Chapter 3
Warren Lasswell's house was on a narrow street that curved along the edge of a bluff. The house itself was a big nineteenth century mansion that had been remodeled. A new wing made of glass and redwood hung out over the bluff on stilts.
There was a low silver XKE Jaguar parked on the wooden ramp that was also built on stilts. It was a beautiful car which Warren often drove recklessly down Bridgeway with a bright red scarf blowing around his neck.
Warren had remodeled the house himself, which he bought with part of the fortune he inherited from his father, a Philadelphia shipbuilder. Much of the time the house was locked up while he was living at other art colonies. He was the rich arty type with no talent and a superior, patronizing manner.
He had only been in Sausalito a month, though they had heard of him long before his coming. Elaine and Brenda had met him at a party shortly after he arrived, and ever since then he had been giving Brenda a lot of attention.
Elaine stopped at the end of her climb to catch her breath and look out at the view of the bay from the hillside. Then she went up onto the long porch, which was still Victorian with carved wooden gingerbread on the posts and railings.
She knocked and waited. When nobody answered, she pushed open the door and went inside. The air was thick with wisteria smell of incense. There was a tomb-like silence. The echo of her footsteps was lost in the vastness of the rooms, which were sparsely furnished in modern style with a touch of oriental. There were Japanese screens and prints, and a few of Warren's nightmare distortions done in cadium red and yellow and black.
She went from room to room until she heard voices coming from the big studio upstairs. She climbed the winding staircase and went down the carpeted hall.
Brenda was sitting crosslegged on a pillow, wearing a pair of tight black toreadors. She was nude from the waist up, and her feet were bare. There was a youthful beauty in her round, placid face beneath the mass of golden hair.
Warren Lasswell stood beneath the north light like a neurasthenic willow, pondering a painting which he had placed upon the easel. It was a tremendous six-by-eight canvas with woven lines of blue and yellow like thin, tangled wires.
Brenda had been on this kick lately, swinging brushes on strings like Jackson Pollock, changing the length of the strings to vary the orbits.
There were more of Brenda's paintings in a stack against the wall. The ones Lola said they had picked up last night from the barge.
Warren stood with his chin on his hand, wearing a loose-sleeved oriental robe of black silk which was drawn by a sash at the waist, revealing the odd outline of his fleshy hips.
He was a squat little man with an oval tonsure of black hair on his head, and dark hypnotic eyes.
He turned at the sound of Elaine's step on the polished oak floor. His deepset eyes blinked. He gave her a condescending smile as she sat down beside Brenda. And then he turned back to the painting and began to nod his head knowlingly as he fingered his chin.
"Remarkable-" he said in a voice that reminded Elaine of a croaking frog. "The composition is simply polyphonic, my dear. See how the details blend together in an arabesque of line and color?"
He tugged at the wide sleeve of his gown and stepped back a pace, still gazing at the painting. Then with sluggish apathy he took it down and placed another of Brenda's paintings on the easel. A canvas of solid black with a small red design near one corner.
"I like this too," Warren said, arching his back, tilting his head. "Now, what do we see? A massive black space dominating the canvas with its terrifying monotony. And then the mind is shocked by this brilliant splash of red. Everything else is eliminated to achieve a perfect clarity. Not one unnecessary detail...."
Brenda leaned forward breathlessly, her hands on her knees. There was a rapt expression on her face.
"Do you really like it?" she said.
"I do-" Warren Lasswell replied, nodding his head. "Very much, Brenda."
"You make me see things I was only half-conscious of...."
"It's all there, my dear."
"I didn't realize it was so good."
"You have talent, dear. Much talent. There's no question about it. I'm amazed at how much talent you have. Such maturity for a girl so young."
He took down the painting and replaced it with another.
"Now, this one...." Warren said in the voice of the idle gentleman. "It is still a sketch, of course. But a remarkable idea. Still I'm not too sure about the placement of the eye."
"Should I have put it in the navel?"
"I wonder how it would be on the edge of the shoulder?"
"Maybe...."
Elaine almost laughed.
