Joe's kept me busy posing and Joe is particular who reads his mother's letters."

"Gigi, Joan's company. Not polite."

"Joe, am I company? If I am, I won't finish breakfast and I won't pose—I'll call Anton and Fred and go home!"

(‘That's telling him, Fat Lady!') (That's a vulgar joke, Eunice.) (I'm vulgar, Boss. Come to think about it, you're about as vulgar as they come yourself, though I wasn't sure of it till I woke up inside your head.) (I give up. But Joe can't make us ‘company.') (Of course not. Quiver your chin and make him kiss you—he's never kissed you with the lights on.)

Joe said soberly, "Sorry, Joan Eunice."

Joan pouted her lip. "You ought to be. You ought to kiss me and tell me I'm family. Not ‘company.'"

"She's right," agreed Gigi. "You've got to kiss and make up."

"Oh, hell." Joe stood up, came around to Joan Eunice's chair, took her face, tilted it up and kissed her. "Family.

Not company. Now eat!"

"Yes, Joe. Thank you." (He can do better.) (So we both know.) "But, Joe, I won't read your letter unless you want me to. Gigi, you startled me when you indicated you could not read. I thought I could tell by the way a person talks. Is it your eyesight?"

"Eyes are okay. Oh, I'm a real Talking Woman. Had some coaching, done some little theater. Probably should have learned to read—though I can't say I've missed it. Computer fouled up my pre-school test records and I was in sixth grade before anybody caught it. Then it was sort o' late to change tracks and I stayed on the ‘practical'. There was talk of putting me through a remedial but the principal put his foot down. Said there wasn't enough budget to handle the ones that could benefit from it." She shrugged.

"Maybe the fact that he was a third had something to do with it. Anyhow I don't miss it. Joe, shall I find the letter?"

"Sure. Joan Eunice is family."

Joan found Mother Branca's handwriting difficult, so she read the letter to herself to be sure she could read it aloud—and ran into trouble. (Eunice! How do I handle this.) (Twin, never tell a man anything he doesn't need to know. I censored as necessary. Even some of your mail, when you were sickest.) (Know you did, baggage, as I reread some you had read aloud.) (Boss, some went straight into the shredder. And this one should have gone there—so censor it.) (You were married to him, sweetheart, but I'm not. I have no right to censor his mail.) (Twin, between being ‘right' and being kind, I know which way 1 vote.) (Oh, shut up, I won't consider Joe's mail!)

"Takes a while to get used to strange handwriting," Joan Eunice said apologetically. "All right, here it is:

"‘Darling Baby Boy,

"‘Mama don't feel so—'"

"Don't read all," Joe interrupted. "Just tell."

"That's right." agreed Gigi. "Joe's mother puts in a lot of kark about noisy neighbors and their pets and people Joe never heard of. All he wants is news. If any."

(You see, twin?) (Eunice, I'm still not going to censor. Oh, I can leave out trivial gossip. Uh, maybe edit the wording.) (You damn well better, Boss, and you know it.)

"All right. Your mother says her stomach is troubling her—"

("Mama dont feel so good and cant seem to get no relief nohow. The medicare man says it's not stomach cancer but what does he know? Sign says he's an internist and everybody knows an internist is a student, not a real doctor. What do we pay taxes for when just a student can half kill me like I was a dog or a cat or something they're always cutting up behind locked doors like they say on teevee?")

"Joe, she says that her stomach has been bothering her but she's been getting tests from an internal medicine man—that's a doctor who specializes in such ailments, they are very learned—and he has assured her that it isn't cancer or anything of that sort."

("The new priest aint no help. He's a young snot that thinks he knows it all. Wont listen. Claims I get just as good treatment as anybody when he knows it aint true. You got to be a nigger to get anything around here. We white people that built this country and paid for it are just so much dirt. When l go to medicare clinic, they make your Mama wait while Mexican women go in first. How about that?")

"She says that there is a new priest in your parish, a younger one than the last, and that he has investigated and has reassured her that she is getting the proper treatment. But she says that she sometimes has to wait a long time at the clinic."

"Why not?" said Joe. "Got nothin' but kill time. Don' work."

("Annamaria is going to have a baby. That Snot priest says she ought to go to a Home. You know what terrible places those Homes are and its Unamerican to bust up families. They don't do that in the Old Country and that's what I told the Visitor. Youd think the way they throw away money on people that dont deserve it they could spend a little on a decent family that just wants to be left alone and not bothered. The other Johnson twin—not the one that dropped out, the one 1 told you was out on parole again—got busted again and about time! There's a family the Visitor could look into—but oh No, he just told me to mind my own business.")

