Hemlock Bay

“You’re entitled. You had a very bad experience here. You met Mr. Monk, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

Lily said slowly, “When I first met Mr. Monk, I thought he had the most intense black eyes, quite beautiful really, ‘bedroom eyes’ I guess you could call them. But he looked hungry. Isn’t that odd?”

Simon said, “He has beautiful eyes? Bedroom eyes? You women think and say the strangest things.”

“Like men don’t? If it were Mrs. Monk, you’d probably go on about her cleavage.”

“Well, yeah, maybe. And your point would be?”

“You’d probably never even get to her face. You men are all one-celled.”

“You think? Really?”

She laughed, she just couldn’t help it. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, and she saw that he was gri

“Get over it, Simon. We must be nearly to Abraham Turkle’s cottage. Just up ahead, Highway 211 turns left to go to Hemlock Bay. To the right there’s this asphalt one-lane track that goes the mile out to the ocean. That’s where the cottage is?”

“Yes, those were my directions. You’ve never been out to the ocean on that road?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Okay now, listen up. Abe has a bad reputation. He’s got a real mean side, so we want to be careful with him.”

They came to the fork. Simon turned right, onto the narrow asphalt road. “This is it,” Simon said. “There’s no sign and there’s no other road. Let’s try it.”

The ocean came into view almost immediately, when they were just atop a slight rise. Blue and calm as far as you could see, white clouds dotting the sky, a perfect day.

“Look at this view,” Lily said. “I always get a catch in my throat when I see the ocean.”

They reached the end of the road very quickly. Abe Turkle’s cottage was a small gray clapboard, weathered, perched right at the end of a promontory towering out over the ocean. There were two hemlock trees, one on either side of the cottage, just a bit protected from the fierce ocean storms. They were so gnarly and bent, though, that you wondered why they even bothered to continue standing.

There was no road, just a dirt driveway that forked off the narrow asphalt. In front of the cottage was a black Kawasaki 650 motorcycle.

Simon switched off the ignition and turned to Lily. She held up both hands. “No, don’t say it. I’m coming with you. I can’t wait to meet Abe Turkle.”

Simon said as he came around to open her car door, “Abe only eats snails and he grows them himself.”

“I’m still coming in with you.”

She carefully removed the seat belt, laid the small pillow on the backseat, and took his hand. “Stop looking like I’m going to fall over. I’m better every day. It’s just that getting out of a car is still a little rough.” He watched her swing her legs over and straighten, slowly.

Simon said, “I want you to follow my lead. No reason to let him know who we are just yet.”

When he reached the single door, so weathered it had nearly lost all its gray paint, he listened for a moment. “I don’t hear any movement inside.”

He knocked.

There was no answer at first, and then a furious yell. “Who the hell is that and what the hell do you want?”

“The artist is apparently home,” Simon said, cocking a dark eyebrow at Lily, and opened the door. He kept her behind him and walked into the cottage to see Abraham Turkle, a brush between his teeth, another brush in his right hand, standing behind an easel, glaring over the top toward them.

There was no furniture in the small front room, just painting supplies everywhere, at least twenty canvases stacked against the walls. The place smelled of paint and turpentine and french fries and something else-maybe fried snails. There was a kitchen separated from the living room by a bar, and a small hallway that probably led to a bedroom and a bathroom.

The man, face bearded, was indeed Abe Turkle; Simon had seen many photos of him.

“Hi,” Simon said and stuck out his hand.

Abe Turkle ignored the outstretched hand. “Who the hell are you? Who is she? Why the hell is she standing behind you? She afraid of me or something?”

Lily stepped around Simon and said, extending her hand, “I like snails. I hear you do, too.”

Abraham Turkle smiled, a huge smile that showed off three gold back teeth. He had big shoulders and hands the size of boxing gloves. He didn’t look at all like an artist, Simon thought. Wasn’t an artist supposed to wear paint-encrusted black clothes and have long hair in a ponytail? Instead, Abraham Turkle looked like a lumberjack. He was wearing a fla

“So,” Abe said, and he put down the brushes, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth to get off the bit of turpentine, and shook Lily’s hand. “The little gal here likes snails, which means she knows about me, but I don’t know who the hell you are, fella.”

“I’m Sully Jones, and this is my wife, Zelda. We’re on our honeymoon, just meandering up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay that you were an artist and that you liked snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we thought we’d stop by and see if you had anything to sell.”

Lily said, “We don’t know yet if we like what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you show us something? I hope you’re not too expensive.”

Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I’m real expensive. You guys aren’t rich?”

Simon said, “I’m in used cars. I’m not really rich.”

“Sorry, you won’t want to buy any of my stuff.”

Simon started to push it, then saw that Lily looked on the shaky side. Simon nodded to Abe Turkle and just looked at him.

“Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel and wiped his hands. Then he walked past them to the far wall, where there were about ten canvases piled together. He went through them, making a rude noise here, sighing there, and then he thrust a painting into Lily’s hand. “Here, it’s a little thing I did just the other day. It’s the Old Town in Eureka. For your honeymoon, little gal.”

Lily held the small canvas up to the light and stared at it. She said finally, “Why, thank you, Mr. Turkle. It’s beautiful. You’re a very fine artist.”

“One of the best in the world actually.”

Simon frowned. “I’m sure sorry we haven’t heard of you.”

“You’re a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”

“I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”

“Well, just maybe I’m more famous with certain people than with the common public.”

“What does that mean?” Simon asked.

Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn’t painted them.”

“I don’t understand,” Lily said.

“It ain’t so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”

Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”

“Hey, I don’t like that word. What do you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I’m really impressed.”

“Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man? Come on, what’s going on here?”

“I’m Simon Russo.”