‘But it’s the same paint in both samples, right?’
‘It is. The same base of white lead paint, with an identical amount of yellow pigment mixed into it.’
‘So it’s possible it was the same painter?’
‘Not possible, definite. This paint you can’t buy; you have to make it illegally. And the only people I know who do that are forgers. You can distil white lead off old toy soldiers – they were always painted with white lead, and there are still a lot of them around.’
‘I know. I seen them at this painter’s apartment. He had one of them tin men in a mug of vinegar.’
‘He’s no fool, this artist of yours. There’s another way of ageing paint so that it looks old, a forger’s trick – ultraviolet light.’
‘So let me guess: this would look like a cabinet, Mr Ortega, something you’d place the painting in and then a pinkish violet light comes on?’
‘Like I said, no fool. But present this pigment and you wouldn’t have a case. You have to understand, it’s a huge business, forgery, and very profitable. These people study the way the artist stretches the canvas – the back of the painting is more of a signature for the artist than his actual brushwork. The way he stretches the canvas, the thickness of the stretcher, the weight of the canvas – is it burlap or cotton? If so, what weave of cotton? How many tacks has he used to nail the canvas to the stretcher? Are the tacks rusty, are they old? Is the canvas ripped or cut? All this is very important, because artists always repeat themselves in the way they do these things; they get into a rhythm of following the same method with each painting and so it becomes their signature. And each artist is different. Hopper would not stretch his canvas the way Pollock stretched his, and so on. Then you have the front of the painting: what brushes did the artist use? What was his gesso – the ground under the paint – of choice? Is it made with rabbit glue, like it would have been if Hopper had painted it? The forger has to study all of these things meticulously and apply every one of them to his forgeries. The way to catch them is when they slip up on one tiny detail. And you know what? The longer a forger works, the more careless he gets. Sometimes their ego gets inflated, you know, and they begin to think that their work is as good as the master’s, so they let one little detail go. Like they want to be caught; subconsciously they want the whole world to discover it is really their work and not the master’s. It’s an allegory for life, Miss Johnson. The moment you let your ego take over, that’s it. You’re dead in the water.’
‘All I know is that I seen the lead soldiers, the cabinet, a jar of rusty old tacks, old paintbrushes and some photos of the backs of paintings.’
‘And I’m betting they would be of the original Hoppers. Miss Johnson, you know I expect good money for this service, today. But if you want me to stick my neck out further, it’s going to be even more expensive. If I were you I would try to find a couple of other pieces of incriminating evidence to back your case before I went to the authorities – starting with the provenance.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The history of the painting: who it was first painted for, who first owned it, then sold it on, any letters or old catalogues mentioning its existence – that kind of thing. These paintings fetch big money; even the Mafia, even the Latin Kings, sometimes take art instead of money owed. The top stuff just goes up and up in value. You wanna take this guy down, you better have all your ducks in a row.’
He handed the samples back to her. ‘You’re an unusual woman, an original. I like that. Too many people are scared to step out of line, but you… I get the feeling that you never even joined that line. You’ve always been an outsider, like me. Bring me the provenance and I promise I’ll make your case rock solid. But like I said, it’s gonna cost you.’
Latisha carefully wrapped the glass slides in a tissue, deliberately spinning out time. ‘The most I got is 500 dollars,’ she answered, thinking of the pearl necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother. ‘I ain’t got a penny more.’
Hector Ortega switched the microscope off and reached under the makeshift laboratory bench for the wooden crate that functioned as a small drinks cabinet. He poured out two glasses of rum and held one out to Latisha. Realising that if she was going to do business with him she was expected to drink with him, she took the glass, praying it wouldn’t taste like the moonshine her grandpa used to make.
Hector watched as she sipped cautiously, then less cautiously as she found she liked the rich taste. Pleased, he sat back down.
‘So tell me, what’s he like, this art dealer you’re gonna bring down? And what’s he done to you that you care so much?’
‘He’s a soul-eater and a killer; he lives on others’ talents, and on fear. A charming player who burns up people like paper. I don’t even know he understands what he does, but I know this much: he seduced my friend and then he had her killed to hide this—’ She held up the glass slides.
‘Then he’ll kill again. You’ll need to keep Henry Firestone’s boys by your side,’ Hector told her. ‘I’ll take 200 now, and the rest when you bring me some paperwork I can test. In the meantime, study the painting you think is false and study it well. Somewhere that guy has probably slipped up – some tiny detail. I have no doubt a hunter like you will track them down.’
Flattered, Latisha smiled, and Hector Ortega noticed for the first time that afternoon that her broad, flat-planed face was a thing of beauty, lit up like that.
‘Why thank you, Mr Ortega, I never thought of myself as any kind of detective.’
‘More of a missionary, I’m guessing?’
‘Crusader. And just because I’m a woman, and a great mountain of a woman at that, don’t meant I ain’t noble.’
‘El que quiera peces que se moje el culo – whoever wants fish should be prepared to get his arse wet. It will be an honour to help you,’ he declared, then clinked his glass against hers.