"Someone named Annamaria is pregnant."

Gigi said, "Which one is that, Joe?"

"Baby sister. Twelve. Maybe thirteen." Joe shrugged.

"Well, your parish priest thinks she ought to go into a home for expectant mothers but your mother feels that she would be better off at home. There is something about a neighbor family named Johnson."

"Skip."

("Baby Boy, Mama dont hardly never get a letter from you since Eunice died. Aint there no letterwriter in your block? You dont know how a mother worries when she dont hear from her little boy. I watch the-mailbox every day be sure nobody swipes it fore 1 get it. But no letter from my little Josie—just ads and once a month the Check.")

"She says she hasn't heard from you in a long time, Joe. I'd be glad to write one for you before I go, anything you dictate—and send it by Mercury to be sure she gets it."

"Maybe. Thanks." Joe did not seem enthusiastic. "See later. Paint first. Any more? Just tell."

(Eunice, here comes the tough part.) (So skip it!) (I can't!)

("I seen you in the teevee and almost dropped dead when you said you gave away a thousand million dollars you had every right to. Dont your own mother mean nothing to you? I didnt raise you and love you and take care of you when you busted your collarbone to be treated like that. You go straight to that Miss Yohan Bassing Bock Smith and tell her she can just wipe that nasty sneer of / her face because l want my rightful share of whats coming to me and I'm going to get it. I already been to a lawyer and he said hed take my side for fifty-fifty as soon as I paid him a thousand dollars for expenses. I told him he was a thief. But you just tell that stuckup Miss Smith to pay up or my lawyer will put her in jail!!!!

"Sometimes l think the best thing is just pack up everybody and go visit you till she pays up. Maybe just stay. Would be hard to leave all our old friends here in Philly but you need somebody to keep house now that you havent got no wife to do for you. It wont be the first time lye made sacrifices for my darling boy.

"Your Loving -Mother."

"Joe, apparently your mother watched my identity hearing on video and heard your testimony. She seems disappointed to learn that you gave money to establish a memorial to Eunice, when you could have kept it."

Joe made no comment.

Joan went on: "She says she may pack up all the family and pay you a visit but the way it's phrased I don't think she will. That's all except she sends you her love. Joe, I can see how your mother could be disappointed in what you did about—"

"My business. Not hers."

"May I finish, Joe? From this letter I think she must be poor and I have been poor myself and know how it feels. Joe, I think that your memorial to Eunice was a wonderful thing, the most gallant tribute of a husband to the memory of his wife I've ever heard of. I heartily approve and I think Eunice must feel honored by it." (I do, Boss. But maybe he overdid it, huh? Jake could have set up a little annuity for Joe—eating money, I mean—with part of it. But Joe never did know how to do anything part way—whole hawg, or nothing; that's Joe.) (Maybe we can fix it, dear.)

"Joe, if I paid your mother an allowance—you know I can afford it!—it wouldn't be you accepting money from Eunice's death."

"No."

"But I would like to! She's your mother, it would be sort of an additional memorial to Eunice. Say enough to—"

"No," he repeated flatly.

Joan Eunice sighed. "I should have kept quiet and arranged it through Jake Salomon." She memorized the return address, intending to do it anyhow. "Joe, you are a lovable man and I can see why Eunice was devoted to you—I've fallen in love with you myself and I think you both know it—without any intention of crowding you out, Gigi; I love you just as much. But, Joe, sweet and gallant as you are...ou are a bit stiff-necked, too." (Sure he is, Boss darllng, but it's no use trying to change people. So drop it. You didn't need to sneak that address; I could have told you.)

"Joan."

"Yes, Gigi?"

"Hate to say this, hon—but Joe's right and you're wrong."

"But—"

"Tell you later, we'll talk while we pose. Grab the bathroom if you need to while I put dishes to soak; Joe wants to start."

Joan was surprised to learn that she could visit with Gigi while they posed. But Joe assured her that he had the expressions he wanted from the photographs; he simply wanted them to hold still. He took even more pains to get them arranged than he had for the camera. Talk did not bother him as long as it was not to him. Nevertheless Joan tended to whisper while Gigi used the normal tones of a face-to-face conversation.

"Now I'll tell you why you must not send money to Joe's mother. But wait a sec—he's done it again. Joe! Joe! Put on your shorts and quit wiping pigment on your skin." Joe did not answer but did so. "Joan, if you've got money to throw away, flush it down the pot but don't send it to Joe's mother. She's a wino."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Joe knows it, her Welfare Visitor knows it; they don't let her have her family allowance in cash—she gets one of the pink checks, not a green one. Just the same she'll take groceries around the corner and trade ‘em for muscatel. That stomach trouble—forget it. Unless you want to help her drink herself to death. No loss if you did. The kids might be better off."

