“Man! Don’t be doing something stupid now.”
The guy seemed to be talking to himself more than me, but we sprinted together to the door.
So many cars filled the area that we couldn’t see Chad or Nadia at first, but we heard Chad shouting, “Why are you doing this? Who sent you here?” as we slipped and stumbled along the icy gravel of the parking lot toward his voice.
Chad, under one of the streetlamps, was standing over Nadia. He wasn’t touching her, but he was leaning down so his face was close to hers. He’d left his coat in the bar, and the lamp picked up the tattoos along his bare forearms. He was holding a black object, something that looked like an outsize oven mitt, under her face. Even in her bulky parka, Nadia looked frail next to him.
We reached them in time to hear Nadia say, “Who sent you? Are you spying on me?” while Chad was yelling, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is! Why are you doing this to me?”
Chad’s friend sprinted to his side and wrapped an arm across his neck, affection and restraint in one gesture. “You don’t want to be out here in the cold, man. Come on. Let’s go back inside, warm up, get another beer.”
I pulled Nadia away, leading her across the parking lot toward Lake Street. “Nadia, what’s going on here? Why is Chad so upset by your painting?”
“Who are you?” She blinked at me.
“My name’s V. I. Warshawski. I’m a private investigator, and if there’s something—”
“A detective? Go to hell!” She wrenched free of my hand. “I’m sick and tired of people spying on me. Tell them that!”
“Tell who that? I’m not spying on you. I just want to know—”
“I’ve seen you in the club. I know what you’re doing there. No one is going to stop me from painting—”
“I don’t want to stop you. Please, Nadia, can we talk where it’s warmer? It’s brutal out here.”
“We can’t talk at all. If you come near me again, I’ll . . . I’ll spray pepper in your eyes.”
She broke away from me, stomped down Lake Street to the L stop. I watched as she climbed up to the platform, puzzled by the whole exchange. Chad’s and Nadia’s accusations of spy versus spy made them seem like a married couple in the middle of a bad divorce. But what was the black oblong Chad had held under her nose?
When I returned to the club, the Body Artist was finishing her act. No one had painted over Nadia’s work, but the Artist’s front and arms were covered with crude drawings, stripes, a tic-tac-toe board, and a few sunflowers.
“All of you are amazing, amazing artists. Feel good about who you are in the world, how creative you are, and come see your work on my website, at embodiedart.com. Remember, it’s a cold, cruel world out there, but art can keep you warm even if it can’t keep you safe.”
She held up her hands in a peace sign, and left the stage. Olympia kept the images running on the screens while she turned canned music back on, and the audience relaxed into explosions of laughter. The release of sexual tension made everyone order drinks, and my cousin and the rest of the waitstaff were running around madly for the next twenty minutes.
I’d had enough of everyone at Club Gouge, but I went back to the Body Artist’s dressing room thinking I should at least talk to her. Olympia’s bouncer was standing outside her door.
“Sorry, but she doesn’t want to be disturbed after her performance. It takes a long time for her to clean up, and she’s exhausted.”
“I know just how she feels.”
I smiled and ducked under his arm and was in the dressing room before he could grab me. He followed me as the Artist started squawking in outrage.
I’d wondered if she wanted privacy to do drugs after her act, but she was, in fact, putting some kind of paint-removing cream on her arms and legs, then wiping it off with hand towels. The floor around her was littered with paint-smeared towels. I wondered if she was a big enough star that someone cleaned up after her or if she had to do her own laundry.
“Ms. Artist, did you tell Nadia I was in the club to spy on her?”
The Artist kept wiping herself off with towels and refused to say anything, but her flat, almost transparent eyes studied me in the mirror.
“She’s sure she’s being spied on,” I said. “Is she paranoid or is someone really after her?”
“You’d have to ask her, wouldn’t you?” the Artist said.
“Nadia waits in here, doesn’t she, while the band plays? She gets special treatment from you, and that annoys Olympia. But it makes me think she’s told you why she’s so nervous. Are she and Chad in the middle of a bad divorce?”
The Artist smiled for the first time. With contempt, not good humor.
“I’m not going to help you build a dossier on anyone,” she said. “Now it’s time for you to leave. Unless you want to clean my cunt for me.”