Killing Critics

by Carol O’Connell

  When the photographer was done, the workmen would replace the wooden panels, and they would remain in place until the plaza sculpture was installed for the dedication ceremony.

  Emma Sue Hollaran stood by the pile of wood sections, her face red and pinched, railing at the workmen, who only shrugged their shoulders and said they had their orders. Emma Sue, mover and shaker of the Public Works Committee, turned ungainly and charged on the young photographer, who took her for an infuriated bull, cleverly disguised as a smaller, dumber animal.

  “I never authorized any of this!” she yelled.

  The photographer screwed a filter onto a lens and bent over the camera, making adjustments that didn’t need to be made, hoping that she would simply go away. Stupid idea. Looking down at the camera, he could also see her legs, sturdy little fireplugs rooted firmly to the pavement.

  “Young man, I’m talking to you.”

  Gilette waved the photographer back, and now the architect stepped forward to loom over her. Gilette smiled as he looked into the angry slits of her eyes, with an intensity that forced her to step back a pace. “The photographer takes his orders from me.”

  She had been planning to say something to him. What was it? She could only stare. He was so close. She couldn’t think.

  Emma Sue had always been protected from her own mirror by a doting father who had insisted that she was truly beautiful. She was protected also by her father’s land and money, never suffering the plight of the homely girl at the school dance. Considered by every farmer in the county to be a good catch, landwise and moneywise, she was sought after by every landowner who had a son of marriageable age. She had always danced every dance and happily trod on the feet of the handsome, wild boys who feared their matchmaking fathers.

  And money had protected her from her own dull-wittedness, with a generous endowment to an Ivy League college. Money could do anything. With money enough, black could become white and a bleating barnyard animal could become a peer of the art community in the art center of the world.

  And yet, with all her protective armor, she was pinned like an insect and hadn’t a grasshopper’s wit to get loose. She could only stare at Gilette. He was so much more than just a man. There was something else in play here. He knocked the wind out of her by merely looking into her eyes and showing her something she couldn’t buy.

  There was sex going on here, on the sidewalk in the daylight, in public view, and it was indecent and raw and-she could only stare. Would you care to dance, Gregor?

  No, his eyes said, not with you.

  Ugly and lonely and witless, she turned and walked away with slow agonizing steps, size nine shoes clattering on the sidewalk, lost now in the sounds of Manhattan traffic.

  People had begun to drift through the arch and into the plaza. A policeman asked Gilette if he wanted them cleared out. Some of them sat on the benches in the open light, some took the shade under the ash trees that formed the plaza walls, and two children dipped their hands in the water of the fountain. Gilette shook his head.

  “No. Let them be.”

  He looked into the photographer’s lens to see the fountain through the camera’s eyes, bringing it into sharp focus. A young Spanish sculptor had won an international competition with this design to match Gilette’s own skill for making marble flow like water. The lines of the fountain carried the eye along with a fluid grace that defeated its own hard substance, echoing the lines of the building’s facade, and stone called out to stone across the plaza.

  Reflections of the water played over the faces of two boys, and the camera’s shutter clicked.

  An old man flung one brittle arm across the back of a bench, which curved to fit the contour of his body. He lifted his face to the light and smiled peacefully, and a shutter clicked.

  A young woman in a yellow dress stood in the lush green shadows of the young stand of trees, starting as a flock of birds settled in the branches overhead.

  A derelict hesitated at the arch and turned to the place where Gilette stood. The man’s face, with five days’ dust and beard, was washed new with dazzling light, and a shutter clicked.

  The television crew was unloading equipment from the large trucks. All about him was the hustle of people passing to and fro, laying cables and checking sound equipment and cameras, a babble of orders and questions.

  Oren Watt stood at the outer edge of the fray, with the sun on his face. Perhaps that was why she just seemed to appear there. One moment the sidewalk across the street had been empty, and now she stood there, smiling at him. He remembered her from the Koozeman shoot. She was the one who had removed the tapes on the gallery where Dean Starr had died. The young woman had smiled at him then, too, though not exactly a smile, more like bared teeth.

  Now she pulled a black wallet out of her blazer and opened it to display a badge. The sun hit the metal and shot his eyes with gold. A truck lumbered between them, and when it had passed by, she was gone.

  “I thought you were the technical advisor, Oren.”

  He spun around to see her standing behind him. She was looking down at a clipboard.

  “Did you tell them they were shooting in the wrong place?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I once asked a nun that same question, same words. You know what she said? ‘I want your soul.’ ” And now she was walking away from him, making a check mark on her clipboard as she left him.

  “Well this is wonderful,” said Charles, as he stood at the desk in Mallory’s office and pored through the contents of the brown bag. He held up a brand of mustard he had never seen before. And a full complement of foreign beers filled out the bottom of the sack.

  “Sorry about lunch,” said Mallory. She was sitting at one of the three computer terminals which dominated the room.

  “Have you given any thought to how Quinn knew you’d be at the gallery today? Perhaps you don’t know much about his habits. New York is overcrowded with galleries. What are the odds he was just passing by? He’s stalking you. He’s not dangerous of course, but still.”

