An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  Raul mustered enough courage to be indignant, as if he had stood firm against the detective’s grilling. “I didn’t tell him nothing about the drug deal, Boss, I swear. Not a word.” The fact that Morales had let him off the hook on that aspect of the case was not mentioned.

  “So what did you tell him? Spill it, all of it.”

  “I told him that Carlos and Lam were buddies, that’s all. That Carlos came up here to you because he’s Cuban and you’re Cuban and he thought you could help him out.”

  “How would he know about me?”

  “Maybe from Tio Julio at the Port of Call. It’s right across the street from the dock where his ship tied up.”

  Joey considered this explanation. “Did Morales buy that?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? Anyway, I said you gave him some money and told him to get lost. Didn’t want nothing to do with no murderer.”

  “They figure he did kill Lam, didn’t just find him dead like he said?”

  Raul nodded. “They’re looking for Lam’s killer—that’s all we talked about. Don’t care about nothing else.”

  “So you think Carlos was lying?”

  “Yeah, I figure he iced him and robbed him, then came up here to sell you the dope, get paid twice. But I didn’t say nothing like that to Morales.”

  Joey leaned across the desk and fixed his gaze on Raul. “I’m glad to hear it.” His eyes narrowed. “Real glad. From now on, you got an opinion, keep it to yourself unless I ask for it. And if I hear you been blabbing on the street or anywhere else, you’re gonna wish you’d never been born. Now get out, and keep your cock-sucking mouth shut!”

  “Absolutely, Boss, you got it!” blurted Raul with relief. He had prepared himself for much worse abuse.

  He was not a prayerful young man, but he now prayed that Carlos had escaped. If they got him, he could lead them straight to Joey and a kilo of cocaine.

  Sixty-Nine

  After a fitful night on a jailhouse cot that was not much worse than his bunk, in a cell shared with a couple of drunks who snored louder than his shipmates, Carlos was running over his options yet again.

  Morales had told him that he was entitled to a lawyer and that the Legal Aid Society might provide one at no cost, though he couldn’t guarantee that because Solana wasn’t a New York City resident. There was some money in the Seamen’s Bank that he could draw on, so he wouldn’t have to depend on charity. He also had plenty more in his hidey-hole, but of course it was out of reach, well on its way to Colombia by now.

  He had no idea how strong the case against him was. They knew he and Lam were friends, and they could match his fingerprints to prove he’d been in Lam’s apartment. They knew he was in port when Lam was killed. But why would he do such a thing? He wouldn’t, he didn’t, but how to prove it?

  “You do not have to prove it,” his attorney told him. The Legal Aid Society had come through after all, and by midafternoon Solana was seated in the interview room, out from under the overhead light, opposite Francisco Ortiz, Esquire, who was explaining his rights to him in his native tongue.

  “This is the United States of America, Mr. Solana. You are innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on the police. They can charge you on probable cause, but if they cannot find sufficient evidence, they will have to release you.”

  Carlos was astonished. He stared blankly at Ortiz for several moments, taking in the revelation that they couldn’t just lock him up and throw away the key because he was the most likely suspect.

  “Do you believe that I did not kill my friend?” he asked.

  Ortiz, who had represented more than his share of the mendacious guilty, replied candidly, “It does not matter what I believe, Mr. Solana. All that matters is the evidence. If they find enough to indict you, then whether or not they convict you depends on how well the prosecution makes its case.”

  “What can we do?”

  Ortiz looked over his notes. “First of all, what you can do is tell me the whole story. I know you are holding out on me. Whatever you say to me in here is privileged information—do you know what that means?” Solana shook his head. “It means that what you tell your attorney in private cannot be used against you in court. So you had better give me all of it.”

  “You mean even if I tell you I committed a crime, you do not have to report it?”

  “That is correct. You are protected by attorney-client privilege.”

  Now Carlos was even more amazed. He wondered if this could be true, if he could really trust this stranger who had been sent to him by the police.

