Sacré Bleu

The Colorman turned to her, sheepishly, and shrugged.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Fine, bring me some wine, then. Who do you think is suspicious?”

“The dwarf. The little painter. He was here. He bought color from me. He was asking about the Dutchman, about Auvers.”

“Surely he hasn’t connected us with the Dutchman. How would he do that?”

The Colorman shrugged again, then handed her a heavy crystal goblet of wine.

“I don’t know. A letter maybe? The Dutchman was mad. And not in the usual way. Maybe we should kill the dwarf, just to be safe.”

“How is that safe? He wouldn’t even be suspicious if you hadn’t murdered the Dutchman.”

“Accident. Couldn’t be helped,” said the Colorman.

“Well, we’re not going to kill him. We’ll hide.”

“What about the baker? He suspects?”

“No, he doesn’t suspect anything. He’s exhausted. I had him in London for a week today. It’s his family.”

“Did you get the painting?”

“Does it look like I got the painting? I brought this.” She threw a partially used tube of paint on the coffee table. “This is all the blue that is left.”

“Why didn’t you get the painting?”

“Because someone just brained me and the painting is fucking huge, isn’t it? It’s still wet, I couldn’t cut it from the stretchers and roll it up. And I might have been noticed, making my way across Montmartre with a bigger-than-life-size nude of myself, don’t you think?”

“I was just asking. London makes you cranky.”

“London does not make me cranky. Losing months of work, getting knocked on the bloody head, and having to talk to you makes me cranky.”

“Oh,” said the Colorman. “I don’t like London.”

“Noted.” She drained her glass. “There’s food?”

“Roast chicken. I saved you half. So, we get the painting, then kill the baker and his family to cover our tracks.”

“No, we don’t kill them. What is with you and the killing? Did you get a taste of it with the Dutchman and now you want to keep trying it? This isn’t like scaring away the maids with your penis. If you keep murdering artists someone will notice, you know?”

“You think I can scare painters away with my penis?” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling at the wonder of the possibility. Bleu didn’t know that he had tried it once with the painter Artemisia and she had threatened to saw his head off; insane Italian tart.

“No, but you can’t kill them, either. Not all of them. Not that way.”

“We’ll use the color. And if you go with me they won’t remember.”

“Of course they won’t bloody remember, they’ll be dead.” Then she called him a name in a dead language that translated, roughly, to “poop on a stick,” but sounded more succinct, like this: “Of course they won’t bloody remember, they’ll be dead, Poopstick.”

“We can move, hide. The dwarf asked about the redheaded laundress. Maybe you should find her again for him. He paints fast.”

She shook her head. “No, we’ll hide, but I have to finish with Lucien.”

“You want a bath?”

“Food.”

“Then a bath? I lit the heater. The water will be hot.”