Latisha peered down. The original composition of the painting was still apparent, but it was disturbing how all the recognisable icons in Susie Thomas’s work provoked an entirely different response.
What she found most disturbing was the silhouette of the Twin Towers depicted in the open grin of King Kong.
‘You are going to upset people,’ Latisha told the artist, pointing them out with her finger. ‘They’re going to think King Kong is somehow connected to 9/11.’
‘In my version he represents dread and fear, maybe even the massive presence of the US in the world – it’s an oblique reference to Klimt’s depiction of his god of storm and wind, Typhoeus. Klimt’s original painting is a depiction of humanity navigating the trials and tribulations of a challenging and maybe amoral world. In my depiction of this modern world we navigate I have added celebrity, politics, race, hierarchy, sex… It’s an allegory.’
‘I understand. But tell me, Miss Thomas, why does all contemporary art have to have a story behind it, a narrative that is often so obscure you need a piece of paper to read in the gallery to really appreciate it? Why can’t it just mean something personal and special when you look at it?’
‘Great art should do many things at once: make you remember an emotion, conjure up an emotion, tell you the story the artist wanted to tell and perhaps inspire the viewer to make up his or her own story. In my opinion, there is no right or wrong way of viewing art, but it should never just be entertaining, or soothing, it should always disturb and be thought-provoking. Which is exactly what you are, Latisha.’
Latisha stared across at her.
Susie continued, ‘I found you in Maxine’s catalogue – for the group show at Baum’s. It was you, wasn’t it, who left those slippers in my bedroom, who sent me those blank sheets of paper… ’
For a moment Latisha contemplated running for the exit, then she remembered she was the oldest and slowest person in the room. ‘You don’t seem to realise Felix Baum is not to be trusted,’ she told Susie in an undertone. ‘So why should I trust you with what I know about Maxine?’
‘Because I loved her.’
‘You want me to talk to you here, in front of the others?’
Susie looked across the studio. Muriel was busy unpinning fabric from the backdrop of the set and Alfie was at the other end of the studio on the phone, organising the other photographic shoots.
She had the place cleared in three minutes.
*
Once the studio was emptied, Susie turned back to Latisha.
‘I went to visit you, did you know that? You weren’t there.’
‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘You sat for her in those last weeks. You must have had some inkling as to what was going through her head, her emotional state?’
‘Maxine didn’t kill herself, I know that much. The day before she died she told me she’d found something and was researching it and that it might prove dangerous. She was also involved with Felix Baum – like you are.’
Susie stared at her. ‘That’s not possible. Maxine didn’t like men.’
‘She liked this one.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I think I might have been the only person she ever talked to about Felix. He was careful to keep the affair private. But they were lovers – at least, that’s what Maxine thought. I’m not sure Mr Baum has any facility for emotion, except maybe greed.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I only know what she told me. I think she was originally totally obsessed, but by the end she was plain terrified. She left a box hidden in her apartment. I was the only one who knew where it was. It had an image of one of the Hoppers Mr Baum recently sold—’
‘Girl in a Yellow Square of Light?’
‘I think I know who painted it, and it ain’t Mr Hopper. I think Maxine knew too, and she was killed for it.’
Susie stared at her, a wave of cold terror shooting up from her stomach. Was it possible? Her mind told her it was, but her heart, her instinct and everything else screamed no.
‘I’d like you to leave now.’
‘You sure? I’m telling the truth, Susie—’
‘Get out!!’
Gathering her bag, Latisha stood and began lumbering towards the exit. At the door, she turned. ‘You know where to find me.’
*
After the door had slammed shut, Susie still sat pinned to her stool. She picked up a paper scalpel and began jabbing at a blank sheet of paper over and over. Just then she was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. She ran to the sink, only just getting there in time to vomit into the basin. Afterwards she rinsed her mouth out and bent back against the wall, emotionally and physically exhausted. It was then that she found herself wondering where she was in her cycle. Normally she was very regular but the frenetic events and the different time zone had thrown her. As she counted the days she realised she’d missed her last period.