  “I do not know how things work here,” he said. “I do not know you or if what you say is the truth.”

  Ortiz closed his notebook and rose from his chair. “I understand your position, Mr. Solana, and I do not blame you for being skeptical. Think it over and have someone call me if you decide you want me to represent you.”

  He handed Solana his business card, walked to the door, and knocked. An officer opened it and showed him out, locking the door behind him.

  Seventy

  Like Carlos, Anne Matta had spent a restless night, though her bed was soft and comfortable, her husband didn’t snore, and her boys were now sleeping through. All afternoon Roberto had been very solicitous, raising her feet as the pharmacist recommended, bringing her a cup of hot tea, and sitting with her until her color returned.

  Apart from assuring him that she was feeling much better, she had said very little. All she could think to tell him was, “I really don’t know what came over me,” a cliché that he found entirely inadequate.

  “Has anything like that ever happened to you before?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said vaguely, her voice still not back to normal. She seemed distracted, preoccupied, which he put down to the same concern he was feeling. Worry that there was something seriously wrong with her. How would he cope if she were really ill?

  That was not, however, what Anne was worried about.

  As the physical shock wore off, she tried to get back on track, at least outwardly. There was the twins’ afternoon feeding and changing routine, some shopping to be done, dinner to prepare. She told Roberto that she was fine, it was over. Just a strong reaction to the news about Fredo. So unbelievable, out of the blue like that, it hit her harder than she expected, that’s all.

  “We still don’t know what really happened,” he told her. “The police are investigating. I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it. We just have to be patient.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said in the same faraway voice. “Keep an eye on the boys. I won’t be gone long. Just need to get a few things from the grocer.”

  Matta went into the studio and sat, looking at his unfinished canvas. He was still in the same spot when Anne returned, and he stayed there while she cooked dinner. They both ate very little and said less. For once, he washed the dishes while she fed, changed, and settled the twins.

  They were being remarkably docile, possibly an intuitive response to Anne’s mood. Whatever caused it, their detachment mirrored hers, causing a strange atmosphere in the apartment that made Matta even more uneasy. He retreated to the studio, where he stared at his unfinished painting without really seeing it.

  It was a travesty of a landscape, the atmosphere clogged with a choking fog that ate away like acid at figures struggling through a morass. It was his response to the war—based not on direct experience, since he had escaped before Europe imploded, but on his deep personal anxiety, his fear that the culture he had embraced, and which had nurtured his nascent creativity, was annihilating itself. The painting actually frightened him, and even as he studied it, he tried to block it from his vision.

  He was grateful when bedtime came, and he fell asleep surprisingly quickly. Unlike Anne, who spent the night tormented by the drumbeat that returned as soon as she closed her eyes.
r />   Seventy-One

  Wednesday afternoon

  “Hello, Saidie, it’s Peggy here. You really must make up your mind about the Pollock. It’s a marvelous little picture, so new, so exciting. I think I told you what Piet Mondrian said about his work—the most interesting thing he’s seen in America. I was amazed at Piet’s enthusiasm, their aesthetics being such poles apart. Jim Sweeney at the Modern says Pollock’s talent is positively volcanic, and he’s going to write the essay for the brochure, isn’t that fabulous?”

  She paused to catch her breath. “His show opens in three weeks, and that painting will be snapped up, I promise you. Why, I might even buy it myself! But you have first choice, dear. You will let me know soon, won’t you? And when you are next in New York, we’ll have lunch. À bientôt.”

  Replacing the receiver, Peggy felt confident that she had made a sale. A week earlier, when Mrs. Herbert L. May had come up from Baltimore looking for a Masson, she had gently steered her out of the Surrealist gallery—with its curious curving walls, dramatic lighting, biomorphic furniture, and paintings mounted on rods jutting aggressively toward the viewer—and into the daylight gallery, where she was showcasing work by young American unknowns like Pollock, Motherwell, and Baziotes.

