Yet, when that first situation arose with Stanley, he could hardly say he responded with any great reluctance. The truth—

  which it had taken him some time to face—was that he had downright encouraged it, if mostly unconsciously. And had enjoyed it to an astonishing degree, though he hadn’t been altogether willing to admit that to himself either, not at the time.

  He didn’t understand what had happened to him, with Stanley. It was like nothing he had ever known, had ever imagined knowing. Was it love? How could he know? If it was, then he had never known love before. But he already knew that, didn’t he?

  DEADLY DREAMS 61

  He knew that Stanley was in love with him, and wanted to hear the same from him in return. Stanley wanted a commitment, beyond just living together—which for Tom was a major commitment, maybe as far as he was willing, or able to go. Stanley’s dream for some kind of marriage was as yet an impossibility for him even to contemplate.

  He had wrestled with his feelings for Stanley from the beginning, had broken off with him in all sincerity, determined that the relationship, whatever it was, had to end; had found himself drawn back inexorably into the radiance of Stanley’s aura.

  He had surrendered finally, still not sure what it was he had surrendered to. He couldn’t—or perhaps wouldn’t—

  define it. Certainly it brought with it though, an almost frightening sexual intensity.

  That he couldn’t deny.

  It brought with it something more as well, something that, had Tom only believed in it a bit more, might even have been happiness. For the present, at least for him, that was enough. More, in fact, than he’d ever found in any other relationship over his relationship-crowded past.

  So, though he couldn’t give Stanley the kind of long-term commitment that he knew Stanley wanted from him, though he couldn’t bring himself to say, “I love you,” and probably never would, he had no intention of letting Stanley go either—not for the immediate future, nor for any future that he could see in the distance.

  Why would he?

  Confused though he might be, however, on the nature of their relationship, of some things he was quite sure, and the most fundamental of those was Stanley was his, in some indefinable way. Part of it was purely physical, that sexual part, the sensations that Stanley roused in him, to a degree that he had never known before. More than that, though, was the male thing—perhaps understandable only to a male, and not all of them could face up to it—the pleasure in possession, and the discovery that he could give so much pleasure. And the 62 Victor J. Banis

  pleasure, as well, and it was no small thing, that he took from the giving. Like a god, bestowing his gifts. It actually felt like that sometimes, though he had never phrased it in exactly those terms, not even to himself.

  There was the protective thing, too, and that was a male thing as well, the impulse to protect, to defend, and he was sure, too, that looking after Stanley was his God given assignment, and one he took very seriously.

  So, who was this, hovering on the fringes of Stanley’s life, and did he constitute a threat to Tom’s own? Because no one—

  No One—was going to lay a finger on Stanley Korski without taking Tom Danzel down first. Much he might be unsure of, but of that he was entirely certain.

  § § § § §

  “What do you think?” Stanley interrupted his thoughts.

  “Here?” He was still struggling with the placement of the lion picture, as Tom thought of it. Tom was not an artistic sort, but in fact, he personally rather liked this print. The lion, looking utterly majestic, the flesh at his feet, a once beautiful, graceful zebra, now nothing but bones and torn flesh.

  Still…”Stanley, don’t you think it’s just a little gruesome for an office?”

  “Is it?” Stanley held it at arm’s length and studied it briefly.

  “Well, we’re detectives, aren’t we? We’ve dealt with gruesome things before. We probably will again. What if… the other side of the room, by the door? The clients won’t see it till they’re leaving. It will remind them of the fruits of crime.”

  Tom had to think about that. “Which one is the criminal?”

  he asked. “The lion? And the fruits of crime are, what? You get to eat a zebra? That’s not how I remember it. Wasn’t it something about ‘bitter fruit’?”

  “Don’t be flippant.” Stanley gave him frosty look and carried the picture to the opposite wall, holding it up for inspection next to the door, and giving it a measuring look. He propped the picture against the wall, debated aloud about the placement, and went to get his hammer and a nail.

