SoHo Sins

by Richard Vine

  “The preparations are endless, and Michael is no help. He just asks for more checks—for a catalogue, for announcement cards, for magazine ads. Now my publicist is harassing me for an artist’s statement.”

  That was not a happy thought. I had already seen the overdone mailer, a packet containing Angela’s bio sheet, with its sporadic exhibition history, along with color laser prints of her sculpture, a windy press release, and a contact card announcing the availability of her work for private viewing before the “highly anticipated” show at Michael Loomis Fine Arts in November. In just a few pages, the packet contained nearly every error a publicist can make in overselling an artist.

  “Before your agent-lady starts trooping suburban art mavens through here,” I said. “Let me bring in a few people who matter. A critic or two, a curator.”

  “Would you, Jack? You’re a dear.” Her expression turned imploring. “I need an informed response,” she said. “And a record. Otherwise, it will be as though the show never happened.”

  “Isn’t it enough that you did it?”

  “No, not for me. Being ignored is death.”

  “Michael won’t ignore you, if you sell.”

  “Right, always that.” She gave me a disgusted look. “Meanwhile, everything we really care about comes and goes for nothing. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to teach us our place.”

  24

  I couldn’t expend too much time on Angela’s second career start. Thankfully, she had the resourceful Michael Loomis for that considerable problem. My more pressing concern was getting Hogan’s take on Paul Morse. According to a Lower Manhattan Arts Festival brochure, Morse was doing documentary footage for Sylvester Williams, the hedge-fund manager behind the event. Williams—who collected art with his eyes closed, by relying on hearsay and his own patented price-appreciation algorithms—had always wanted to be part of the art scene, so he simply bought his way in, creating the annual burst of pseudo-excitement that was the LMAF: artworks paraded along Broome Street, dancers twining in a former taxi garage near Tenth Avenue and 24th, that sort of nonsense.

  Since Williams got his celebrity status by climbing on the backs of hard-working dealers like me, I opted out, saving my gallery’s fall debut for the following week. So now I was conveniently free to wander. Paul, as the festival’s official videographer, might be anywhere during the openings, but he was sure to turn up that night for the launch party at Pete Lemon’s Treasure Chest. I arranged to meet Hogan on Broome, at Wilde Initiatives, telling him he’d have to work late afterwards.

  The festival was split that year, with half the activities taking place in Chelsea and half in SoHo. It didn’t matter where you went first; both neighborhoods were thronged with art world denizens, glad to be back in town, and with young wannabes wearing the wrong shade of black. The outsiders had probably read the breathless write-ups in New York magazine, Flâneur, and Time Out.

  It was impossible to see much art, of course. Everywhere I went, the crowds pressed thick with people talking about their summer travels and discussing dinner plans and afterparty leads. I met my compatriots by the score, kissing cheeks and gripping elbows as I wound steadily through the melee.

  I toured Chelsea first, hitting maybe a dozen galleries in the first hour, then cabbed back to SoHo to cruise through the Drawing Center, Jack Tilton, David Zwirner, Caren Golden, Spencer Brownstone, Friedrich Petzel and Artists Space before pushing my way into the horde at Wilde Initiatives.

  I was still trying to figure out the dealer’s new angle. Having made his mark advising big-money art collectors for HSBC, Frank Wilde had recently developed an enthusiasm for street art and young punksters. These days, his openings were jammed not with A-list spenders but with skateboarders, tattoo freaks, a few old duffer artists, and a lot of pierced and flannel-clad young freeloaders from across the East River. Maybe Frank was having a midlife crisis; otherwise, who cares about these losers?

  Hogan was so late that I ran out of adults to talk to and actually had to look at the pictures for a while. They were big, slick Lisa Greystone cartoon paintings, guaranteed (despite the boho-carnival atmosphere) to start the gallery’s season off with a healthy cash flow.

  Hogan, it turned out, had gotten caught in the crush at the bar table near the door. “Bad wine in plastic cups,” he said once he squeezed his way to the center of the main gallery. “You people really know how to live.”