Joan sighed. "I never will learn. Gigi, all my life I've given money away. Can't say I did any good with it and I know I've done lots of harm. Me and my big mouth!"

"Your big heart, dear. This is one time not to give it away. I know, I've had a lot of her letters read to me. You trimmed that one, didn't you?"

"Did it show?"

"To me it did—because I know what they sound like. I learned from the first one never again to have somebody just read them aloud to Joe; he gets upset. So I listen—I'm a quick study, used to learn my sides and cues just from two readings aloud when I was finding, out I wasn't an actress—and then I trim it to what Joe needs to hear. Figured you were smart enough to do it without being told and I was right—except that you could have trimmed it still more and Joe would have been satisfied."

"Gigi, how did such a nice person as Joe—and so talented—come from such a family?"

"How does any of us happen to be what we are? It just happens. But—look, it's never polite to play the dozens, is it?"

"I shouldn't have asked."

"I meant it isn't polite for me to. But I'm going to. I've often wondered if Joe was any relation to his mother. He doesn't look like her; Joe has a picture taken when she was about the age he is nose. No resemblance."

"Maybe he takes after his father."

"Well, maybe. But Paw Branca I'm not sure about; he left her years back. If Paw Branca is his Pop. If she has any idea who his father is."

"I guess that's often the case. Look at me—pregnant and not married; I can't criticize."

"You don't know who did it, dear?"

"Well....es, I do. But I'm never, never, never going to tell. It suits me to keep it to myself and I can afford to do it that way."

"Well—none of my business and you seem happy. But about Joe—I think he's an orphan. Somebody's little bastard who wound up with this bitch though I can't guess how. Joe doesn't say so. Although he never talks much—unless he has to explain things to a model. But his mother has had one good influence on him. Guess."

"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 o( 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, wait, 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...urned 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 lake, 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. 1 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, Ithink—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 then 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."

"Joan, I never can believe that's your age; it isn't real, like that million dollars. I said ‘oyster' not ‘homo.' The artist was married, or shacked, with his number-one model. Possible she got Joe's cherry. Either way, she taught him plenty and mothered him and was good to him, and it was a happy Troy.

"But the artist—Mr. Tony, as Joe speaks of him—while he gave Joe the use of his studio and table and bed and wife—was nevertheless a strict master. He wouldn't let Joe paint with a palette knife or a wide broom or do distortions or abstracts or psychedelics—he made him learn to draw. Anatomy. Composition. Brush techniques. Color values. The whole endless drill of academic art, and wash brushes and sweep out the studio. Joe says that if it hadn't been for Mr. Tony, he would still be sketching sausage skins. Joe found out what he could do, what he wanted to do, and learned to do it. But, so he told me, not what his master did—but in both cases founded on old-fashioned academic training. The hard way. Oh, Joe's learned short cuts. But he can paint directly on canvas—he's been doing it since our last break—and make it as close to a photograph as he cares to. Or as different."

"—never said that poor is better than rich, Gigi; it is not. But both ‘rich' and ‘poor' have shortcomings—somewhere between is probably best, if you could get off the treadmill at that point. But— Look, does Joe guard you when you go grocery-shopping?"

"Huh? Of course not. Oh, sometimes he comes along and helps carry—but not to guard. Well, he does ride down the lift with me if it's a time of day when it might be empty—I mean, he's no fool and neither am I and I don't go looking for a mugging. Same coming back up and if I'm later than I said I would be, he's always there waiting. But I move around by myself, always have; I'm just not foolish about where and when."

"Gigi, I'm sure you're not foolish, I doubt if you ever go into a park—"

"Not even at high noon! I've been raped once and didn't like it. I'm not looking for a gang bang where they take turns holding you down. They ought to bulldoze every park in the city."

"Bulldozing the whole city might be better. But, Gigi, you move around rather freely. I can't. I don't dare appear even with guards around me without being veiled, I can't risk being recognized. I have to be wary all the time. Sure, you bolt your door—but my house has to be strong enough to take a bomb tossed against it—that's happened several times since I built it. I have to watch for everything from kidnappers and assassins to mere nuisances who want to touch me.

"I'm talking both about the way I am now and the man ‘Johann' I used to be—too much money attracts crackpots and criminals and there is nothing I can do about it but keep guards around me day and night, and live in a house that's a fort, and try to avoid being recognized at any time, and never, never try to live what is called a ‘normal life.' Besides that—Gigi, can you imagine what a treat it is to me to be allowed to wash dishes?"