But Brenda was deadly serious, and she would have defended herself violently. She couldn't see through Warren Lasswell's syrupy insincerity. Elaine remembered overhearing Warren confiding to a friend "-I tell her what she wants to hear." Though she wasn't certain he had been speaking of Brenda.
Elaine looked at her sister sitting bare-waisted on the pillow with her arms looped beneath her legs. Her face was young and fresh beneath the uncombed mop of blonde hair, but her eyes seemed weak and watery.
Elaine felt a sudden chill when she noticed a scattering of small bruises on the inner side of Brenda's elbow. She had seen needle marks before.
She leaned over for a closer examination, but Brenda pulled her arms tight under her knees.
"Brenda," Elaine said, tryng to keep her voice under control. "Let me see your arm."
"Why?"
Brenda looked at her defiantly through eyes that were slightly glazed. "I want to see it."
"Is that why you came here-to snoop around?"
"I got worried when you didn't show up for two days. Why shouldn't I?"
"I can take care of myself."
"I'm not so sure about that," Elaine said.
"I don't dig you," Brenda replied haughtily.
"Have you been goofing with the needle?"
Brenda sniffed and looked away. She leaned her chin on her knees and wiggled her toes.
"Answer me," Elaine demanded.
"So, what if I have?"
Elaine was swept by a sudden desperation. She had to do something, and yet she didn't know what. She sat up on her haunches and took Brenda's wrist
"Come on home, Brenda...."
"I won't," Brenda cried angrily, jerking her arm away.
"Please," Elaine said. "I'm afraid for you. don't you know what you're playing with? Junk is so dangerous. You don't want to wreck your life...."
"Stop being old-fashioned," Brenda said scornfully. "You sound like Mother."
Elaine's body was hot with anger. She glared at Warren Lasswell, who was facing her benignly with his pale arms folded across his chest.
"What could you ever see in a creep like that?" she said to Brenda.
"Warren is going to sponsor a show for me." Brenda lifted her chin proudly. "Just as soon as I get enough material ready. He owns a house in San Miguel. We've going there so I can have a change of scenery. And then we're going to New York for the show."
"Are you out of your head?"
"It's true, isn't it, Warren?"
"Every word of it, my dear."
"He's feeding you a line," Elaine said. "Can't yon see what he's doing?"
"He isn't. He wants to help me with my career. Not just anybody can have a private show."
Elaine stood up impatiently and paced across the room. Her fingers opened and closed with frustration.
She rubbed her sweaty palms on the legs of her jeans. She paused before the painting on the easel and looked at it, shaking her head. Then she whirled around.
"Look, Brenda. You know your stuff isn't that good yet. It takes time....
Brenda stared at Elaine with her mouth open. Her eyes were watering. She inhaled deeply, arrogantly. And then she gave Elaine an accusing smile.
"I think you're jealous..
"Don't be stupid," Elaine said disgustedly.
"Your sister...." Warren said with a weary sigh, "has a remarkable talent."
He stood piously before the painting and studied it. His lingering fingers stroked the painted surface. Then he turned and moved toward them slowly like a Buddhist monk with the robe swinging about his legs.
"This is my big chance," Brenda said excitedly.
"Everything she told you is true," Warren said, smiling at Elaine with his dark eyes fixed on her face. "As soon as she has completed enough of her work, I'm going to sponsor a show for her in New York. I own an interest in a gallery there, you know."
Elaine shook her head sadly. Brenda had always been susceptable to flattery, and Warren had really been laying it on thick. She gave him a hard look.
"What are you trying to do to my little sister?"
"I only want to help her, dear girl."
"Do you call that helping her? Getting her hooked on horse. You're trying to kill her."
The smile wilted on Warren's lips. He heaved a world-weary sigh and blinked his drooping eyelids.
"You're so young, child. And you think you know about life. What do you really know? A stunted little flower from the cold Dakota plains. I could teach you many things, if you would listen to me. Why should you fear death? It's only when you look upon death and flirt with it that you come alive. The matador understands this when he exposes himself to the horns. Gamble with life. If you lose, you've missed nothing. Don't be afraid of death. It's only a long, peaceful sleep...."
"You're a devil," Elaine said. "What are you doing to Brenda?"
