I finally decided I’d play all innocence, never turn my back on him, and maybe it would all go away. I’m pretty fast on my feet and he was an old man, but no telling what he’d do if something gave — like he might get extra adrenaline. If he did manage to do me in, it sure would be one heck of an artistic way to go, with a Venetian stiletto between my bony little shoulder blades. But I didn’t intend to die, even
Yes, tonight is the night. I shall play it cool, to quote my young and entirely too perspicacious friend. I do feel the entire situation is unfortunate, but what am I to do? The stiletto, of course. I remember when I bought it in a Los Angeles antique store. How many intrigues had it seen? Had it belonged to one of the Borgias? Well, the time has come for it to come to life again. Has it been waiting for all these years to taste that precious thing, blood? I have already removed the cover from the well — those heavy cement lids are difficult to manage, but this is something that must be done and I find that my strength is now that of ten.
I, Calagria (I have become bold enough to use my true name), must now protect myself so that I may continue to offer the world my genius,
While gazing at my painting last night I was discussing with Lorenzo de’Medici the fine art of people disposal, as I prefer to call it.
“Diversion, diversion,” he said, smiling, as he fingered one of his priceless rings. Of course Lorenzo himself would never do such a thing, but he
Hoo, boy, Kelly John Kelly, I mumbled to myself as I combed what beard I have, here we go. It sounds sort of, well, melodramatic, and like it would be easier just to turn the poor guy in but, I repeat, I’m a fanatic about art and I just couldn’t hurt him. I was sincerely hoping that it could all be settled, like nice and peaceful. So off I went. One of the of-age students had bought me a half pint of vodka and I’d downed some of it — Dutch courage, my old grandmother used to say. I trundled along, sort of all drunked up under the spooky moon, and as the one sidewalk in this village sort of rolls up at eight o’clock I really never felt so alone in my life, like going to my doom.
I finally came to the little shack, looking dark and forbidding, in the middle of a weed patch, with dinky glimmers of light coming through the window — like a goblin house. Up I tippy-toed and knocked on the door, gulping oxygen all the while. Then I stuck my chin up and tried to relax. Man oh man oh manaroonian, I was
The door slowly squeaked open and there he was, grinning through his beard, wearing, for Pete’s sake, this Venetian-type costume, like one in the Calagria picture.
“Ah, my boy, come in, come in. Delightful to see you, yes indeed.”
The food smelled great. He poured me a glass of wine — real good stuff this time, though I couldn’t help wondering about poison — but seeing as how he poured a glass for himself out of the same bottle and I didn’t see any funny stuff going on, I started to relax, and pretty soon my worries were sloughing off. It was warm and cosy and I thought, well, I’ve had a paranoid spell. Hell with it.