Gigi looked startled. "Huh? Joan, you've lost me. Oh, I know how complicated it is to be rich; I've watched video. But washing dishes isn't a treat; it's a horrid bore. Too often I've left them in the sink, then had to face them before breakfast. By the time breakfast is ready, I don't want any."

"Let me give you a tip, Gigi. I did know something about Joe's mother; Eunice was my secretary for years." (I never mentioned her, Boss!) (Will you let me tell this lie my own way?) "She was—and is—a pig and lives like one. This place isn't big; if you'll keep it spotless, Joe won't care when you get wrinkles—and we all do, someday. But a dirty toilet bowl or dishes in the sink reminds him of his mother."

Gigi said, "Joan, I try. But I can't clean house and pose at the same time."

"Do your best, hon. If necessary, lose sleep. Joe is a man worth making extra effort to keep. But I was talking about doing dishes—it's a nuisance to you but a luxury to me. Washing dishes means ‘freedom' to me. Look, here we are, three of us, no servants—and presently I'll be gone and you'll be alone with your husband and the world shut out. I can't shut it out. Uh... let me think— Four mobile guards, a security chief, twelve in-house watchmen under him, three always on duty and the others on call, which means the married ones—which is most of them—have their families under my roof—a personal maid, a valet who used to tend me and now takes care of guests—couldn't fire him; I never fire anyone without cause—a butler, a head chef, three—oh, I don't remember; there were about sixty adults in my house the last time I asked."

"My God, Joan!"

"Yes, ‘My God!' To take care of one person. Yet not one could I let go without replacing him. I planned that house and kept tabs on the design, intending to keep staff down to a minimum. So it's loaded with gadgets. Things like robofootmen, and a trick bed that was designed to let me get along without a nurse a few more years as I got older. Do you know what that means? I lost. I have to have a building superintendent and maintenance mechanics—or the gadgets don't work. All this complication—and never any real privacy—just to take care of one person who doesn't want it that way."

"Joan, why don't you get rid of it? Move—and start over."

"Move where, dear? Oh, I've thought about it, believe me. But it's not actually to take care of one-person—it's to take care of too much money, money that is fastened to me so that I can't risk kidnappers or anything else. I can't even cash itand flush it down the pot; that's not the way big money works. And even if I could and did—nobody would believe I had. I would just have taken off my armor and probably would not stay alive two days. Besides— Do you like cats?"

"Love ‘em! Got a kitten promised now."

"Good. Now tell inc—how do you get rid of a cat you've raised?"

"Huh? Why, you don't. Not if you're decent."

"I agree, Gigi. I've lived with many cats. You keep them. If you are forced to it, you have a cat humanely destroyed—or if you have the guts, you kill it yourself so that it won't be bungled. But you don't give away a grown cat; it is almost impossible. But, Gigi, you can't kill people."

"I don't understand, Joan."

"What would I do with Hugo? He's been with me many years; he's doing the only thing he knows how to do—except preach, which doesn't really pay; Gigi, loyal servants are ‘Chinese obligations' just like acat. Sure, they can get other jobs. But what would you do if Joe told you, ‘Get lost. We're finished.'"

"Cry."

"I don't think my servants would cry—but I would."

"But I'd get along!"

Joan sighed. "And that platoon I have around me would get along, I think; they're able or I wouldn't have them—and I've got money enough to make sure that ones like Hugo are taken care of; that's one of the good things about being rich—if money is all it takes to remedy something, you can. Gigi, there is some solution to this silly fix I'm in and I'm going to find it—I was just trying to show you that it isn't as simple as it looks on video. The solution may be something as easy as changing my name again and changing my face with plastic surgery and going somewhere else."

"Oh, no, you mustn't change your face."

"No, you're right; I must not change this face. It's Eunice's; I'm only its custodian. If I changed it, Joe would not like it—nor several other people. (Starting with me, Boss.) (I won't change your lovely face, sweetheart. I'll cherish it.) "I'll keep it as it is—but I have to keep it veiled. It's been on video too much, photographed and printed too many million times. But there's some way to tackle it."

Joan Eunice looked at the nearly finished painting almost with awe. She knew what a beautiful body she had inherited; she knew that Gigi was a beauty of another sort; she could see that these "Grecian damsels" were herself and Gigi and she could not see any detail in which the painting was not a perfect likeness of each.

