"Remarkably philosophical of you,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “It's interesting that only Mr. Noll's work was taken. Do you consider it to be of the highest caliber?"
Worley laughed with finesse. “Good lord, no. His work is a confusion. But there's something to it that I felt I could pass off as genius. The world is always hungry for genius, and, my friends, I'm more than willing to reap the benefits of that hunger."
The other visitors had exited the gallery, and Piker came over to stand beside his boss and scowl at us. “Everything swell here, Mr. Worley?"
"You could say that.” The perfect man favored us with a parting smile. “I think that's all I have to offer, gentlemen. Best of luck on your quest for truth."
* * * *
Back in the Nash, my hands squeezed the steering wheel without mercy. “Maybe taking an axe to Worley isn't such a bad idea after all. Have you ever met a more condescending creep?"
Mr. O'Nelligan calmly pondered the question before responding. “To be truthful, I have. Back in County Kerry, I knew a newspaper editor named Horgan who was absolutely insufferable. Horgan would speak to you as if he'd created the very earth itself and you were trespassing on it. Had an infuriating way of saying, ‘You can believe that if it pleases you,’ no matter what the subject might be. Unfortunately for himself, he printed an untruth about the local blacksmith for which he acquired a broken jaw. Cured him of his condescension, though."
"Well, I hope Worley gets a similar remedy. I've no doubt he's the type who'd rob his own gallery. Just for jollies."
"That would be a charge we'd have to meticulously prove."
"Then—hi-yo silver—let's do just that."
Twenty minutes later, we were standing outside Gilmar Noll's door on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building. Donna Zampino had given us the address, and as with Worley, we were arriving unannounced. In response to my knock, the door swung open and a tall, redhaired young woman, arms akimbo, demanded, “So who the hell are you?"
She was decked out in a clingy black dress with yellow polka dots, the neckline of which should have caused her mother dismay. Warmed by her greeting, I gave up our names and occupation.
She seemed interested. “Are you here about Bursting Skull? Did you find it?"
"You're Mr. Noll's wife?” I ventured.
"I'm his woman,” she said huskily. “Come on in."
Her hips swaying like a metronome, she led us into a large jumbly room filled with several easels, a couple of paint-splattered tables, stacks of blank canvases and an overabundance of crookedly hung paintings. Noll's art struck me as half cocked and chaotic, with dizzying sprawls of color that made me a little queasy.
Mr. O'Nelligan seemed even less enamored of this display. “Oh my,” he said softly and pursed his lips.
Something moved in a corner. We saw now that there was a man, half hidden by a pile of canvases, sitting cross legged on the floor. Skinnier even than me, he looked lost in his oversized black turtleneck and trousers. A wispy little beard was smeared across his lower face. Everything about him seemed rumpled.
"Gilmar Noll?” I asked.
"I suppose.” His voice was airy and disinterested. “At least, that's who they say I am."
"You're the artist who painted Bursting Skull?"
"Right as rain.” He pushed himself to his feet. “But, what makes rain so right, anyway? Why is it more right than snow?"
"Shut up, you idiot,” Miss Polka Dots said. “These men are detectives. See what they have to say."
"Sure, Maxine. I'm all ears. No rain, just ears."
"Quiet!"
I studied the couple, thinking that Cupid hadn't done his best work when he matched these two up. I explained our task and asked Noll if he had any thoughts as to who might have stolen his painting.
He yawned and shook his head. “No, but what does it matter? It didn't belong to me anymore. My finest effort and it didn't even belong to me."
"Because you chose to sell it to Stuart Worley,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted.
Noll grinned at him. “You talk nice. It sounds like a little song. Say something else."
"It's called a brogue, you dope,” Maxine scolded. “Yeah, Gilmar sold Skull to that fancypants Worley—for stinking peanuts! Now all these artsy reviewers are calling Gil a genius, but Worley's got the rights to everything he paints."
"Only the next twenty works,” Noll corrected. “After that, my shackles crumble."
Maxine snorted. “Sure. Problem is, you can't pull yourself together enough to finish even one lousy painting."