  Wilde Initiatives was clearly was not the former USMC sergeant’s kind of scene. We were jostled left and right, and the noise made it necessary to talk just below a shout.

  “Things will improve,” I said. “Pete Lemon always throws a good party.” Prudently, I didn’t mention what kind.

  25

  To brighten the evening for Hogan, I took him over to Café Noir with a couple of young gallery assistants, both brunettes and both newly liberated from home and college. We sat in the back, where the girls could practice their smoking.

  “Très louche,” one of them said.

  In fact, the bar area up front was even noisier than the gallery, filled with international club kids, many of them French. However, our partially enclosed retreat in the rear of the restaurant, behind a beaded curtain, was relatively secluded and calm. We could actually converse as we ate our grilled shrimp, falafel, and couscous. Once the girls went off to the bathroom together, Hogan gave me some news.

  “This Morse guy is connected with the Olivers in more ways than one.”

  “You’ve been talking to Margaret again?”

  “I asked her if Philip had a clue about his wife’s little dalliance. She said that nothing gets past him, it’s more a question of what he can remember.”

  “In this instance, it might be a blessing to forget.”

  “So I asked if she’d ever heard Philip mention Paul Morse.”

  “Did she know the name?”

  “Not just the name but the smooth face and the baby-blue eyes. Seems several of the women at O-Tech think Morse is dreamy.”

  “He’s been to the office?”

  “To see Andrews.”

  I was stumped. “About making videos for the company?”

  “She wasn’t sure. Turns out Andrews is an art collector, too. It’s a vice he picked up from the company founder, I guess.”

  The girls came back, bringing a maelstrom of small talk. I paid the check, and told them we could all go to the Treasure Chest but they’d be on their own. Hogan and I had to meet a friend downstairs in the dressing room.

  The girls looked at each other and shrugged. “No problem.”

  The club was only a few blocks away, in a bleak stretch of oversized buildings beyond the west edge of SoHo. Long and low, this particular structure looked like a displaced bowling alley, with an anxious crowd shifting on the sidewalk outside. The real action would come later, after two AM, but the arts festival party had already drawn a large clot of hopefuls to the velvet rope. I went up to Steve, the doorman, and told him we were four. He nodded and unhooked the rope and fastened it behind us again. Inside, the place was still half deserted.

  “What the hell?” Hogan said.

  My friend is not a big fan of hip clubs. I guess workaday Bayside has deprived him of an appreciation for the way room leads onto room, through half-hidden passageways, past various levels and checkpoints, each with brass stanchions and taciturn guards—all the refinements of exclusion that give the journey its addictive, masochistic allure. Hogan resents the sense of an infinite regression of privilege, of ultimately not being cool enough for the innermost sanctum. (Unless, of course, you are.) To him, it’s all undemocratic, the antithesis of American classlessness, equal opportunity, and fair play.

  “Somebody ought to haul the owner’s ass into court,” he groused.

  What can I tell you? The guy actually believes in such things. SoHo, however, wasn’t designed for sentimental ex-Marines. Every dealer knows that his product is half object and half mystique. Intimidation sells art. As lo
ng as that’s the case, I’m happy to let the non-rich and the cultural bumpkins tremble at my gallery door.

  Apart from the LMAF contingent, the crowd that night was a typical Penny Lane mix—about one-third straight, one-third gay, and one-third transvestite. Some hot young “women” of indeterminate gender were dancing in go-go cages.

  “There’s our boy,” I told Hogan.

  Across the room, near the still empty bandstand, the tall, peach-skinned young man held an expensive video camera on his shoulder, taping a dancer in a neon pink miniskirt.

  “Good equipment,” Hogan said. “But guys who look like Morse usually end up in front of the lens, not behind it.”

  “Who is he?” the girls wanted to know.

  “Jack’s boyfriend,” Hogan said. “Didn’t he tell you?”