  “He’s tied to my money motive for the old murders. Maybe he’s worried that I’m making connections he wouldn’t like.”

  “You’re wrong, Mallory. Quinn’s presence kills your money motive.”

  “Like hell it does. Having Quinn view the bodies fits very nicely with money. He’s an important critic. It all fits.”

  “No, Mallory, the fact that Quinn was called in is an oddity. It doesn’t fit at all. He couldn’t have been called there for publicity value. The murderer would have called in a hack critic for that.”

  “A review from Quinn is gold.”

  “Well, no it isn’t, not for a bad artist. There was a time when a critic could launch a career. But not anymore. Today, the artist is promoted with media hype and a gimmick, not a critique. To have Quinn see the murder as artwork, well, that would only be important to a really talented artist. That description doesn’t fit Peter Ariel, Dean Starr or Oren Watt. It only makes sense as revenge against Quinn. You may have to accept his idea that Aubry was the primary target. The only other reasonable theory is a random act of insane violence.”

  “I’m swimming in people who made money on those deaths. I’m right about this.”

  “Why are you so stubborn about the money motive?”

  “I need it for the Dean Starr murder. Without it I’ve got nothing. If it’s a random act of violence, then the killer disappears into the crowd, and there’s no trail.”

  She wasn’t with him anymore, she was so intent on her computer screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m breaking into an artist’s network through an internet server.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. He must have found her smile disquieting, because now he was leaving her, softly closing the door behind him, not wanting to witness any breaking and entry.

  She had taken quite an interest in the artnets over the past few days. Once into the system, she proceede
d immediately to the forum under the heading of Bliss’s Last Column. She passed over the familiar two-day-old comments of artists and interested parties, and happened on a conversation taking place in real time. Two of the players were opting out to a private room. She went into the data base and plucked the passwords to diddle the cyberspace lock so she could follow after them. Invisible to the screens of the others, she stole up on the more intimate conversation printing out before her eyes and learned that Andrew Bliss had spent two years in a seminary, studying for the priesthood.

  Robin Duffy sat at the card table in the den of Charles’s apartment. His beer rested on a coaster, and his pile of change lay in the center of the green gaming surface. An overhead light exaggerated Duffy’s jowls and gave him the look of a bulldog. He was pouring out his troubles to Rabbi David Kaplan. Though Duffy was a devout Catholic, this man would always be his rabbi.

  “I got another offer on Markowitz’s house today, Rabbi. Why won’t the brat sell it? I hate to see it empty every day. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s Kathy’s home.” The rabbi’s face was composed in a serene smile. His elbows were propped on the table as he scrutinized his cards. “That old house is all she has left of her days with Helen and Louis.”

  “Naw, I don’t think that’s it. She hardly ever goes there, and she never stays the night. It should have a nice family in it, some kids-life.”

  “My parents died before I turned twenty,” said Charles, looking down at his own cards. “It took me almost another twenty years to sell their apartment.”

  “Well, I know seventeen-room condos don’t move all that fast,” said Edward Slope, “but twenty years?”

  “It was home. I didn’t always live there, even when my parents were alive. I spent most of my life at schools. But it was home.”

  “Kathy should have a real home,” said Duffy. “Gimme two cards. She should have a husband and kids, lots of kids.”

  Edward Slope put down his cards and looked to some distant point in the room. “I’m trying to picture a world with a lot of little baby felons who look like Kathy.”

  The largest pile of change was in front of Edward Slope. The rabbi’s pile and Robin Duffy’s were smaller but respectable. As always, the obvious loser in this first hour of the game was Charles Butler, who had gambled wildly at the start, and now nursed a rather small pile of quarters and dimes. For the next round, the rabbi held the deck, and five cards were dealt to each player, four cards facedown and the last card showing. The high card, an ace, fell to Charles Butler.

  “Don’t pick up your cards,” said a voice behind his chair, Mallory’s voice. The other players looked up in unison.

  “Trust me, Charles,” said Mallory. “Just let the cards lie there facedown. Now ante up.”

  He put his quarter alongside the other three quarters in the pile at the center of the table, not knowing what his hand held, only trusting Mallory. As he looked around at his friends, he saw three suspicious faces focussed on her. All of these people had known her since she was a child. And now his trust in her increased.

  “If you want to play, pull up a chair and do it properly,” said Edward Slope.

  “I don’t need a chair in the game to beat lightweights like you.”

  There were raises of quarters around the table, and she nodded to Charles when it was his turn. “See that raise and raise him another quarter.”

  They went through this ritual until the pot at the center of the table had grown considerably. Charles had only three quarters and a small assortment of dimes and nickels left to bet with. According to the rules of long standing, when he lost his change, he was out of the game. His faith in Mallory was flagging. Logic dictated that he could be cleaned out by the player with the largest store of change, and that was Edward.

  “Too rich,” said the rabbi, as he folded his cards. “I’m out.”

