Rabbit Punch (Part Three)
BY GREGORY HEDGEPETH
Cover image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay. Cover art by Gregory Hedgepeth.
I knocked at the bright yellow door a second time, taking in the expansive estate’s exterior in awe. A lush, multi-colored tulip garden took up most of the front yard and several large lemon trees provided shade from the warm Mississippi sun.
I raised my fist to knock a third time, when I saw the home’s owner making her way to the door through the frosted glass inlay. I cleared my throat, ready to put on my best fake smile and hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be another dead end.
She pulled open the door and extended her hand, giving me a wide toothy smile. “Hello, you must be Donovan.”
“Yes, hello,” I said cheerfully giving her hand a shake. “Most people call me DQ.”
“It’s nice to meet you, DQ. My name is Daytona York. Welcome... please come inside.”
I stepped over the threshold, taking in the interior, which was even more breathtaking than the outside. There were several large framed paintings and photographs covering stark white walls and a number of modern amenities were furnished throughout. It only took a few glances to confirm that she really had taste where most folks in Gigglemug simply had an eye for what was most expensive. “You have a beautiful home, Miss York,” I said.
“Thank you so much. Lord knows it’s taken me months to get it this way—you should’ve seen what it looked like when I first moved in. It’s been a painstaking process, but I’m happy it’s all starting to come together.” She continued to beam her trillion-watt smile and I could tell how proud she was of her home. It was definitely different than I was used to with most Gigglemug residences that relied on professional decorators to illuminate the space. She seemed most gratified to have selected each item herself. “Let me show you where you’ll be getting started,” she said, beginning to walk off.
“Wait, just like that?” I asked taken aback. “You don’t want to interview me first?”
She seemed confused by the question. “Is that standard? I’ve already seen your work.”
“Almost every time I’ve done a piece for someone out here, they’ve grilled me on the kind of paint I’ll be using, which colors they need in the space, the shapes they expect...”
She shook her head. “I’m not interested in hindering your natural ability. I’ve seen the work you’ve done for other people’s homes and it’s... nice. But I love your raw work. Like the portfolio you sent over—I have to imagine that’s the stuff you create for yourself, right?”
“It’s the work that means the most to me.”
“Well, I don’t want three purple squares or a portrait of some naked woman because I’m looking to fill a space on a wall... I want you—the real DQ.” I grinned sheepishly. I had never been given the opportunity to do a custom piece for a client that was solely in my image before. Daytona continued to flash a wide smile as I found myself astounded at the freedom she was offering. “Follow me. I’ll show you to the gallery.”
I followed behind her closely, still awestruck at the innate beauty of the home. When we arrived at the gallery, it appeared to be the one room that was unfinished. The wood floors were halfway pulled up and there was a large tarp draped over the rest. To my surprise, she’d already hung two of my pieces in a far corner. We stepped into the middle of the room where three nine-foot canvases took up most of a large wall. “I have two other commissions coming in next week—this is your canvas,” she said, pointing to the middle one. “Fill it with whatever your heart desires and be honest and passionate about the work. Can we agree to that?”
I took a step back and eyed the large canvas. It was almost too good to be true. “And you’re sure about this? I can do anything I want?”
“I don’t want you to put anything on that wall that doesn’t fill you with a sense of pride. Lean in and give me your best work.” She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a check. “Oh and before I forget... here’s your payment.”
“This is a really large space. It may take me a while—a few days even.”
She beamed another warm smile. “Great art can’t be rushed, right? Take all the time you need. I’m going to step out into the courtyard for a bit. I have a few plants I need to attend to. Once you’re done for the day, just let me know.”
I shook my head in disbelief and reached for the check. My eyes grew wide at the amount listed. “Most people only give me a deposit upfront. Plus, this is double the price we agreed on.”
“I trust you,” she said simply. “You don’t strike me as the type of person who would abandon their work halfway through just because you were paid first. By the way, there’s plenty of food and drink in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to anything you find. I can’t wait to see what you come up with!”
She walked off giddily as I stood there with my mouth hung open. I couldn’t believe my luck. A completely custom piece. A huge payday. Not to mention how warm and inviting she’d been. She was the perfect client. Suddenly, I realized the daunting task I was faced with: I had no idea what I was going to paint. I took a step back, and stood there for several minutes taking in the space and its aura, determined to discover my point of attack. Once the idea began to materialize, I found myself overcome with a wave of inspiration. I grabbed my paintbrush and began to slap long strokes against the canvas, excited for what was to come.
***
“Man, you must get so much ass,” Walker said matter-of-factly while his eyes scanned the room. “I wish I had the temperament for that artist thing... I’m just better with numbers and whatnot, ya know?” I scrunched my face in annoyance, remaining silent as he continued. “Not to mention the shitty pay—I mean, who wants to be a starving artist? No offense, of course.”
