The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues Read Free Page A

kneeling on the closet floor, Dickory paired a Greek sandal with an Indian moccasin.
    “In one word, and only one word, describe the new tenant, Manny Mallomar.”
    She had to do better this time, but “gross” fought with “greasy,” “foul-mouthed” with “white-suited.” Only one word described both the man and his character.
    “Ugly,” she said.
    “I, myself, would have said ‘fat,’ ” Garson replied. “Mallomar could never hide his obesity, no matter what his disguise. But I’ll accept ‘ugly’; only the brush of a portrait painter could disguise that.”
    Why was he always talking about disguises?
    “Now, take Manny Mallomar again, and step by step describe what cannot be disguised. Forget about ‘ugly’ this time.”
    “Fat,” she began. That word had already been approved. “Bulging eyes.”
    “He could hide his pop-eyes behind dark glasses,” Garson said.
    “About five-feet eight-inches tall.”
    “Mallomar wears stacked-heel shoes and is only five-five.”
    “White stacked-heel shoes,” Dickory continued, “white shirt, white suit, white tie.”
    “He could change his clothes.”
    “Greasy skin, dark-complected.”
    “The word is complexioned, not complected. And he could change his skin color with makeup.”
    Defeated at every turn, Dickory blurted: “Manny Mallomar looks like the ghost of a greasy hamburger.”
    “Not bad, Dickory. Imaginative, even creative; but you still have a lot to learn about being observant. Think of it this way: if Manny Mallomar walked through that door in bare feet, wearing a dark blue suit, sunglasses, and makeup, how would you recognize him?”
    “Fat.”
    “Are you sure he’s fat? He could be padded.”
    Dickory was tiring of the game. “I would recognize Manny Mallomar by the thick roll of fat at the back of his neck, by his fat fingers, and by his fat thighs that make him stand with his feet wide apart.”
    “You are an apt pupil.” With that, Garson left the room. He told her to come down to the studio for the third question when she had finished unpacking the costumes.
    Costumes? Why would a painter of distinguished men and wealthy women keep such a gaudy wardrobe, Dickory wondered. Were they really costumes, or were they disguises?
     
    Arranging painted fans and junk jewelry in the last drawer, Dickory thought about the third question. She knew what it would be, and she knew that she was being given time to think about it.
    What was the one word that described Garson?
    Dickory pictured his regular, expressionless features: blue eyes; blond hair, longish and styled; thin lips that never smiled; fair skin, unwrinkled, slightly blotched. Voice: flat, almost bored, except when he spoke of art or Isaac. Size: tall, but not unusually so; lean. Clothes: starched shirt tapered to cling to his slim waist; sleeves rolled high on taut, tanned arms; tailored blue jeans, tight-fitting. He probably worked out in a gym to keep in such fine trim.
    “Trim,” that was a good word. At least it was better than “phony.”
    “Come on down,” Garson called. He had a fresh drink in one hand, a paintbrush in the other.
    “Dissipated,” Dickory thought, descending the open staircase. Then she remembered what he had said about the Mallomar descriptions. There was only one thing about Garson that could not be disguised: the tremor in his right hand.
    Once again Dickory stood under the immense skylight. Garson was painting at one easel, the other easel was covered with a red velvet drape. What she had thought was a man sitting in the chair was not a man at all, but a life-sized artist’s manikin dressed in jockey silks.
    Dickory watched Garson lay a rosy glaze on the cheek of the distinguished, gray-suited lawyer. His brush was sure and steady; his hand no longer shook. Rejecting the word “hand-tremor,” she was now confronted with another hyphenated word: “third-rate.” Garson was a third-rate painter. Although competent, the portrait he was