Yet Joe Branca's "realism" was fantasy. These two nymphs in a glade were voluptuous, sensuous, enticing in a way that she knew that she and Gigi had not been—sprawled on a platform of boards and gossiping about everything from an alcoholic to dirty dishes.

"What do you think?" Gigi asked. "Say what you like; Joe doesn't give a hoot about any opinion but his own."

Joan took a deep breath, sighed. "How does he do it? Here I am With my nipples tight just from looking at it—and yet it's you and me, and we lay there talking for hours and never got in a sweat about it. Discussed everything but Topic ‘A'—wasn't even a cuddle because we had to hold still. Yet this paint-and-canvas reaches out and grabs you by the gonads and squeezes. I'm certain it would have just as much effect on a man."

From behind them Joe said, "Fool-the-eye."

Joan answered, "Fool-the-eye, hell, Joe. My eyes are not fooled, I'm enchanted. I want to buy it!"

"No."

"Huh? Oh, kark. You planned to sell it to some old butch. God knows ninety-five is old—and I feel butch enough to qualify when I look at the painting."

"Yours."

"Huh? Joe, you can't do this to me. You intended to sell it, you said so. Gigi, back me up."

Gigi chose not to answer. Joe said stubbornly, "Yours, Joan. You want it, you take it."

"Joe, you are the most stubborn man I've ever met and I don't see how Gigi puts up with you. If you give me that painting, I'm going to destroy it at once—"

Gigi gasped. "Oh, no!"

Joe shrugged. "Your ache. Not mine."

"—but if you'll sell it to me at your going rates, I'll take it with me and give it to Jake Salomon to hang at the end of his bed so he'll wake up happy each morning." (You bombed him, twill! Now swing back and strafe the survivors.) "That's the choice, Joe. Give it to me and I'll chop it into shreds. But sell it to me—and Jake Salomon gets it. Oh, you could welch, then hang it for sale—and put me to the trouble of hiring detectives to follow it to where you hang it so that I can buy it through an agent. What I do with it then, I won't tell. Or you could even keep it for your own jollies; it's quite a job."

Gigi said, "Quit being stubborn, Joe; you know you'd like Jake to have it."

"Gigi, what does Joe charge for a painting like that?"

"Oh, I set the prices. Mostly I sell them by the yard. By size."

"So? How much is this size?"

"Well, I try to get two hundred and fifty for that size."

"Ridiculous!"

"Really, Joan, considering that it took both my time and Joe's all yesterday evening and today—not to mention your time, but you're buying it, so I didn't add on for the second figure in it—considering all that and the commission we pay, it's not very much—"

"Darling, I meant ‘ridiculously' low. I haven't bought much art the last twenty years but I do know that is not less than a thousand-dollar picture—then up like a kite to whatever the traffic will bear. I can tell you this: When Jake dies and that painting is auctioned off, it won't go for as little as a thousand...and it might be much higher because I'm certain to be at, that auction and in no mood to let it get out of the family. But I'm not raising the price now; I never do that. You named a price of two-fifty; I accept. It's a sale."

"Joan, you never did let me finish."

"Oh. Sorry, hon."

"I try to get two hundred and fifty for that size when I hang it in a shop. But half of that goes to the owner of the shop; that's the only way I can get space. So the price to you is a hundred and twenty-five."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Just ‘No' the way Joe said it to me. As good business practice you should never undercut your retailer. I think he's robbing you; the commission should be twenty-five percent, no more. But don't undercut the price you want him to ask—that's no way to stay in business. I don't know much about art... but I know one hell of a lot about business. Cash, or check?"

"Cash is fine. If you have that much with you. Or pay when you feel like it."

"I want to pay now and get a receipt so that it will be legally mine—before your stubborn husband can thwart me again. Shall I write the receipt for you, Gigi girl?"

"Oh, I've got Woolworth's printed forms for that, and I can write numbers and sign my chop. No huhu."

"Good. But I want something else."

"What, Joan?"

"I want to be kissed. I've been a good girl and posed all day and haven't even been kissed for it. So I want Joe to kiss me for being so stinky difficult—and I want to kiss you for helping me with him. Joe, will you kiss me?"

"Yes."

"That's better. Joe, will you escort two nice girls—me and Gigi, I mean, and no smart cracks—down to the

supermarket? If Gigi will buy us a steak to celebrate, I want to prove I can broil it. Will you buy us a steak, Gigi?"

"Sure! Beef, or horse?~'

"Uh...hon, I'm forced to admit that I haven't shopped for groceries in years. What do you think?"

"Well... it had better be horse."

"Whatever you say. As long as they don't sell us the harness."