*
As Latisha left the church she realised she’d forgotten to inject herself with insulin that day. Her limbs had started to feel leaden and she was breathing heavily. Stumbling, she made it to a bench across the street, fighting dizziness. A well-dressed white man approached her. ‘Ma’am, are you okay?’
As he looked vaguely familiar, and thinking he might have been at the back of the congregation, she just let him sit down beside her. Frightened of fainting, she dropped her head between her knees. ‘My insulin pen-syringe… I need it, it’s in my bag… ’ she groaned, vaguely aware that the man was already rummaging through her shoulder bag. It was then that she felt Maxine sitting down on the other side of her, the whisper of her presence a sudden breeze against her left cheek.
‘You here, you trying to tell me something?’ she asked the ghost.
‘Sorry, are you talking to me?’ the man asked, looking up from his search.
‘Not you, her,’ she told him, indicating the ghost, now in full shimmering manifestation, the blonde hair dripping water onto the edge of the bench. The man glanced up into the vacant space Latisha had indicated, then continued searching through the bag. ‘You hang in there, I’ve almost found it,’ he told her.
But Latisha was staring at the ghost, who seemed to be imploring her to run.
‘Ma’am, is this it?’ The man held up a disposable pen-syringe that looked like the one she’d packed that morning.
‘That’s it.’ But as she tried to reach for it, she realised she was too weak. ‘Can you help me?’
He leaned over, about to plunge the needle into her arm; but just then a fire engine screeched down the street, sirens blasting. The ghost immediately jumped from the bench and merged with the whirling wind that followed the vehicle as it pelted down the street. Killer! the blaring sirens and the ghost’s voice seemed to scream at Latisha, and as if knocked by the wind of the fire-truck, the rage of Maxine, the blast of jasmine perfume, the man fumbled and cussed and then dropped the syringe onto the pavement.
In that instant Latisha realised where she’d seen the man before: at the wheel of the car that had trailed her. Terrified, she tried to stand. Several passers-by rushed to her side as the man, seeing her expression, jumped up and ran off down the street. Latisha stared down at the syringe; whatever was in it was dripping out of the cracked glass and bubbling on the concrete. It was then that she lost consciousness.
*
Felix pushed past a skinny blonde girl with a massive beehive hairstyle and loitered in front of the salad bar, an empty plastic plate poised in one hand. The Whole Foods store was busy with local students from NYU and office workers buying their lunch; it was exactly the kind of chaotic atmosphere that allowed a conversation to get lost in the hubbub, and that’s what he intended. He didn’t have to wait long; he’d only just started spooning brown rice onto his plate when the person he was due to meet was suddenly standing beside him, also with a plate in hand.
‘I recommend the butter beans,’ Jerome murmured in his English accent. He was a
n utterly nondescript middle-aged man in shorts and T-shirt, with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. The assassin’s ability to be entirely forgettable always amazed Felix, who never quite knew whether to be appalled or wildly impressed.
‘I hate butter beans.’
‘You shouldn’t. Beans are the most efficient source of protein there is,’ Jerome retorted flatly.
‘That’s right: I forgot you’re a vegan.’ Felix nervously loaded his plate with olives and spinach salad. ‘That is so weird, I would have thought a man like you would be a total red-meat man.’
‘You might deal in clichés, I don’t.’ Jerome reached for the beetroot.
‘So?’
‘So the job got complicated. Somehow that Latisha woman guessed I swapped out the syringes. But there was something else. That girlfriend of yours… ’
‘Which one?’
‘The one I helped fall off the Brooklyn Bridge. What perfume did she wear?’
‘Jerome, if you’re having some problem with this, I can double the money.’
‘Just tell me: what perfume?’ Jerome’s tone had turned threatening. Surprised, Felix stepped back.