"So you think I'm immoral?" Warren replied with a faded smile. "Of course I'm immoral. Anybody is who wants to be true to himself. The real passions of the body are immoral, but the only way to realize your true self is to give in to them. Children are immoral little beasts, but they have a certain style that has been bred out of the rest of us. They can express themselves better and more truthfully than we. You want to be a great artist? I'm trying to show you the way...."
"I won't listen to your damned ideas."
"Dear Elaine-you're afraid of yourself. Don't be afraid. Stop denying yourself. We're only here to strut and fret our poor hour upon the stage. Get the most out of life that you can. What if you learned that you would die tomorrow? Wouldn't you regret the things you wanted to do and didn't have the courage? You have as much talent as Brenda, but you'll never release it until you release yourself from your niggardly righteous past. What does it matter if you live an hour or a hundred years? If you are really alive in that hour, you'll experience more than dull fools who live to be a hundred."
Elaine felt a cold horror crawling beneath her skin as she stared at Warren Lasswell's mad dark eyes and evil mouth. He sniffed his nose and blotted it with a red silk handkerchief. As he stuffed it into the sleeve of his robe, he seemed to stagger.
"I'm running down," he said with a feeble smile. "I need winding up again, I'm afraid. So if you'll excuse me, I'll indulge myself with a fix. Brenda?"
He turned his watery dark eyes in her direction and she nodded her head.
"No-" Elaine cried.
"It's none of your business," Brenda replied coldly. "I can't let you keep this up...."
"Leave me alone."
Brenda's voice was harsh and determined. Her eyes glittered hard at Elaine. Her mouth twisted with anger.
"Listen, Brenda," Elaine said desperately. "Come home with me. You've got to stop this before it's too late."
"Leave me alone!" Brenda screamed at her. "I'm not going to leave you alone. You don't know what you're doing."
"Damn you!"
Brenda jumped up and came at her, swinging wildly with her clawed fingers. Elaine pushed her away. Brenda stopped and stood breathing heavily. She brushed back her fallen hair. Her ripe young breasts rose and fell as she panted.
"All right," Elaine said, determined to stop her. "If you won't listen to reason, then I'll try something else."
"I suppose you'll write home to Mother," Brenda said disdainfully. "That's about what I'd expect from you."
"No," Elaine replied. "I'll go to the police and tell them about your shooting gallery."
Warren Lasswell came quickly across the room. His eyes were hard and bitter. He stood before Elaine and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His face grew pale and wilted. His nose began to run.
"If I thought you meant it, I'd throttle you." He stared at her with hatred. And then he shook his head. "No. That would be stupid. The only way to deal with meddlers is to avoid them. We'll have to leave for Mexico sooner than we planned, Brenda. I couldn't last two days in jail, cut off from my nourishment. There's no time to pack. We'll buy what we need along the way."
He took Brenda by the arm and led her toward the door.
"Don't go with him, Brenda," Elaine called. "Please."
"You won't leave me alone."
"I'm just doing it for your own good."
"You're jealous because I'm going to have my own private showing," Brenda said contemptuously.
"It's not that...." Elaine went up to her. "Please don't go with him, Brenda. We should stay together ..
Brenda turned away.
Elaine grabbed her arm, but she jerked it out of her grasp. Brenda's eyes were furious.
"Leave me alone," she cried. "Why can't you mind your own business?"
Suddenly Brenda swung her hand. It struck Elaine's face with a loud slap. She felt tears stinging her eyes. Her lips trembled. Brenda walked away, letting Warren lead her through the door.
They went down the hall. Elaine ran after them. They went through a door and slammed it shut. Elaine tried to push it open, but it was locked.
She stood for several minutes staring at the door, listening to them running about on the other side. Finally she turned and went slowly toward the stairs. Tears began rolling down her face. Her chest was knotted with pain.
She walked down the hill slowly, dragging her wooden clogs. She was at the bottom of the hill near Bridgeway when the silver Jaguar rolled swiftly past and turned the corner with a screaming of tires.
Warren Lasswell was driving. He wore a gray sport coat and a blue cravat. Brenda had on some kind of embroidered oriental robe.
She didn't turn once to look back at Elaine as the car raced away toward Frisco.