  DEADLY DREAMS 63

  Tom had observed long ago that when a man is engaged in physical activity and talking at the same time, he is mostly conducting a conversation with himself and any other audience is pretty much beside the point. Anyway, Stanley would hang the painting where he thought it belonged, and rightly, too. He was the one with the artistic sense. Tom was perfectly aware he had none. He went back to his own musings.

  Which were, how was he to sort things out, this possible threat to Stanley? Start with Hannibal, which was where it had started. What did Hannibal know that he didn’t? A lot, probably. When you got down to it, he knew almost nothing, and what he did know was as much supposition as fact.

  Okay, Homeland had been investigating some group. That much was known. You could make a safe assumption that they were terrorists, or something close related. The group was gone, or not available for questioning—which probably meant dead.

  Maybe in a shootout, maybe they’d gotten wind of what was coming down and blown themselves to kingdom come. A lot of crazies played the terrorist game.

  Only one of them had not played in the final scene, had disappeared. Make that, at a guess, Andrew Korski, or in any case, someone using the name Andrew Korski. But, if it were the real, the missing, Andrew Korski, why would he now be interested in a brother he hadn’t even known, ever? Even less reason if he wasn’t the real Andrew Korski.

  Then there was the house in Petaluma? Stanley’d had the impression of someone there, and Stanley’s impressions were sometimes eerily accurate. Same question then, why would Andrew Korski even be there, at a house he’d never lived in?

  Maybe, the thought popped into his head, simply because he had to be somewhere? Homeland Security was after his butt, had probably killed his cohorts. This man, this Andrew Korski, had to disappear, and an old, abandoned house in the middle of nowhere was as good a place as any to disappear, a house with only the most tenuous connection to Homeland’s suspect, quite likely a house they weren’t even aware of.

  64 Victor J. Banis

  It would have been reasonable to suppose that the house, long deserted, had been long ago disposed of as well. Given time, enough digging, Homeland would have learned otherwise, but it wouldn’t have been all at once. A man on the run could count on a grace period while he regrouped, got his bearings.

  Who could have expected Stanley to show up there the way he had?

  And whoever had been there had disappeared almost immediately afterward, which said very clearly, man on the run.

  Maybe it wasn’t just expedience, though. Maybe there was some family thing, too, that had taken this Andrew Korski to Petaluma. Curiosity about the family he hadn’t known, about the life he hadn’t lived. If your present life was seriously fucked up, it wasn’t surprising that the alternative life would look more attractive.

  “You’re awfully deep in thought,” Stanley said, intruding on Tom’s reflections. “Ouch, damn it.” Stanley had been hammering his nail into the office wall. Turning to look at Tom, he hit his thumb instead of the nail, though not so very hard.

  His expression was more startled than pained.

  Looking at him, at the expression that came and went quickly, Tom saw the stranger who’d been at the funeral, saw his face superimposed over Stanley’s. The stranger who had looked startled and, yes, even pained a little.

  Andrew Korski. Of course, and the real Andrew Korski, too. He should have seen it at once: the brother resemblance.

  Now that he had seen it, he was dead certain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What’s this?” Tom, sorting through the office mail, tore one envelope open and extracted a card from within it.

  Stanley took the engraved card from Tom’s hand and looked at it carefully. “It’s an invitation. To an art showing. The opening of a new gallery.”

  “I can see that. But why? Or why me, anyway? I could see someone inviting you, but I’m no art fancier. Anyway, there’s a Giants game tonight. The Padres. I was going to head down to the park.”

  Stanley looked at the card again, and at the envelope it had come in. “It’s addressed to both of us. Well, to the agency, actually. Danzel and Korski, Private Investigators.”

  “You ever heard of this… what’s it called?”

  “Bentham Gallery? No, not that I recall.” He fanned himself with the invitation—the window in his office continued to resist efforts to open it—and frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s a potential client. You know, someone looking for investigators.”

  “Why not just call and make an appointment? That’s how it’s usually done.”

  “Maybe someone wanted to look us over first, see if we were suitable.”

