The Girl on Paper Page 11

  He was the cowboy type, a macho man in the Jeff Bridges mould, with a suntanned face, aviator sunglasses and a gold chain that hung down over his hairy chest.

  Clearly delighted to find himself with a pretty young girl in his clutches, he seemed not even to have noticed I was in the car.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am.’

  ‘Afternoon, Officer.’

  ‘Know how fast you were going?’

  ‘Kind of. Pretty near a hundred, right?’

  ‘Any particular reason for going so fast?’

  ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘A real beauty you’ve got here.’

  ‘Yeah, not like your shitheap,’ she said, looking back at his car. ‘That thing probably can’t do much more than seventy.’

  The cop’s face darkened and he realised it was probably better just to go through the whole procedure by the book.

  ‘Licence and vehicle documents.’

  ‘Good luck…’ she said, calmly turning on the ignition.

  His hand went straight to his holster.

  ‘Please switch off the engine immediately—’

  ‘… because you’re going to find it pretty hard to catch us in that old thing.’

  17

  Billie and Clyde

  One of these days they’ll get us,

  But I don’t care, Bonnie’s the one I need

  I don’t care what they do to us,

  I am Bonnie and it’s Clyde Barrow for me

  Serge Gainsbourg

  ‘We need to get rid of the car!’

  The Bugatti was tearing along a narrow road lined by eucalyptus trees. The sheriff had made no attempt to follow us, but we were sure he would have called for back-up. Even if he couldn’t get anyone to help him, the marine base camp a few miles away meant this area was under constant surveillance. Basically, we were trapped.

  Suddenly, a dull whine that seemed to be coming from the sky above us added to our troubles.

  ‘Is it us they’re after?’

  I rolled down the window and, craning my neck, looked up to see a police helicopter hovering above the forest.

  ‘I have a horrible feeling it is.’

  Record-breaking speed on a public highway, insulting a law enforcement officer, fleeing arrest; if the sheriff had decided to pull out all the stops, we were risking everything.

  Billie swerved sharply down the first forest path we came to, and drove the Bugatti as far into the undergrowth as she could to camouflage us.

  ‘We’re only twenty-five miles from the border,’ I said. ‘We could try and get hold of another car in San Diego.’

  She opened the trunk, which was crammed with luggage.

  ‘That’s for you to take; I put some of your things in there,’ she said, chucking an old hard-sided Samsonite at me, almost knocking me to the ground.

  She, on the other hand, hesitated in front of the mountain of suitcases full of clothes and shoes that she had swiped from Aurore’s wardrobe.

  ‘We probably won’t be going to any balls in Mexico,’ I said, to hurry her up.

  She grabbed a large monogrammed canvas bag and a silver vanity case. As I turned to leave, she held me back.

  ‘Wait, there’s a present for you on the back seat.’

  I raised an eyebrow, expecting another cheap trick, but nevertheless looked in the back of the car to find the Chagall canvas, covered by a beach towel.

  ‘I figured it probably means a lot to you.’

  I looked gratefully back at her. I could have kissed her.

  Lying across the back seat, the Lovers in Blue looked as though they were passionately embracing, like two schoolkids on a first date at the drive-in.

  As always, just looking at the picture did me good, lifting my spirits and filling me with calm. The lovers were there, as they always had been, anchored to one another, and the strength of their connection was like a soothing balm on my wounds.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,’ Billie observed.

  I put the painting under my arm and we started to make our way through the trees.

  *

  In our efforts to escape the helicopter we scrambled over endless banks, weighed down like mules, sweating and out of breath – well, especially me. We had obviously not yet been picked up by their radar, but every now and again we could hear the ominous drone of the helicoper overhead.

  ‘I have to stop,’ I said, panting like a dog. ‘What did you put in this suitcase? I feel like I’m dragging a safe behind me!’

  ‘So sports aren’t really your thing either?’ she asked, turning to face me.

  ‘I might have let myself go a bit these past few months,’ I admitted, ‘but maybe if like me you’d fallen out of a second-floor window you’d be a little more sympathetic.’

  Barefoot, Billie weaved gracefully in and out of the trees, with her shoes slung over her shoulder.

  We walked down a small slope and came to a road. It wasn’t a freeway, but was wide enough to allow cars to go in both directions.

  ‘Which way do you think?’ she asked.

  I gratefully put my suitcase down and placed both hands on my knees, trying to get my breath back.

  ‘No idea. I’m not Google Maps.’

  ‘We could try hitching a ride,’ she suggested, choosing to ignore my remark.

  ‘Not with all this stuff – no one will want to take us.’

  She crouched down and started to rummage around in her bag, pulling out a new outfit. Unselfconsciously she undid her jeans, replacing them with a pair of white hot pants, and swapped her jacket for a pale-blue fitted Balmain number with dramatic pointy shoulders.

  ‘We’ll be in a car within the next ten minutes,’ she promised, readjusting her sunglasses and adopting a more seductive pose.

  I found myself once again taken aback by the apparent duality of her nature. She could go from a playful and candid young girl to an arrogant and alluring femme fatale in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Looks like Pretty Woman has cleaned out the boutiques on Rodeo Drive,’ I called after her as I followed her down the road.