“I’m actually not starving by any means,” I said taken aback as he waved me off. “Some artists do quite well for themselves, myself included.”
“You live in New Lorraine though, right?” he scoffed. “How hard can it be to stay fed when everything is paid for?”
I rolled my eyes and walked off. Daytona had been incredibly kind to invite me to her dinner party, but thus far, it was turning out just as I expected: another pretentious affair filled with rich people who loved nothing more than the sound of their own voices and the weight of their opinions.
I made my way past the kitchen which was clamoring with activity and smelled incredibly enticing. I was excited to eat something besides fish for the night. It was the only thing that ever made these shindigs worth attending. I sauntered towards the gallery, where three men stood in the middle of the room, observing the three canvases against the wall. I hadn’t yet taken the chance to see the other pieces Daytona had commissioned and decided this would be as good a time as any. I was holding out hope the other artists had been invited as well, so I’d have someone to discuss art with, but neither had made an appearance yet. I never liked to compare my work, but I couldn’t deny being excited to see how it stacked up against the others.
The piece to the far right was a random amalgamation of purple and pink splotches against a bright yellow background with splashes of silver dripping from the top. There was a signature in bright red near the bottom right corner, but I didn’t recognize it. Overall, I was impressed with the piece. The artist’s use of color didn’t match my personal preference, but I could appreciate the effort.
I made my way back to the front of the room as the men stood squarely focused on my piece when a comment from one of them caught my ear. “I just don’t get what it’s supposed to be,” he said, taking a swig from a flask. “So many of these so-called artists swear they’re doing something mind-bending but it just ends up looking like a bunch of nothing.” The man chuckled to himself as the other two just stood in silence. “Hell, Bishop—your dog could probably shit out better stuff than this if you didn’t feed him Pupper Supper.”
I had heard derogatory comments from ignorant people before, so I knew it wasn’t worth the time to defend my work. I rolled my eyes and decided to focus my energy on the piece to the left. The canvas had been wrapped in gold leaf. Painted over it was a simple green triangle outlined with a wide orange border. It was understated, but I loved the way it came out. I checked the signature and saw it was done by a young lady named Necole, a well-known artist who had completed different murals around the county. I almost felt intimidated knowing my work would be hanging next to hers, especially in a private residence.
“And don’t even get me started on that elementary-ass triangle over there!” the man said with a laugh, growing even more belligerent and taking another long swig from his flask. “I can’t believe Daytona really wasted her money like this.”
“You just don’t know how to appreciate art, brudda,” the man he’d called Bishop let out as his phone chimed.
“Ain’t nothing worth appreciating on this wall. I sure wouldn’t have paid anything for it.”
“Oh shit, I’ve gotta take this, Hampton,” Bishop said, quickly heading out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”
Hampton waved him off as the young man next to him seemed impressed with the piece. “I actually think it’s pretty nice,” he said. “I mean all the different shades of blue show a bit of melancholy... but I think the red and the yellow display a grasp at happiness.” I smiled to myself. I was actually kinda impressed with the observation. It wasn’t exactly what I’d been going for, but it wasn’t far off.
“Oh please, Morris. This is bullshit. All of this is bullshit. It’s just paint thrown against a wall. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Actually, it’s not just paint thrown against a wall,” I said, finally speaking up. “I put real thought into this.”
“Shit, I can’t tell,” Hampton said, waving me off after another swig.
“Wait, you’re DQ?” Morris asked with his eyes wide. “I know you, you’re the one who—“
“Nobody gives a fuck who he is,” Hampton said, belching loudly and beginning to slur his words. “You hear me? Nobody... gives a single... a single fuck who you are!”
“Hey, Hampton, chill man,” Morris said, trying to quell the situation. “DQ is like a legend in The Wealth. He’s done stuff all over Mississippi—some of his stuff even made it to the state museum.”
Hampton scoffed. “Is that supposed to be some kind of accomplishment? Should I be impressed?”
“Is being an asshole an accomplishment?” I asked with an eye roll.
He took another swig off the flask before dropping it to the floor. “What did you say?”
“I don’t recall being hesitant with my words,” I said matter-of-factly. “You heard exactly what I said.”
“Do you... do you know who the fuck you’re... you’re talking to?”
“Hey Hampton—“ Morris started, attempting to deescalate the situation yet again.
“Get off me!” Hampton let out, pushing his hand away. “See? I was just playing with your ass. But now you’re trying to run your mouth and make this into something you don’t really want. I ain’t one of these Gigglemug softs! You need to show some respect!”
I looked him up and down with disgust. “What’s there to respect?”
“You keep flapping those gums and I’ma slap fire out your ass!”
“Yo, Hampton chill, man—“
“I’m outta here,” I said, turning to leave.
