The Painted Gun. Bradley Spinelli
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cooked a hangover breakfast of hash browns and eggs, sat and smoked sixteen cigarettes, called a cab, and barreled out the door. There was one lead to follow, and I figured I’d better chase it quick.
For the second time in two days I almost killed myself walking out the front door. A flat Fed Ex envelope fumbled its way between my legs and almost sent me sprawling over the rail. I caught my balance, scooped it up, and ripped the zip. Inside was an envelope with my name on it and, sure enough, a check made out to me for $25,000. I almost jumped over the rail voluntarily, but remembered who it was from and doubted it would actually clear.
The cab took me to Molloy’s to pick up Delores. I drove straight to the bank to deposit the check, and on my way home I picked up the Chronicle, the Observer, and the SF Weekly. I sat at my kitchen table with a highlighter and a notepad, making a list of every gallery in town that might conceivably hang works by unknowns, with a special eye out for any group shows. I started pounding numbers.
It was slow going. It took me half a dozen calls just to get over feeling like an idiot: “Hello, are you currently exhibiting anyone by the name of Ashley?”
“Ashley who?”
To avoid answering that question, I settled on playing a dumb college student who knew that a girl from his class had a show but couldn’t remember which gallery.
Then I hit pay dirt.
“Dalton Gallery, can I help you?”
“I was wondering if Ashley is part of your group show.”
There was a pause on the line. He didn’t ask, Ashley who? He was quiet for a moment, breathing through his nose. Then, slowly, like a pot of milk coming to a boil and escalating quickly: “Yes, we do have one of her pieces.”
“Great. How late are you open today?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
It was still early, and it was Wednesday, and I usually go to the range on Wednesdays. I figured I had the time and that it would do me good. I didn’t feel like having to clean my gun later, so I hopped into Delores and rolled down Grand to the 101 access road and pulled into the Jackson Arms. There was a chill in the air, and the characteristic South City morning fog was stubbornly hanging onto the hills.
“Hey, Charlie, how are you?” Charlie, six foot two, had to be close to two bills, with red-cherry cheekbones, long, stringy hair, and a genuine smile that held one broken incisor. A big gun-toting California redneck, Charlie was salt of the earth and all woman.
“Crane, where you been?”
“Oh you know, here, there.”
“Just not here.”
“It’s been a long week.” I was eyeballing the excellent selection of handguns under the glass.
“Got to stay in practice,” Charlie said. “Get sloppy, I’ll have to show you how it’s done—and you don’t want to get outshot by a woman.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said, “I’m a feminist.”
“Pshh,” Charlie half-laughed, half-snorted. “You know what I always say: show me a feminist,” a wry crooked grin pulled up one half of her face, “and I’ll kick her ass.”
I’d been eyeballing Charlie’s Beretta Cougars. They’d only been on the market a few years and I’d yet to try one.
“You didn’t bring your .45?”
“No,” I said, “thought I’d take something for a spin.” Then I spotted the Mini Cougar .45, so compact and snug, with a pushed-in muzzle—like the pug of automatic pistols, but still packing a mean punch. “Let me try that.”
“The Mini Cougar?” Charlie made a face. “It’s been sticking. I oiled it yesterday and it didn’t help—I gotta break it down. Hey,” she moved to another case and reached in, “I know how you love your .45s, man after my own heart and all. But you want to try something with a small profile . . . you ever shoot one of these?” She held up a sleek black snub-nosed automatic, the line between the slide and the frame like a racing stripe. “Gangbanger special?”
“I think you know I haven’t.”
“First time for everything.”
California has a law against renting guns to a single shooter at a range; if you want to rent a gun, you have to bring a friend. This is in response to suicides on shooting ranges, but Charlie has known me for years and always lets it go. “This is the Glock 26, 9mm. The ‘Baby Glock.’ One of their latest models. Just came out in ’96.” She loaded up a clip for me, handed me a box of shells, eye protection, ear protection, and a couple of classic red-on-black human silhouette targets. I geared up and stepped into the range, clipped a target onto the rack, sent it out about halfway, and squeezed off the full clip in a single breath. Polymer frame . . . it’s a lightweight gun. Easy to imagine why the gangbangers like it. I brought the target back in; it was a nice grouping, right around the heart, with two holes in the middle of the head. I missed one.
I fired off the rest of the box of shells, trying to focus my intention and concentrate on the one thing, the shot, all the while knowing that I was squeezing off my hatred for McCaffrey and my frustration at having to take this bizarre case. The smell of the popping shells helped a little.
“Whattaya think?” Charlie asked.
“A little light for me. Too much like a toy.”
* * *
I hopped back into Delores and hit the 101 at a trot, driving out of the fog, warming up as I jumped onto 280 and rode it to the end, veering around the sharp bank of the last lonely stretch of freeway with the bay on my right and the City unseen, finally coming up over the steep rise of the exit ramp with the City splayed out ahead of me, the Transamerica winking in the sunlight. The ramp took me over the CalTrain tracks where the trains slow into the depot, down into the depths of the industrial backstreets this side of 80. I went up 6th into SoMa and turned right onto Mission. I was lucky enough to find a parking space right down the street from the gallery, after going around the block only twice. I paralleled and fed the meter.
I stepped into the air-conditioned gallery and saw a cute brunette, early twenties, at the reception desk, talking to a thin-lipped blond man standing at the door to an adjacent office.
“I’ll be back in five minutes, I promise,” she was saying.
“Go ahead, Serena.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dalton.” With that, the girl, all trim thighs in a tight skirt, skipped past me without a glance and out the front door.
“Excuse me,” I said, stopping Dalton’s progress into his office, “are you the man I spoke with on the phone? About Ashley?”
His lips grew even thinner and he inhaled quickly through his nose, stepping around me without looking at me. “You’ll find Ashley’s piece in the gallery.”
I perched at the doorway. “I was wondering if I could chat with you just a moment.” I handed him my card. He flipped it over in his wiry hands to see if there was anything on the back before he bothered to read the front. “Information broker? What are you, some kind of investigator?”
“Not really,” I forced a laugh, “I’m just doing some research for a journalist who’s working on a story about Ashley.” I didn’t want to spook him. “What can you tell me about the artist?”
He waved me in. His office was immaculate. The desk had one of those month-per-page calendars with appointments lettered in exquisite print, and a telephone that looked as if it had never been touched. The walls were covered with prints of a certain taste: Matisse, van Gogh, Monet.
He sat stiffly behind his desk and blinked at me. He did almost a double take, like he either knew me or was sizing me up for a new sports