  They laughed, a little too eagerly. “Introduce us?” the prettier one asked.

  “Later.”

  I steered the young pair to a banquette and got them some drinks.

  “Practice being beautiful for a while,” I advised. “The competition is going to get pretty stiff in here soon.”

  26

  A bouncer I knew opened the backstage door, and Hogan and I went down to visit Penny Lane before her first set. It wasn’t really a dressing room at the bottom of the steep stairs, just a corner of the low-ceilinged basement with some folding screens and a vanity table. The band members were standing around having their last cigarettes under the fluorescent lights. The black leather of their pants matched the sheen of the walls. Penny, her TV-commercial legs crossed, sat dusting face powder over the foundation cream that hid a five-o’clock shadow.

  “Wolford hose?” I asked.

  “You know me, doll. Only the finest. Who’s your friend?”

  Hogan came forward and extended his hand. “I’m Hogan, a private investigator.”

  “Wonderful, if it makes you happy, dear.” Penny eyed him from head to toe as she proffered her hand. “Exactly whose privates did you want to investigate tonight? Love your outfit.”

  Hogan glanced down at his striped tie and Haggar slacks.

  “Moi même,” Penny said, “I’m a chanteuse.” She dusted one side of her throat, then the other. “Don’t cuff me until after the performance. A girl’s got to make a living, you know. Oh, where have all the sugar daddies gone?” Penny examined her eyebrows in the mirror. “That’s very good, don’t you think?…Hmmm, hmmm, long time passing…” Half-turning, she called to one of the clustered musicians, “Michael, I might add a new number to the last set tonight.”

  “Hogan really is a P.I.,” I said.

  “ ‘Really’…in reality?” Penny said, drawing back. “Hasn’t Mama taught you not to use that word in here?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that he’s eager to meet Paul Morse.”

  “How unusual. We could all go gray waiting in that line, sweetheart.” She glanced at Hogan. “Well, not you, I see.”

  “Hilarious,” Hogan replied. “Who else would have thought of a bald joke? I’d laugh, only I’m working right now.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.” And to me: “I love it when they’re stern.”

  Hogan let it pass. “I have a few questions about Morse’s romantic life.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Is he working with you at the moment?”

  “Yes, we have a professional relationship. He’s documenting my genius for posterity.”

  “Let’s hope he has enough tape.”

  I left them to their repartee and went over to say hello to the fellows in the band, friends of Penny’s from the old neighborhood in the Bronx. They still remembered me from the time I hired the group to entertain at my New Year’s Eve party a few years back.

  “Great champagne that night,” one of them said.

  “Gift from a client.”

  “Have you met Rickie?” another asked.

  “No.”

  Standing nearby was a cute number in a transparent top with black bra, a miniskirt, and dark hose. Even on her spike heels, she was no more than five foot five.

  “Are you part of the act?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not an entertainer. Are you?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Being a fan is important, too. What would Penny do without an audience?”

  Curl up and die didn’t seem like a very nice answer, so I just shrugged my shoulders. An awkward silence fell between the little cross-dresser and me. Finally, she looked earnestly into my face and asked, “Do you have any children?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “What a shame. You have very fatherly eyes.”

  “That’s odd, my wife said the same thing. She’s not around anymore.”

  “Women are so fickle. My wife’s gone, too, for no good reason. But I do have a wonderful son. A star student at Saint Ann’s. He wears button-down shirts and Dockers, and wants nothing to do with his father’s dress-up hobby.”

  “Kids need to rebel, I guess.”

  “Oh, I’m glad he’s so white-bread. It gives me stability.”

  On those heels, I thought, you could use it.

  Hogan came over and steered me away by the arm.

  “Do you mind?” I said. “We’re having a family-values chat here.”