  ‘Pretty Woman has had just about enough of you.’

  *

  We had been waiting for a few minutes. Only about twenty cars had driven past. None of them had stopped. We’d passed a sign that told us we were in the vicinity of San Dieguito Park, and then a second sign at the junction for Interstate 5. We were on the right road, but going in the wrong direction.

  ‘We should cross the road and try to get a lift from the other side,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your seduction routine isn’t getting us very far, is it?’

  ‘In five minutes you’ll be sitting comfortably on a leather seat. Want to bet on it?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘How much money do you have left?’

  ‘Just over $700.’

  ‘OK, five minutes. Are you timing us? Oh, wait, I forgot, you don’t have a watch any more.’

  ‘What about me? What do I get if I win?’

  She didn’t reply, her expression suddenly turning serious.

  ‘Tom, we’re going to have to sell the painting.’

  ‘No. Out of the question.’

  ‘How else do you expect to be able to get hold of a car and pay for somewhere to sleep?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere! A painting like this should be sold in an auction room, not in the first gas station we come across!’

  She frowned and seemed to be thinking hard.

  ‘Fine, maybe we don’t have to sell it, but we should at least pawn it.’

  ‘Pawn it? This is a masterpiece, not my grandmother’s wedding ring!’

  She shrugged, just as a rusty old pick-up truck slowed down near us.

  ‘Get ready to pay up,’ she said, grinning.

  In the truck were two Mexicans, who worked as gardeners in the park during the day and drove back to Playas de Rosarito every evening. They offered to
take us as far as San Diego. One looked like an older, fatter version of Benicio del Toro while the younger one, Esteban…

  ‘He looks just like that gardener from Desperate Housewives!’ whispered Billie excitedly. He was obviously her type.

  ‘Señora, usted puede usar el asiento, pero el señor viajará en la cajuela.’

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked, sensing bad news.

  ‘He said that I can sit in the front if I want, but you’ll have to go in the back,’ she translated, taking pleasure in delivering the news to me.

  ‘But you promised me a leather seat!’ I protested, climbing into the back to sit amongst the tools and bags of dry grass.

  *

  I’ve got a Black Magic Woman

  The rich, full sound of Carlos Santana’s guitar streamed out of the open window of the pick-up. It was a real boneshaker an old 1950s Chevrolet that looked as though it had been repainted dozens of times, and clearly had a few miles on the clock.

  Perched on a bale of straw, I brushed off the dust that had accumulated on the painting and addressed the Lovers in Blue directly.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, but it looks like we’re going to have to go our separate ways for a while.’

  I had been thinking about what Billie had said and an idea had come to me. The year before, Vanity Fair had asked me to write a short story for their Christmas issue. The idea was to ‘rework’ a well-known classic – some called this heresy – and I had decided to rewrite a truncated version of my favourite Balzac novel. In the first lines the reader followed the fortunes of a young heiress, who, having frittered away her inheritance, is lured in by a pawnbroker, who gives her a talisman with the power to fulfil its owner’s every desire. I was prepared to admit that even though it had gone down well with readers, it was not the best thing I had ever written, but in the course of my research I had come across the colourful figure of Yochida Mitsuko, the most influential pawnbroker in California.

  Much like Sophia Schnabel’s clinic, Mitsuko’s little shop was one of the must-have addresses that circulated amongst the beautiful people in the Golden Triangle in Los Angeles. Just like everywhere else, the need for ready cash pushed even the wealthiest stars to offload some of their more extravagant purchases and, out of the twenty or so pawnbrokers in Beverly Hills, Yochida Mitsuko was the favourite among those in the know. With the help of Vanity Fair I had been granted a private interview with him at his workshop near Rodeo Drive. He proudly described himself as ‘pawnbroker to the stars’ and had plastered his walls with photos of himself standing next to various celebrities, who all looked rather embarrassed to have been captured on camera at a time when their financial fortunes had so obviously taken a turn for the worse.

  His warehouse was a real Aladdin’s cave, overflowing with an assortment of treasures. I remember seeing the baby grand piano that belonged to a famous jazz singer, the captain of the Dodgers’ lucky bat, a magnum of ’96 Dom Pérignon, a Magritte painting, a customised Rolls-Royce belonging to a rapper, the Harley of a well-known crooner, several cases of ’46 Mouton Rothschild and, despite the Academy’s strict rules, the gold statuette of a legendary actor who shall remain nameless.

  I looked at my phone. I was still barred from making calls, but I could access my address book and I quickly located Mitsuko’s number.

  I leaned forward to whisper in Billie’s ear, ‘Could you ask your boyfriend if I could possibly use his phone?’

  She seemed to negotiate with the gardener for a few minutes, and then, ‘Esteban says that’s OK, but it will cost you $50.’

  I didn’t want to waste time haggling, so I handed him a bill in exchange for an old nineties Nokia. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I held it in my hand: it was ugly, heavy and dull, no camera and no Wi-Fi. But it worked.

  Mitsuko picked up after the first ring.

  ‘It’s Tom Boyd here.’

  ‘What can I do for you, my friend?’