“Don’t you turn your back on me!” he let out with his nostrils flared, grabbing at my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me, nigga!” I yelled, yanking my shoulder from his grasp as Morris moved to get between us. I didn’t know what was up with him, but it had to be more than whatever was in that flask.
“Move, Morris! I’m tired of this little motherfucker!”
My fists clenched on instinct, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “Whatever. You ain’t worth my time. If I had known Daytona was going to invite assholes, I coulda stayed home tonight. I’m outta here.”
“Yeah, you better leave!”
“Fuck you,” I spat out, darting past a woman who had just rushed into the gallery, presumably to figure out what all the commotion was about.
“No, fuck you!” I heard Hampton scream out as I made my way out the room, shaking my head in frustration.
***
“Look, I know how it sounds,” I said calmly. “But I didn’t have anything to do with the guy getting killed. I barely saw him again after that. Once his wife came up to me and apologized, I was done with the situation. I wasn’t about to let him fuck up my night.” The detective looked at me as if he wanted to believe me, but I wasn’t sure if he did.
“So, Mrs. Hamilton apologized to you, but not Hampton?”
“After dinner, he came up and belched out some half-assed apology. It was probably just the liquor talking though—hell, between the flask and his punch, he was drunk most of the night. I just tried my best to avoid him. I was happy that Daytona had overpaid for the work, but I was still hoping to connect with another client or two.”
“And did you?”
“Not really, I chatted up her sister a bit, but she didn’t seem to bite. No one else really seemed interested in the artwork besides Morris.”
“Ah yes, Mr. McMahon... perhaps, he could be a future client?”
“Doubtful. He lives in New Lorraine just like me.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll be there forever. From what I’m told, he’s had a promising internship so far. He was under the tutelage of Mr. Hamilton himself.”
I scoffed. “I guess that’s supposed to mean something.”
“You really don’t know anything about the Hamiltons?”
I shrugged. “They’re just Gigglemugs.”
“Not by a long shot. Hampton Hamilton is second-in-command at one of the largest brokerage firms in the state.”
“Okay—and what’s that’s supposed to mean?”
“He’s not exactly small time,” the detective said simply as my face scrunched in confusion. “The guy has beat the market every year since he got reparations.”
I shrugged it off. “Everyone in Gigglemug thinks they’re somebody special—he was just some drunk asshole at a party as far as I’m concerned.”
“I see,” he said, scribbling something down in his notebook. “So what did you and Dahlia discuss exactly?”
“Nothing particularly important, I guess. She said she admired my work. Told me she was the one who initially suggested me to Daytona. I told her I was grateful for her eye. We didn’t get to talk much though—her boyfriend was hovering most of the time until she left.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yeah... the other guy. Walker... something.”
He flipped through several pages in his notebook. “Mr. Gauff? He and Dahlia are an item?”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell by the way they interact with one another. She seemed to enjoy the company of others a lot more than his, but any time she was talking with someone, he’d come and interrupt.”
“Interesting,” he said, scribbling more notes. “Is there anything else you remember about their interactions?”
I shrugged. “Not really. They got into a big blow up before dinner and she left out.”
“What was the blow up about?”
“I’m not certain to be honest. Something about a slab.”
“A slab?”
“Yeah, he just kept yelling ‘you’re not a slab’ and before I knew it, she was out the front door.
“I see,” he said, taking a pause. “Do you recall what happened before you passed out?”
“Not really. Just remember feeling a little ill. That punch was way too potent. And I already don’t really drink like that as it is. I don’t see how Hampton could stand it—his liver must’ve been made of steel or something.”
“Can you think of anyone at the party who may have wanted to harm him?”
I shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Dude was an A-1 dick in my opinion... but he seemed to be endeared by everyone else there.” I paused for a moment, lost in thought before shaking my head. “I guess that makes me suspect number one, huh?”
“And what makes you say that?”
“You know... motive and all that jive...”
He finished scribbling and looked me in the eye. “Hmph, I guess you have a point. Sit tight for me, won’t you?” He slid the notebook back into his pocket and headed for the door. “Actually—I do have one more question: did anyone at the party strike you as a Rager?”
My face ran white. “A Rager? You think a Rager murdered Hampton?”
He shrugged slightly. “I’m playing a hunch.”
I searched my memory for anything that may have indicated anyone with the RAAAGE. “No one comes to mind. I just... I mean, you never know who’s who these days.”
“I guess you have a point there.” He gave me a final once over and then a half-smile before leaving out without another word.
Gregory Hedgepeth is the editor-in-chief of Vital Narrative Press. You can follow him on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. Feel free to follow on all three. Or maybe just two. Yeah, two’s probably good—he’s not that interesting. Gregory Hedgepeth is also the author of MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT SUNRISES, THE YEAR THAT ANSWERED and A COLLECTION OF ECHOES. BUY THAT SHIT.