"I've got to differ with you on that, babe.” Noll gestured around the room. “I've produced dozens of lousy paintings. Hundreds. I'm the high duke of lousy paintings."
Glancing around me, I couldn't argue with that. Even within the generous definition of “modernism,” these things hurt.
"Art is a great wild thing to tame.” Mr. O'Nelligan spoke softly and kindly. “I admire any person who puts his hand to the beast. Tell me, Mr. Noll, was Bursting Skull in the style of these pictures before us?"
"Hardly.” The artist seemed to perk up a little. “That canvas was hot. Hot as a Saturday night, right, Max?"
His self-proclaimed woman grunted but said nothing.
"Oh, wait, I've got a photo of it somewhere.” Noll started to fumble around the room, sidestepping canvases and random objects in what proved to be a five-minute hunt. As I watched his search, I at first figured that liquor or drugs might be hindering him but quickly realized that Gilmar Noll was just naturally awkward and unfocused. Remarkably so. At last he found the photo and shoved it toward us. After eyeing it for several moments, Mr. O'Nelligan and I exchanged a glance. We were thinking the same thing: Bursting Skull looked unfortunately similar to all the other paintings around us. True, there was something in it that vaguely resembled an exploding skull, but mostly it was just an ugly splatter.
Mr. O'Nelligan spoke without cruelty. “I see. Have you any earlier works that you offered to Mr. Worley?"
"No, only Bursting Skull,” Noll said. “Can you believe it was my first completed canvas?"
Oh, I could, I could. “Have you shown any of these other paintings to him?"
"Why would I? They're obviously not up to the standards of Skull."
I nodded as if I believed that. “Once you sold the painting to the gallery, did you ever see it again?"
"I used to visit it occasionally. Just to see how it was doing."
Maxine huffed. “Like pining over a lost child. Ridiculous."
"It was my best.” Noll looked down sadly at the photo in his hand. “I don't know that I'll ever do anything as good again."
"Oh, for God's sake!” Maxine snatched the picture from him and tossed it onto one of the splattered tables. “I'm so sick of your moaning. If it was me, I'd have dunked twenty canvases in a vat of paint and passed them off to Worley. Then I'd have dunked another and sold it to some highbrow for a small fortune. We could be rolling in money now, but ... oh, hell!” She tossed her hands up in disgust.
Noll scratched his facial hair, walked over to a corner, and plunked himself back down on the floor. He closed his eyes and said, “I could use a nap.” And that was that.
Maxine led us back out into the hall and paused in the doorway. “Look, I know Gil's a waste and his paintings are crap. I'm not fooling myself—he's the most defective guy I know. But if a high roller like Stuart Worley sees something in him, then it's smart for me to stick around. These days a girl's got to look out for herself. You get it, right?"
"I believe we do,” said Mr. O'Nelligan flatly.
"Good. ‘Cause I wouldn't want to come off as a sap.” She stepped back into the apartment and shut the door on us.
As we descended the stairwell, I said, “Well, I'm not sure how much that little visit was worth."
"This case revolves around a painting,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted. “Seeing its creator gives us another angle to observe things."
"Noll is one f
unny duck, eh?"
"He seems not very well planted upon the earth, I would say."
"What do you make of his work?"
Mr. O'Nelligan drew in a breath and expelled a quote: “'Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age.’”
"Yeats?” I guessed.
"Yeats. By that standard, I would say there's nothing remotely supreme about Mr. Noll's brushstrokes."
"And what's your take on Maxine?"
"Not a woman trammeled by excessive empathy."
"Right. Whatever you said..."
* * * *
At Mr. O'Nelligan's suggestion, we found a telephone booth where I called Donna Zampino and asked her to meet us again. This time she gave directions to a small backstreet lot. When I wondered about the shifting, off-the-path venues, she said that Stuart Worley had contacts throughout the town and she feared that our conversations might be overheard. It was the same reason she'd hired Connecticut investigators from an hour's drive away. When we reached the lot, it was late afternoon and a rising wind was shoving stray newspapers down the street. The three of us stood in a little circle as I reported on our encounters thus far. I tried to soft-soap Worley's statements, but apparently didn't do too nifty a job of it.