  It was Robin Duffy’s play. “Give me a minute,” he said, rearranging his cards to make it seem like he had at least two pair. Now he looked to Charles’s hand with only the single ace showing. The graduate of Harvard Law School continued his deliberations over the twenty-five-cent bet.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Doctor,” said Mallory, with such exaggerated formality, Charles had to wonder what they were feuding about now. It was always something. “How long can a person live on liquids but no solid food?”

  “Depends on the liquids,” said Edward. “Not long if all you’ve got is water, maybe ten, twelve days. Some people have fasted for months on fruit juices, and vitamin supplements.”

  “Suppose the liquid is wine?”

  “You can kiss that idiot goodbye. He’ll be severely weakened after a few days with no food, and probably hallucinating. He might last a few days more before dehydration kills him. Alcohol is a diuretic.”

  Robin Duffy put in his quarter and met the last raise. Edward Slope pitched his coins to the center of the table, and raised the bet with a dime.

  “Ante up, Charles, and raise him a quarter.”

  “But shouldn’t I at least have a look at my cards? I am getting rather low on change.”

  “Bad idea, Charles, just let them lie there.”

  He did as she told him. Then Robin Duffy folded his cards, eyes fixed on Charles’s ace.

  Mallory stood by Edward Slope’s chair now. “Let’s say the fast has been going on for three days, and he has a bottle of water. What would you add to the diet if you only wanted to keep him conscious and functioning?”

  “Oh, crackers or bread would be the simplest things for the body to break down and utilize quickly.” Edward pitched his quarter into the pile, and raised by only a nickel this time.

  “Meet that and raise him a quarter, Charles.”

  “If I raise him another twenty-five cents, I’ll be down to fifteen cents.”

  “Do it.”

  Charles laid his last quarter down in a raise. And Edward Slope folded his hand. The doctor looked up at Mallory, and something passed between them, part anger, part admiration. Charles looked from Edward to Mallory.

  “You knew he was going to fold.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  “But how could you possibly know?”

  “Dr. Slope is a gentleman of the old school.” Mallory spoke to Charles, but fixed her eyes on the doctor. “That’s what Markowitz called him. The old man always did this to him early in the game, but only when the game was at our house. Markowitz would bet his whole stash and win the pot every damn time.”

  Charles knew something was going by him but not what. “Mallory, I don’t see the-”

  “Charles, you’re his host, and the night is young. He wouldn’t let you lose everything and then just sit out the rest of the game. Of course, when Markowitz did this to him, the old man always looked at his cards. But you can’t do that. You couldn’t run a bluff if I put a gun to your head-not with that face.”

  And now Charles’s face was a signboard advertising all his frustration and incredulity. “But you’ve put me in the position of taking unfair advantage of Edward.”

  Three men looked to the ceiling, but held the line at not laughing out loud.

  “That’s right,” said Mallory. “Now you’ve got it. Try not to lose that pile, okay?”

  Edward Slope pointed to Charles’s cards. “Okay, let’s see ‘em. What were you holding?”

  Mallory quickly reached across the table and grabbed the deck of cards. She swept up Charles’s five cards and mingled them into the deck with the waterfall shuffle of a seasoned gambler.

  Edward Slope looked down at the hand which held his beer bottle in a death grip. “I know you only did that to drive us nuts.”

  Robin Duffy leaned toward the doctor. “And you always said the kid had no sense of humor.”

  Mallory settled behind the rabbi’s chair. “I’ve got a religious question.”

  Edward dealt the next hand. “Rabbi, if you want to keep my friendship and esteem, you’ll tell her to get lost.�
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  The rabbi was staring sadly at the deck of cards in the doctor’s tight fist, the deck which contained the insoluble mystery of Charles’s winning hand. “Edward’s right. You do a thing like that, and then you ask for my help?”

  “You’re my rabbi, you have to help.”

  “All right, you got me twice in one night. What is your question?”

  “I need to know what you have to do to get kicked out of a Catholic seminary.”

  “Kathy, as I recall, Helen gave you four years of a very expensive Catholic school education. Go and ask Father Brenner. He’s semiretired now, but I believe he’s filling in the vacation schedule at St. Jude’s this week.”

  “Father Brenner and I aren’t exactly on friendly terms. Maybe you could ask him.”

  “It’s been what, maybe ten years now? He’s not one to hold a grudge. It’s not as if you broke that nun’s leg.”

  After Mallory left the room, the other players fixed on the face of the rabbi in dead silence. He cast his sweet smile on each player in turn, which was easy because he was holding the best cards of the evening. But he never said another word about Kathy Mallory and the nun, not even when they withheld his sandwiches and beer for a time. He would not talk.

  Gregor Gilette stood in front of the church, hatless in the drizzle.

  He began as a pilgrim, climbing the steps vast and gray, leading up to the church doors. He had come here to find his wife. This was Sabra’s church, not his.

  As a small boy he had once wandered into a Catholic church, where he was dazzled by the spectacle of flaming candles and stained-glass windows lit with images of heaven and hell. He had stared at the tortured figure on the cross beyond the altar and then looked up and up to the high ceiling with its carved, curving beams. Sky high it was. As a child, he’d had the sense of a magical place. It had frightened him, and filled him with awe.