“Who’s both?”
“Why, Ben and Mae.”
“Who’s Mae?”
“His wife.”
“What wife?”
“Oh, she was his model, didn’t I tell you that? That time I went over to his studio to check the baseball cover for my book. He had the cover all done, it was right, had the right cap on Stan Musial and all. But he was painting a nude when I got there. He liked to do fine art, what he called fine art anyway. And he was painting this nude.”
He took another bite of burrito, washed it down with whiskey sour. “You know, Sam, I really need a refill of this thing. They make the worst damn drinks in this joint that I’ve ever tasted.”
Lindsey signaled the waitress. Harkins was a treasure-trove. That is, he was if his memories were accurate. At their first dinner he’d denied knowing anything about Bruninski except his na
