Art's Blood Read Online Free Page B

Rafiq was a friend of hers, an artist who did sculpture from junk cars. “He’s crushing one today at noon— he always does them at noon or sunrise or sunset— he has this thing about portals— he, like, casts the car’s horoscope and when and where the car was built determines how he aligns it in the crusher and when— Oh, it’s totally hard to describe—” Laurel broke off. “But I wanted to go and take pictures. It’ll just take a few minutes and then we can go somewhere for lunch.”
    As they pulled into the junkyard — Hensleys Salvage, according to the crudely painted sign— Elizabeth interrupted Laurel’s exhaustive analysis of the relation of time and place to the creation of art — true art, Mum, not just commercial crap— to ask, “What about The 3? Do you know if Boz is back? I didn’t see anyone at their house this morning. And what was the point of that whole—”
    But Laurel had spotted her friend, a short, swarthy man in his forties, and was out of the jeep and bounding toward him. He began shouting and gesticulating wildly in response to her greeting, but Laurel simply looked amused. Elizabeth parked her car and hurried toward the pair.
    “Mum, this is Rafiq. Rafiq, this is my mother, Elizabeth. I brought her to see the crushing. Or she brought me.”
    Rafiq nodded briefly in Elizabeth’s general direction. “’Allo, Laurel’s mother.” His voice was mournful and his dark eyes tragic. He closed his eyes and hit his forehead with the back of his hand. “Laurel, I tell you…is already done. That Travis he do it already. Is ruined. No time portal.”
    A young man with a substantial beer gut and a Caterpillar cap emerged from behind a pile of wrecked cars, wiping his hands on his grease-encrusted jeans. “I didn’t do no such thing, Ray-fiq. I thought you come durin’ the weekend and done it yoreself.” A massive rottweiler followed him, eyeing the strangers coldly.
    “No matter, is ruined.” Rafiq flung up his hands, then folded his arms across his chest and turned his back.
    “Let’s just go take a look at it.” Laurel touched his shoulder gently. “Did you set it up yourself and put it in the crusher?”
    “Of course. Was all ready, waiting for noon. I get it ready Friday night but the stars say Monday noon is best for creation. So I go home, drink beer, wait for Monday. Travis never crush on Monday, so I think is okay. And now…”
    He shrugged and began to walk toward the crusher, a strange-looking, iron, box-shaped affair. They followed him, picking their way around the carcasses of wrecked and rusting cars that littered the oil-soaked junkyard dirt. The harsh smell of burned motor oil mingled with the sickly-sweet scent of corruption.
    “That dog of Travis, it kill the rats but do not eat them. They sometimes run under the cars to die. Is why such a stink,” Rafiq explained matter-of-factly.
    The crusher was surrounded by hydraulic hoses and huge pistons and seemed to be leaking oil. Rafiq stood in front of it, hands on hips, his face a picture of disgust.
    “Rafiq, why don’t you go on and take the piece out of the crusher and let us see it? I know Mum would be interested. And it’s going to look awesome, no matter who pushed the button or when they did it.”
    “Okay.” The man’s voice was listless. “But without proper timing, is not art. Is just junk, a dead thing.” He pushed a button at one side of the contraption and with a series of mournful creaks and groans, the compressing walls drew back to reveal a rectangular crumple that was the end result of thousands of pounds of pressure on a metallic blue Pontiac. The planes of shiny blue and silver interspersed with rusty blacks and browns were rather attractive, Elizabeth thought, though she couldn’t quite see it sitting in her living room.
    “I like that splotch of red down near the bottom.” Elizabeth’s Southern-lady upbringing compelled her to find some positive comment to make.