  “Suitable? What way, suitable?”

  “Well, it’s an art gallery, right? That means, most likely, upper crust types, the artsy fartsy set. If they wanted something investigated, they wouldn’t want just anybody sniffing around.

  They’d want someone who could fit in.”

  “Crook their little pinkie, you mean?” Tom grinned. “Maybe you’d better go alone. I’m no good with that set. I always manage to step on somebody’s toes.”

  66 Victor J. Banis

  “The invitation is to both of us. Besides, you may learn something. I say we both go.”

  “What am I going to learn at an art gallery?”

  “Maybe which toes to step on, and which not.”

  § § § § §

  Bentham Gallery was on Bayshore Drive, in an area that could best be described as anti-chic, mostly populated with warehouses and discount stores: Beverages and More; a Smart

  & Final; a rug and floor tile place; an appliance store—

  businesses of the kind that needed large spaces Most of them were closed now, some for the evening, some of them permanently, with the derelict look that failed businesses assumed, seemingly overnight. The lack of trees, of houses with lawns and gardens and foot traffic, gave the neighborhood a sterile, barren look. If it weren’t for the cars, it might have been the high desert, the surface of the moon, even.

  There were cars aplenty, however, at least for this evening.

  The parking lot of a boarded up electronics store was filled with Land Rovers and Jaguars and Mercedes Benzes, with a Bentley claiming the place of pride at the front entrance to the gallery, right next door. Tom ignored the valet in his smart red and black uniform who stepped out to take the truck from him.

  “Looks like a high school kid,” he said, and drove his Ram pickup to the rear of the lot, aloof from the expensive metal parked closer to the door. “I’m picky about who drives my truck.”

  “I drive it.”

  “That’s different. You’re not a teenager.”

  Gulls jeered scornfully from overhead as they got out. “I’ve always wondered, why gulls?” Tom asked, looking skyward. “I mean, we’re way inland. We must be miles from the water.

  What are they doing here?”

  “They follow the pigeons,” Stanley said. “Pigeons are the food finders of the bird world. If there’s anything anywhere to eat, the pigeons will track it down. Then the gulls swoop in to DEADLY DREAMS 67

  share the repast. Sort of like the local foodies when someone finds a new restaurant.”

  Two pink and gray pigeons landed on the ground nearly at their feet and, as if to demonstrate Stanley’s theory, began to waddle around pecking at the ground. “Feathered rats,” Tom said disgustedly. He made a half-hearted kick in their directions.

  The pigeons hopped a few inches away and, ignoring him, went back to pecking.

  “I could say the same about some of the foodies.”

  A pigeon on a utility line above delivered his own comment, just missing Tom’s shoulder with it. Tom glowered, and stomped toward the door of the gallery. Stanley bit back a smile and followed him.

  Inside, the decidedly chic gallery was filled with Land Rover sorts of people, and Jaguar and Mercedes sorts, dressed down expensively if not attractively. The object seemed to have been to make oneself look outrageous, even bizarre. After considerable discussion, Stanley and Tom had worn Dockers and polo shirts, a sort of default costume for San Francisco, but it was they who looked strangely out of place.

  Judging from attendance alone, the gallery’s opening could be deemed a success. Although it was a large space it was jam packed, an exotic muddle of people who milled about alone or in twos and threes, examining paintings and sculptures and engaging in spirited conversations that ran together in a kind of elegant bee-hum. There was the smell of upper class perspiration, too many expensive perfumes—Anteus, Obsession, Opium, a blend of precious scents that in the aggregate smelled like nothing so much as money—mingled with that odd oil and lacquer odor peculiar to art studios and galleries.

  They paused just inside the door, alongside a faux marble column. “Do you have any idea why we’re here?” Tom wondered. He didn’t like crowds, and not, certainly, this kind of crowd. Rich, pissy and mostly gay. Not just gay, either, but the kinds of gays who would look down their noses at him, treat him with little disguised contempt.

  68 Victor J. Banis

  “Because we got an invitation,” Stanley said.