  “Saidie,” advised Peggy helpfully, “you already have several Massons. Why, you paid the man’s passage out of occupied France, he should be giving you paintings for free. Let me show you America’s answer to Masson, the next advance beyond Surrealism, in fact. He’s going to take the art world by storm.”

  Beckoning Jimmy to help her, she pulled a canvas from the racks. Not too big, a good starter size for a first-time buyer. Jimmy set the painting on a display stand.

  “Pollock calls it Water Birds. Isn’t it stunning?” she asked rhetorically. “I think the water analogy is perfect, don’t you? His forms positively swim in a sea of color. So graceful, yet bold, dynamic, full of energy. Knowing your collection, I’m sure it will fit right in.”

  Peggy signaled for a chair, and Jimmy obliged. “Take as much time as you like, Saidie. I have to address some invitations to Pollock’s one-man show. It opens on November ninth and this painting will be in it. Wouldn’t it be nice to note in the checklist that it’s on loan from you?”

  She withdrew discreetly, leaving the young and charming Jimmy to attend the deliberation process. He and Mrs. May, the daughter of an immigrant from Hesse-Cassel, could converse knowledgeably in German about her renowned collection of abstract and Surrealist art, one that almost rivaled Peggy’s. Although Max had left his wife and young son in Cologne in the 1920s to join the Parisian avant-garde, Jimmy had often visited his father and grew up socializing with the artists whose works now populated Mrs. May’s walls. He had plenty of titillating gossip for her eager ears.

  Now, a week later, Peggy felt that some gentle pressure was appropriate. If Saidie decided within the next day or two to buy the picture, there was time to include her credit in the printed brochure.

  Moments after she had hung up, the telephone rang. My, that was quick, she mused. She raised the receiver expectantly, but it was not Saidie May on the line.

  “Peggy, dear, it’s Harry. Bad news, I’m afraid. The ambassador won’t cooperate.”

  “Oh, Harry, how disappointing. Have you tried everything?”

  “I’ve spoken directly to Spruille Braden in Havana—it wasn’t easy getting a line through, I can tell you—and he assured me that Lam’s body can be repatriated to Cuba as soon as the police release it. I told him I would arrange transport, and he agreed. But he adamantly opposes allowing Helena Holzer into the United States. He says he can’t vouch for her, notwithstanding your assurance that she’s harmless, and even if he did recommend her, State Department red tape would hold her up for weeks, with no guarantee of approval. And what good could she do in New York? She’s not a suspect, and since they weren’t married, she has no authority over his remains or his estate. Disposition is up to his family, and Spruille promised me he’ll offer them all the help he can.”

  Peggy’s disappointment was turning in a more positive direction. “I’ll be happy to take charge of the art in his studio,” she offered. “I already have a few pieces at the gallery. I think a memorial exhibition would be appropriate, with the proceeds going to the family and something to Helena, of course. I’ll wire them with the proposal.”

  After thanking Harry warmly for his efforts, Peggy began to envision her gallery’s tribute to the late Wifredo Lam. She would have Breton write something for the brochure and borrow the two gouaches, Mother and Child and Satan, which the Museum of Modern Art’s director, Alfred Barr, had acquired for the collection. It was going to be a splendid show.

  Seventy-Two

  In O’Connell’s office, he and Dillon were reviewing the evidence against Solana. They would have to charge him soon or release him back to the Coast Guard for deportation.

  “His prints match the ones we found on Lam’s mirror,” said Dillon. “Nice clear dabs, over on the right-hand edge. He must have moved it or tilted it away from the wall while he was looking for the money.” In fact those prints had been left on Carlos’s previous visit, when he helped Lam reposition the heavy glass.

  “What beats me is that he didn’t think to search Lam,” mused O’Connell. “The cash was right there in his back pocket.”

  Dillon speculated. “Way I see it now, Solana shows up, tries to touch Lam for a loan. They’ve been down that road before, and Lam knows he’s a deadbeat, so he refuses. Solana gets mad, beans him, and starts searching, never dreaming that Lam would actually have money on him.”