‘It was unusual, with a jasmine base, something she picked up in London.’
‘I knew it. So I’m cancelling the job.’
A slow horror spread through Felix as he struggled to hide his emotions. Playing dumb, he stared, with an amazed expression. ‘Are you okay? This isn’t some weird belated PSTD thing, is it?’
‘Don’t patronise me, Felix. I’m a machine. Scent is something they train us for: scent and recognition. I knew that scent. I’ve only smelt it once before. On the Brooklyn Bridge, helping your girlfriend jump.’
Half incredulous, half terrified, Felix blustered on. ‘You mean you caught a whiff of Maxine’s perfume? That her ghost was there when you went in for the kill?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Jerome’s tone was just a little too defensive. ‘Instinct tells me this job has gone bad. And I’ve been recognised. I’ve got my back to think about.’
‘You can’t do that, not to me. Haven’t I been loyal?’
‘You might want to try some of that garlic pitta bread.’
‘I don’t do carbs.’
‘Try the pitta bread,’ Jerome growled; it was an order, not a request. Felix reached out to pull the top piece from the pile; underneath was a roll of hundred-dollar notes. He picked it up. It was the money he’d paid Jerome. By the time he turned around the hitman had disappeared.
‘What now?’ he asked himself out loud.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’
Felix looked up, startled. The skinny blonde girl stood before him, smiling. ‘Try the tofu and cashew stir-fry. Great for broken hearts.’
*
‘We have to move the equipment out, get you somewhere really obscure, maybe up in Queens.’ Felix strode around Gabriel’s flat, kicking an old pizza box out of the way.
‘I’m not going out that far. I need to be able to do my own painting.’ Gabriel, truculent, sat with his arms folded defensively; he never liked it when Felix was in a temper, but he’d learnt that the only way to deal with it was not to respond or react aggressively, just sit it out. However, he’d never seen Felix this agitated. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I tried to get rid of the Latisha woman. It didn’t happen.’
‘What do you mean “get rid of”?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Was it the same way you got rid of Maxine Doubleday?’
‘Goddamn! You’re such a child sometimes! What do you think we’re doing here, making postcards!?’ He loomed over Gabriel, who flinched. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to finish my glorious career in a state penitentiary.’
Gabriel slipped out of the kitchen chair, reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He walked over to the light box.
‘Okay, I’ll move some of the stuff downstairs to the cellar. Chung the super has a storeroom in there that I know he would rent to me, and it has a lock on it. I can work on the Hoppers down there.’
‘Thank you. I promise this one is going to be the last. In a year’s time, we’ll be laughing about this.’ Felix didn’t sound convinced.
‘Felix, what’s really going on?’
‘I dunno. It’s like I’m being trailed, maybe by my conscience.’ He collapsed into a chair.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not sure. Gab, do you think that some people can be such strong personalities in life that they leave an after-image once they’re dead?’
Gabriel studied Felix; there was a new shadowing to his face, a vulnerability he’d never seen there before, and it disturbed him.
‘Maybe,’ he replied carefully. ‘Like when you discover a painting under a painting, when the outlines of the original work affect the painting on top and the artist isn’t even conscious of it.’
Irritated, Felix leapt to his feet again. ‘Christ! I’m not after some esoteric bullshit, I just want a rational explanation for what’s been happening to me!’
His mobile started ringing, making both men jump. Felix checked the number. ‘It’s okay, it’s only Chloe. I’ll ring her back later. The real question is, what exactly has this Latisha woman got on us?’
‘Just some vague idea that the yellow in the painting doesn’t match Hopper’s other works. She’d need a lot more than that to prove anything substantial, and I doubt she has either the education or expertise. Stop worrying. Everything will be locked away by the end of today – I promise you.’
‘You’re probably right. Anyway, for the time being we’re safe. She’s in the hospital in a diabetic coma. Hopefully she won’t wake up,’ Felix answered grimly. ‘I still can’t believe she was Maxine’s model.’