*
Back in her own apartment Susie lay soaking in a hot bath, trying to wash the sex away, Felix’s touch, his semen, the memory of him inside her, the intelligence of their kisses, the sincerity in his eyes. She had a choice, she knew, but there were too many facts, too many coincidences and circumstances linking Felix to Maxine’s death. And now there was the Latisha woman standing in the shadows, pushing her into action.
She sank down, allowing the water to close over her head, her hair a floating mass of red strands. She would play them all, she decided, continue with her work and continue on the trail Maxine had left for her.
For a moment she opened her eyes underwater and stared up. Maxine’s face was staring back down at her, her wide blue eyes cloudy in death. Shocked, Susie emerged from the water, spluttering and shaking.
*
Latisha got home late. It was dark by the time she stepped out of the subway entrance and began wearily walking towards 125th Street and her apartment. She was thinking about Gabriel, about how young and frightened he’d looked when she confronted him. Felix had some hold on him she couldn’t understand; he must have. But then why had he used the fake old yellow paint on his own painting? Was it a question of ego, like Hector Ortega had suggested? A kind of bravado, as if he was flaunting the possibility of being exposed as a forger in his own work? Did he unconsciously want to be caught?
Latisha, stepping over a puddle, her crutch sinking into the wet, tried to imagine what it must do to your soul, faking another artist’s work like that over and over. She recalled Maxine, during those long hours of sitting, describing how important it was to develop your own voice, your own original set of imagery, something she had struggled with living with Susie Thomas, whose personality Maxine always said was far stronger than her own. If Maxine had fought Susie’s influence on her work, what was it like to whore yourself completely to another artist’s brushstrokes? And surely it couldn’t simply be for money?
*
Henry Firestone was just locking up after a late session respraying a Mercedes. The client had insisted it needed to be done that very d
ay. He knew better than to ask questions on jobs like that, but nevertheless it had been a long and exhausting eight hours. As he turned away from the shop front he noticed a black BMW with tinted windows cruising slowly down the street. Always on the alert for unusual sightings in the neighbourhood, Henry was wondering whether it was some rival gang venturing onto his turf when Latisha turned the corner, swinging her crutch with her usual vigour while loudly talking to herself. To Henry’s amazement, the BMW heading toward Latisha slowed down until she, oblivious to its existence, had passed it. Then, very deliberately, the car did a U-turn and began trailing her.
A cold dread filled Henry. He unlocked the door and reached for the rifle he kept hidden behind it. He waited until the older woman was just a couple of feet away from him, then grabbed her arm and bundled her into his garage, slamming the door after them.
‘Miss Latisha, you’re being followed!’ He peered through the viewing slot he’d had made for such occasions. Outside, the BMW had come to a halt. At the wheel a short, muscular white man with hair shaven close to his head was staring out at the garage.
‘You know this creep?’ Henry asked Latisha, stepping back so that she could see the man for herself.
‘No, but he looks like he has bad intentions.’
‘Bad intentions? Miss Latisha, he is someone’s boy for sure. Someone has made you their mark. Any idea who?’
‘Maybe. But if he thinks he can scare me into silence, he’s wrong. What can they do to a sick old lady like myself?’
‘Kill you and make it look like an accident. Or maybe disappear you, so one day I find myself knocking on your door and no one’s home, and no one will be home ever again. Miss Latisha, you need to wise up. That out there is an expensive job. Someone is serious.’
‘Don’t worry, Henry, I got angels on my side.’
‘Like that’s going to help.’
‘You know how to use that rifle?’ Latisha indicated the rifle Henry had forgotten he was still holding.
‘No,’ he admitted sheepishly.
‘So that ain’t gonna help either.’
*
Nevertheless, once Latisha had climbed the stairs to her own apartment she double-locked the front door and placed the dusty old gun her grandmother had given her on the bedside table. She then dropped to her knees to pray. Tomorrow she knew she’d have to venture out and be the Statue of Liberty for a day for Miss Thomas.
Chapter Eighteen
It was their third photo shoot and again Susie had managed, with the help of Muriel and Alfie, to duplicate Klimt’s distinctive art nouveau aesthetic. Her own body had been made up for the shoot and was currently hidden under a dressing gown. She stepped back and surveyed the assemblage; all the extras were in position on the stage they’d built with its different hidden levels. On the left side of the massive gorilla figure, a fur-covered sculpture that represented the god Typhoeus, stood the three raven-haired women who were meant to represent Typhoeus’s gorgon daughters, only now they were dressed as Jackie Kennedy lookalikes while the god himself had been transformed into King Kong.
Above them there was a pendulously breasted extra made up as Morticia Addams – Death, in the original Klimt work – while the faces of the two other characters who were, in the original, grouped behind Death – Sickness and Madness – were actually painted on the flat backdrop, which was draped in ornate fabric with a pattern that matched the original Klimt decoration. Stage right of King Kong was the gap where Susie herself would be positioned as the redheaded naked figure of Lust. Behind Lust sat a naked Marilyn Monroe lookalike in a large cane chair, personifying Klimt’s depiction of Wantonness, while standing below was the African-American woman whose real name she now knew was Latisha Johnson.