  “Go on, I’m listening,” encouraged O’Connell.

  “So he looks around for a while—behind the mirror, in the closet, under the mattress, in the dresser drawers—then he realizes Lam ain’t moving. Ain’t breathing, in fact. Time to beat it, but not before he dresses him up to throw suspicion on his artist pals. By the time we wise up, he’ll be long gone. And it almost worked.”

  “It would have worked,” O’Connell pointed out, “if that punk up in Harlem hadn’t shot his mouth off. What a break that was.”

  “Good thing for us that Diaz and Morales are on the case.”

  O’Connell agreed. “Too bad Morales couldn’t get Solana to talk, but we have enough circumstantial evidence to charge him. He and Lam were known associates, his prints are in the crib, and we can place him on shore that evening. Have we got the time of death narrowed down, by the way?”

  “Rigor mortis had set in by the time the doc got to him,” said Dillon, “but from the body temperature he doesn’t think he’d been dead more than four hours. The French guy found him around ten thirty, and we didn’t get there until after midnight, so the doc put it around eight, eight thirty.”

  “Is he sure it can’t be any later?” asked O’Connell, sensing a loose thread that could unravel the case. “The Port Authority guy told me the Princesa’s crew was cleared to disembark at eight forty-five.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” Dillon told him. “I think there’s some latitude, but let’s see what the doc says now that he’s done the autopsy.”

  “Get on it right away. I want to write up the manslaughter charge today. Can’t hold him on suspicion much longer.”

  Seventy-Three

  Thursday morning, October 21

  “Come on, fella. Shake a leg, yer wanted fer the beauty pageant,” Sergeant Ryan bellowed into Carlos’s cell. He struck the bars with his nightstick. “Chop, chop,” he added for emphasis.

  Carlos had no idea what Ryan was saying, but he knew an order when he heard one. He stood by the cell door and waited as Ryan unlocked it. The sergeant pulled him out and slammed the gate on the drunk and disorderly who had shared the cell with Carlos last night.

  He was marched down the hall to another locked door that opened onto a narrow platform on which several other uncomf
ortable men were assembled.

  “Take off yer beanie,” Ryan growled. When he got no response, he yanked off Carlos’s watch cap and handed it to him. “Stand over there,” he commanded. Again no response, so he manhandled the confused sailor into position in the lineup, where the other men, shuffling and muttering, were being told to stand still, stand up straight, remove their hats, and shut up.

  Suddenly, bright lights illuminated the whole platform. A side door opened, and two men and one woman filed in and stood opposite the lineup. Carlos squinted, and despite the glare, he recognized the plainclothes policeman and thought he’d seen the other man before. He could also see that the woman was beautiful. Just for a moment, he was heartened. That feeling disappeared as he saw her whisper to the familiar man and then slip back into the shadows. Regardless of the light’s intensity, the warmth seemed to drain from the room.

  Since André Breton was in the clear, Dillon had asked him to identify Lam’s sailor friend. At Jacqueline’s urging, he had reluctantly agreed.

  Dillon had explained the procedure beforehand. It was entirely up to Breton to make the call. All he needed to do was read the number printed on the wall above the man he recognized. If he couldn’t identify Solana or wasn’t sure, he should signal Jacqueline and she would interpret.

  The process made him deeply uneasy. It smacked of show trials, the kind of bogus prosecutions of which the Nazis were so fond. He almost bolted from the room, but Dillon gently steered him up and down the row. He had assured Breton that if he picked Carlos out of the lineup, the man would receive a fair trial in open court and have every opportunity to defend himself. In fact, an attorney would be provided at no cost to him.

  Breton stepped back to where Jacqueline was waiting. “He is there. What shall I do?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Breton faced a profound moral dilemma. “If he killed Lam, he should be punished. But perhaps he is innocent. How can I be sure that, if I identify him, he will be justly treated?”