  “But why did we?” Tom persisted, feeling somewhat grumpy, and not just from his close encounter with the pigeon kind. He was missing out on a game at AT&T Park, a game he’d really wanted to see; the Giants and the Padres were a perennial rivalry. Besides, under the best of circumstances an evening at an art gallery was not his idea of a big night out.

  Worse, an art gallery where none of what he saw hanging on the walls made any sense to him or looked at all recognizable—lines and cubes and zigzags, mostly in a riot of color, and right next to where they were standing, just inside the door, an entire canvas painted in a kind of purple, like spilled wine, with a single yellow egg-yolk of a splotch off center. “Neither of us has ever been here, neither of us knows this Wombat fellow…”

  “Wembit, Cyril Wembit.” Stanley read the artist’s name from the invitation. “He does interesting work, though.”

  “Huh,” Tom grunted, unimpressed.

  Stanley was studying the purple and egg expanse, lips pursed. “Maybe for the apartment. What do you think? The bedroom?”

  “That? It would give me purple nightmares, if you want the truth.”

  “Like drowning in a vat of wine, I should think,” a melodious voice said just behind them. They turned to find a woman had come up while they’d been considering the painting. She smiled at them, at Stanley especially, as if she had been waiting the entire evening for his appearance, a smile slightly warmer than welcoming.

  “Hello.” She held out a hand. “I’m the owner, Daniella Bentham. Welcome to Bentham Gallery.”

  Daniella Bentham was beautiful—dark skinned and tall, taller than Stanley, nearly as tall as Tom, and what paperback novels often referred to as statuesque, and which Tom was more inclined to describe as “big hooters.” In this case, big hooters, it appeared, free of any encumbrance beneath the red silk of her jump suit. She wore a black Pashmina stole, knotted DEADLY DREAMS 69

  with careless chic about wide shoulders, a crystal Ohm on a silver chain about her neck.

  It was a striking costume, and it made Stanley’s thoughts jump at once to that famous Bronzino portrait, the one Henry James described in Wings of the Dove. It was one of Stanley’s favorite paintings. He had a framed print of it at the apartment, in fact.

  Of course, the Lucrezia Panciatichi of the portrait wore a dress, not a jump suit, but the colors were exactly the same, the dress just this somewhat off-shade of crimson-not-quite-rust red, with black puffed sleeves in lieu of Daniella Bentham’s black stole. Both women wore Bloodstone rings, too; a different sort of Bloodstone, to be sure. The stone in the portrait was the scarlet variety. This one was green, with flecks of red Jasper in it. A man’s ring, he thought, but then her hands were as large as a man’s, big boned and it did not look as out of place as it might have.

  Still, Bloodstone rings. And outfits of the exact some colors.

  What a remarkable coincidence—if it were a coincidence.

  “Amour dure sans fin,” he murmured—the words were famously inscribed in the portrait—and he saw in the quick flicker of her eyes that she recognized them. Not mere coincidence, then. A woman who knew her Bronzino and her Henry James? He looked her over with increasing curiosity.

  Her inky hair, improbably straight and as raven black as her stole, had been arranged artfully atop her head to look as if it had hardly been touched, a single long strand falling by merest chance along a classically sculpted cheekbone. Her mouth was oddly small and vulpine, and painted crimson to match her outfit, and her eyes, tilted just slightly to lend her a vaguely Asian appearance, were cat-like and of a green so bright as to look artificial.

  Everything about her, in fact, had an air of artificiality. It seemed to him that the impression you got, that initial impression of startling beauty, owed as much to money and makeup—and especially to a certain flair, the cleverness, for 70 Victor J. Banis

  instance, of her chosen colors, which not every woman could wear to happy effect—as it did to physical gifts. The milk chocolate of her skin looked less as if it came from genes than as if it was applied from a makeup box. Even the electricity that seemed to crackle in the air where she stood was more like neon than lightning. Just as the evocation of the famous painting seemed not coincidental, but calculated.