  “You can finish your PTA meeting later. Morse is on his way down. Your friend gave me the scoop. In addition to his late-night cable access gig, Morse runs a little production company, also called PM Videos. He deals mostly in weird-ass downtown stuff.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “We need to get inside.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I can’t do it, Jack. It’s not my world, and I wouldn’t know how to act. Hell, I can’t even find these damned clubs and lounges. But you, you’re perfect for the job.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to thank him or be deeply offended.

  “Paul’s on the stairs,” I said. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Save his ass. I’ll confront him, ride him hard. You shut me up. Be the guy’s new best friend.”

  As Paul descended, he switched on a video lamp, although his blond presence alone might have illuminated the cavern. He was wearing tight jeans and an open-neck shirt.

  “PM, honey,” Penny said, “this very shiny gentleman would like to talk to you.”

  Paul turned off the light. “What’s up, dude?” he asked.

  “I’m looking into the Amanda Oliver murder,” Hogan said. “I hear you knew her pretty well.” He flashed something that Morse probably thought was a badge, though it was just a P.I. license.

  “I knew her, sure. Nothing special. I know a lot of women.”

  “Yeah, well, the others haven’t turned up dead. Not yet, anyhow.”

  The young man blinked. “Mandy was a friend and a financial backer. That’s all. I was totally blown away by her murder.”

  “My condolences. Now I’d like to get a picture of just how generous her patronage was. Like whether it extended to the bedroom.”

  “And I,” Penny interjected, “would love to have an eight-by-ten reprint of that shot, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Don’t you have to go wiggle your ass for money upstairs or something, Miss Lane?” Hogan said.

  He turned sharply back to Paul. “You also do some work for Philip Oliver’s company. What might that be?”

  “It might be a lot of things,” Paul said. “In fact, it’s a batch of corny training videos for overseas O-Tech employees.”

  “Very high-culture.”

  “The gig pays,” Paul shrugged. “It helps support my art habit.”

  “What does O-Tech do with your handiwork?”

  “They send tapes out every month to the branches in Europe and Asia. How to Spot Micro-Circuitry Defects is one of my favorites.”

  “I see, you’re not just pretty; you’re funny, too. Was mocking the hubby’s business ventures part of your sex banter with Mandy?”

  “I don’t kno
w what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about you humping Philip Oliver’s wife. A lady who was killed by someone who got very close to her.”

  Paul looked at Hogan coldly for a second. “Haven’t you insulted enough people tonight?”

  “I’m just warming up, buddy boy. Try this one. You look scrawny enough to be the suspect some neighbors described to me. A skinny stranger who was in and out of the building a lot when Philip was gone.”

  “You’re a real asshole, you know?”

  “I can be.” Hogan took his measure. “Want to tell me where you were at midday on Wednesday, May fourth?”

  “Getting laid, actually—something you ought to try before your joints go arthritic.”

  “You mean you screwed Mandy Oliver that day?”

  “Oh, gag, no. The woman was old enough to be my mother.”

  “And that would make you a…?”

  Paul flushed, and stepped closer to Hogan.

  “Don’t mind this guy,” I said to Paul quietly, sliding between the two. “I’ve known Hogan forever. He’s all bluster when he has no leads.” I drew Paul to the side, away from a confrontation. After exchanging a glare with me, one that looked entirely unfeigned, Hogan stalked off.

  “You shouldn’t be saying anything without a lawyer present anyhow.”

  “And that would be you?”

  “Me, no,” I laughed. “I’m just an art dealer. Jackson Wyeth.”

  I noted, with some satisfaction, that the name registered immediately on Paul.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Of course. I should have recognized you. I just didn’t expect to run into anyone classy down here.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Penny called out, her voice rising.

  “No one from the gallery business, I mean.” Paul bowed slightly toward his bejeweled client.

  “Jackson knows talent when he sees it,” Penny replied. “He happens to be one of my most ardent devotees.”

  We waited for her to turn back to the mirror.

  “I remember your pieces from the video survey at P.S.1 last fall,” I told Paul. “Those junior-high girls making popcorn and talking about Krafft-Ebing cases. Very incisive.”