Glancing over, Susie studied the black woman, who stood there impassively with her large hands wrapped around the torch, the crown of the Statue of Liberty framing her wide sculpted face. It was brilliant casting, Susie had to admit; Latisha Johnson had a kind of natural authority that most people would find intimidating, although Susie did not. She still hadn’t revealed that she knew Latisha’s real identity. She would wait until after the photographic session and then confront her. But it was hard to stay professionally objective when you were convinced someone was spying on you. On the other hand, it had a strange symmetry. To Susie it seemed fated that Maxine’s last weeks would somehow intrude and invade her own work.
Making art was powerful magic, and she believed in the predictive power of including images or events in a painting; the idea that by creating them you were somehow helping them to come into being.
‘Susie, you ready to go?’ Alfie asked from the other side of the lights.
She turned back to the camera. Nearby, Muriel waited patiently, holding her heavy wig of long red hair in the art nouveau style of Klimt’s women, while Alfie ran around the edges of the set adjusting the lights.
‘That’s it, a bit more shadow on the left… Perfect,’ Susie instructed.
Alfie stepped back and she stood over the tripod to look into the viewfinder. Now it was obvious how important the lighting was; the effect was breathtaking. Susie had wanted the lighting to be as shadowy and sinister as possible without losing too much detail. Whereas in the original mural the figures were flat – more pictorial than three-dimensional – now the breasts, the buttocks, the sharp angles of the thin arms and elbows of the three brunette triplets threw shadows, hanging in front of the draped and painted backdrop like living, breathing sinister wax figures. Only the pitch-black massive torso of King Kong seemed to swallow light, offset by two beams streaming out of the holes that were his eyes; these were the primary light source for the whole image. The white teeth in his open mouth now formed the skyline of Manhattan, including the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.
Light shimmered on the large breasts and belly of the Statue of Liberty, catching at the gleaming lights of her crown and at the Klimt-like gold bracelets, waistband and thread in the fabric of her tube skirt; the whole appearance was luxurious, disturbing and transgressive all at once.
‘I love it,’ Alfie murmured. ‘It’s so wrong and so right at the same time.’
‘Exactly,’ Susie confirmed.
*
It was empowering, being dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Now that she was truly inside a living work of art she began to understand the excitement of it. It was as if Susie Thomas had made a story out of the original flat painting, had made those mythical creatures into three-dimensional living sculptures.
The artist reminded her of some great female magician transforming a rabbit into a lion. She’d made something inherently American out of something inherently European, a great billboard of American icons – Jackie O, King Kong, Marilyn Monroe, Morticia Addams, the Statue of Liberty. If Gustav Klimt had based the mural on Beethoven’s music, Susie Thomas must have based her version on George Gershwin, Latisha reflected as she stood up there on the stage, thinking that there was a rhythm to the placement of the figures in the scenario that reminded her of jazz, and it didn’t get more American than that. But it was the artist’s confidence and sheer mastery that was most impressive; she was the largest and most controlling personality in the room. It was seductive. No wonder Maxine had fallen in love with this woman, Latisha ruefully acknowledged.
‘Looking good, folks.’ Susie’s voice rang through the studio. ‘Almost there, so if everyone can be patient and hold their breath. Marilyn? Can you tilt your head a lot more to the right?’ she instructed the blonde extra, then glanced back to the other side of the King Kong figure. ‘The Jackie Onassises – you three look great, but, Morticia, can you hunch your shoulders a little more and give the camera your best death stare.’ The raven-haired extra hunched herself like a zombie and glowered in Susie’s direction. ‘Brilliant. Now if you can just hold that thought as I take my position.’
Muriel placed the wig on her. It was heavy; it piled up over her head and fell down to her hips – but wearing it immediat
ely transformed her psychologically. She felt just like the beautiful but lewd figure of Lust – no doubt based on a favourite prostitute or lover of Klimt’s – as she dropped the dressing gown, walked behind the set and climbed up the steps built specially into the back of the huge ape-like figure to take her position on the stage. She then rested her tilted head on her right knee so that she was exactly mimicking the position of Lust in the original.
‘Can I have a reading on my position?’ she asked Alfie.
He glanced down at the image of the panel. ‘You have to place the left hand around your right ankle, then the other hand over that, and Marilyn should be leaning towards you so that she’s framing the area behind you,’ he instructed.
Both Susie and the Marilyn lookalikes adjusted their positions.
‘Okay. Ready, Alfie, for a trial shot?’
Alfie took a photograph and showed it Susie while she held her pose.
‘Good. Shoot 20 from each of the angles I showed you earlier, then it’s a wrap,’ Susie told them.
Alfie rushed back to take his position behind the camera as Susie settled herself into position and character.
‘Okay, folks, don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t exist. For the next three minutes you are your fictional characters! When you’re ready, Alfie… ’
*
After the other extras had gone and the set was being dismantled, Susie sat at the worktop examining the printouts of the photographs taken, all the while conscious of Latisha, who was still changing out of her costume at the back of the studio. As soon as she stepped out from behind the screen dressed in her street clothes, Susie called her over.
‘So what do you think?’ Susie asked innocently, indicating the test sheet of images now lying next to an image of the original Klimt painting.
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