‘You know she started ringing me, in those last weeks before her suicide. I guess she found the number somewhere in your apartment.’
‘Gabriel, we were never lovers.’
‘I don’t even know why you bother lying to me, or whether I should be flattered or insulted by the fact.’
Felix put his hand reassuringly on Gabriel’s neck, caressing him lightly. ‘Listen, we have to stay strong, you and I; otherwise everything would start falling away – and then where would we be?’
Moving away, Gabriel stubbed his cigarette out and turned to the window; it was dusk and the neon signs of the Korean restaurants opposite blinked on. Spicy, Fortunate Love. Fortunate Spicy Love. Love. Fortune… The words ran like a montage through his brain. ‘Right back where we started,’ he murmured under his breath.
Chapter Nineteen
There was the murmur of voices. Somewhere a machine blipped regularly over muffled footsteps and a faint smell of disinfectant. Latisha’s mind came to slowly, like a reptile shaking itself awake in the hot sun. The nerves in her limbs began tingling and she became aware of a weight around the inside of her left arm, a tightness, and a throbbing. She opened her eyes, the whiteness of the hospital room glaringly bright. Somewhere at the edge of her vision the uniform of a nurse bobbed in and out of range. There was a drip hanging over the bed, the tube snaking its way into her arm.
‘Latisha?’ Susie’s face loomed over her. Latisha wanted to move but found she didn’t have the energy; her body felt thinner and smaller.
‘Oh Lord, how long have I been out?’
‘Ten days.’
‘Ten days!’
‘A diabetic coma – you missed your last insulin shot.’
‘I can’t afford this! I ain’t got insurance!’
Latisha struggled to sit up. Susie, wrapping her arms around the massive torso, helped pull her upright.
‘Don’t worry, I’m paying. You’re in a private room at Mount Sinai.’
‘If you expect me to thank you, you’re heading for a disappointment,’ Latisha growled, wanting nothing but to be left alone. ‘My nephew know I’m in here?’
‘I believe h
e does,’ Susie replied. ‘You want me to ring him for you?’
Instead of answering, Latisha turned to the wall, locking the young Englishwoman out.
Susie moved her chair closer, determined to break through the woman’s defences.
‘You’ll be glad to hear the world’s managed fine without you: no major disasters, fantastic weather – I even managed to shoot two more of my pictures. And the Klimt one you were in is looking beautiful. You are a natural; I can see why Maxine wanted to sculpt you. Latisha, please, I’m here to find the truth of it all.’
Latisha turned slowly. ‘Does Felix Baum know you’re talking to me?’
‘No, I’ve avoided seeing him. I was waiting for you.’
Latisha studied her momentarily, then decided that she was telling the truth. ‘I’m thirsty and hungry.’
Susie poured a glass of water from a jug and plucked some grapes from a bunch sitting on the bedside tablet. She placed them both beside Latisha.
‘I’ll ring for the nurse.’
Latisha drank slowly, without taking her eyes off Susie. ‘I didn’t miss it deliberately. I was set up – a man swapped my insulin for something toxic; he was trying to kill me,’ she told her flatly, noticing as she did that the artist appeared older, tired; there was a new fragility about her. ‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Maxine’s crazy old friend, just one of them eccentrics she used to pick up like dust?’
‘If I thought that, I wouldn’t be sitting here wasting my time and my money, would I?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you’re searching for redemption. Maybe you want me to absolve you of Maxine’s murder? Tell you your boyfriend is kosher?’
The nurse, a young Latina, interrupted them and both women fell silent as she changed Latisha’s drip and took her pulse and blood pressure. After she’d left the room, Susie took Latisha’s hand.
‘Please, I need to understand what happened in those last weeks. You said she left a box. I would like to see what was inside. Maybe there was a sign, a letter, something?’
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