  I wasn’t sure why, but he had always seemed to like me, even though in my story I had not painted him in a particularly flattering light. Far from being offended, this ‘artistic’ portrayal had given him a certain cachet, for which he was extremely grateful, and he had thanked me by sending me a signed first edition of In Cold Blood.

  I asked politely how he was getting on, and he confessed that since the recession and the credit crunch his business had flourished like never before: he had already opened a second store in San Francisco and had plans for a third in Santa Barbara.

  ‘Every day, doctors, dentists and lawyers come into my shop to pawn their Lexus, their golf clubs or their wives’ mink stoles because it’s the only way they can afford to pay their bills. But you must have a reason for calling. Do you have something interesting for me to look at?’

  I started to describe my Chagall, but it was immediately obvious he was only listening to me out of politeness.

  ‘The art market hasn’t recovered from the financial crisis yet, but come and see me tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  I explained that I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, that I was in San Diego and I needed cash in the next two hours.

  ‘I suppose your phone has been cut off as well,’ he guessed. ‘I didn’t recognise the number you called me on, and you know how it is: with the number of gossip whores in this town, word gets around fast.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That you’re done for, and that these days you prefer swallowing pills to writing novels.’

  My silence was all the response he needed. Still, at the other end of the line I could hear he was typing something into his laptop, and I guessed he was looking up the current value of Chagall paintings and what kind of bids they were attracting at auction.

  ‘I can get your phone working again in the next hour,’ he said. ‘You’re with TTA, aren’t you? It’ll cost you $2,000.’

  Before I had even given my consent, I could hear him sending a message on his computer. If Sophia used people’s secrets against them, Mitsuko used their wallets.

  ‘As for the painting, I’ll give you $30,000 for it.’

  ‘I hope you’re joking. It’s worth about twenty times that amount!’

  ‘About forty times, in my opinion. Give it two or three years, at somewhere like Sotheby’s in New York, when the new-money Russians feel like spending again. But if you need cash by tonight, and you factor in the huge commission I’m going to have to give to my colleague in San Diego, $28,000 is all I can offer you.’

  ‘You just said thirty grand!’

  ‘Minus the 2,000 to get your network coverage back. And all this providing you carefully follow the instructions I’m about to give you.’

  Did I have any choice at this point? I reassured myself that I had four months to pay him back – plus 5 per cent interest – and be reunited with my most prized possession. I wasn’t sure I could do it, but it was a risk I had to take.

  ‘I’ll text you my instructions,’ concluded Mitsuko. ‘Oh, and by the way, tell your friend Milo that he’s only got a few days left to pick up his sax.’

  I hung up and gave Esteban back his phone, just as we cruised into the city centre. The sun was setting. San Diego was beautiful, bathed in a pink and orange glow that put me in mind of nearby Mexico. At a red light, Billie clambered into the back with me.

  ‘Man, it’s freezing in here!’ she said, hugging her knees to her chest.

  ‘Well, dressed like that—’

  She waved a piece of paper in my face.

  ‘They gave me the address of one of their friends who’s a mechanic. He might be able to get us a car. How are you getting on?’

  I looked at the screen on my phone. As if by magic, I was suddenly able to send texts and make calls again. Mitsuko’s text told me to use the camera on my phone to take a picture of the painting and send it to him.

  With Billie’s help I brought the painting into focus on the screen, and took shots from all angles, taking special care to take a f
ew of the certificate of authenticity on the back of the painting. Then, using an app downloaded from the internet in a few seconds, every photo was dated, encrypted and saved, before being sent via a secure server. According to Mitsuko, these photos would count as valid evidence in a court of law.

  The whole operation took about ten minutes, and by the time the pick-up truck dropped us off at the main station we had received a text from the pawnbroker giving us the address of his colleague in San Diego where we were to drop off the painting in exchange for the $28,000.

  I helped Billie down onto the sidewalk with our luggage and we thanked the gardeners for their help.

  ‘Si vuelves por aqui, me llamas, de acuerdo?’said Esteban, holding on to Billie’s hand for a moment too long.

  ‘Sí, sí!’ she replied, running her hand through her hair flirtatiously.

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Nothing! He just wished us luck.’

  ‘Oh sure, that’s exactly what he said to you,’ I said, getting in line for a taxi.

  She gave me a complicit smile, which prompted me to promise her, ‘Well, anyway, if everything goes according to plan, you’ll be eating chilli con carne and quesadillas with me tonight!’

  The mention of food was enough to get her talking again, but now instead of being exasperated by her incessant chirping, I heard it as cheering music.

  ‘And enchiladas, you’ve had enchiladas before, right?’ she exclaimed. ‘God, I love them, especially the chicken ones, when they’re all crispy. But you know you can also get them with prawns, and pork as well, right? Oh and nachos, urgh, I don’t like them at all. And escamoles? You’ve never tried them? Oh, we’ll have to find you some then. You know what they are? Ant larvae! It’s a really, like, posh thing to eat; some people even say it’s like insect caviar. Weird, huh? I’ve only ever tried them once. I was on vacation with some friends…’

  18

  Motel Casa del Sol

  Hell is contained entirely in this word: solitude