"He accuses my father?” Donna's voice leapt an octave. “That pig dares to suggest—"
I tried to backpedal. “Actually, he was only—"
"I'll kill him! Kill him! First he does this crime, then he tries to blame Papa?"
Mr. O'Nelligan intervened with his calming lilt. “The loss of one's father is an emotional thing, Miss Zampino, but we must navigate towards the facts here. Mr. Worley was providing that scenario in an attempt, perhaps, to be provocative. We must not jump at the bait."
Donna slid both hands through her long black hair and let out a small groan. “You're right, of course. I apologize. I know I mustn't let him provoke me, but he's such a ... such a..."
"Jackass?” I offered.
It was nice to see her laugh. “You have a sharp eye, Mr. Plunkett."
I almost replied with something akin to “aw shucks,” but thankfully kept my trap shut.
"Please give us your opinion,” Mr. O'Nelligan beseeched our client. “Are there truly many people who consider Bursting Skull to be a work of genius?"
Donna smirked. “I wouldn't think so. Of course, there are a number of art critics who wrote beautiful articles about the painting, but that was all Worley's doing. He has such influence. Then there are all the people who came to the gallery to view it. Again, Worley's work. He's like the man at the tent who says, ‘Come in and look at all the wonders and strange beings that no one has seen before.’ Then when you enter the tent, you find that it's all fake images and lies. He is like ... what do you call it?"
"A huckster?” I suggested.
"Huckster! Yes, huckster.” I'm not sure if she knew the word, but she seemed to like the weight of it.
"What did your father think of his employer?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.
"Papa was a kind man. Always. He would never speak badly of another person, not even someone like Worley."
"Though you yourself do not feel so restrained."
The young woman's eyes flashed. “Can you blame me? My father gave everything to Worley's gallery. In the end, even his life."
I told her, “We haven't seen anything to connect Stuart Worley to the theft."
"Then look harder! Please, you can't let him get away with this thing."
We parted ways with her and headed toward home. As we drove, Mr. O'Nelligan and I lapsed into silence, content to just listen to the car radio and the soothing larynxes of the Five Satins, the Platters, and Frank Sinatra. I dropped off my friend and returned to my own humble dwelling. I ate a lackluster dinner and spent some time thumbing through my notes. Turning in early, I nodded right off.
Sometime in the night, a dream came to me. It started with an absurdist bit which had me deep-sea fishing with Winston Churchill and Scarlett O'Hara. No idea what that was about. Eventually, I ended up back on land in a field of deep red roses. They're his, I remember thinking. Giuseppe's. It's what he wanted. In the crazy way of dreams, plaid clouds and green-winged eagles moved overhead as a woman somewhere began singing opera. Then I woke. I'd like to say that I sat bolt upright, the solution to the Zampino case suddenly crystal clear, but that wasn't the way of it. I merely rolled over and fell into a dreamless slumber.
* * * *
On the drive back to Scarsdale that next morning, I tried to talk over the details of our assignment. Mr. O'Nelligan, however, chose to confine himself to the occasional “hmm” or “yes, I see.” While I found this frustrating, I'd learned that my friend's silence was not necessarily a bad thing. Something was percolating in that Celtic cranium. I flicked on the radio and soon heard that the Yankees had beaten the Dodgers the night before in the fifth game of the World Series. What's more, the somewhat obscure winning pitcher, Don Larsen, had thrown a perfect game—no hits, no walks, no man reaching base. In professional baseball history, this had happened only five times before, and never in a World Series.
"And wouldn't you know it,” I noted to my companion, “Stuart Worley was there to see it."
"Perfect...” said Mr. O'Nelligan absently.
We made Worley's gallery the first stop of the day. As with our last visit, we found the place empty except for Piker, who sat on a stool in a corner reading a tabloid newspaper. He popped up at our arrival, but not to embrace us as brothers.
"Dammit! You bums don't belong here.” The burly lackey strode toward us, his paper rolled tightly in his fist. It made an adequate-looking bludgeon.
Mr. O'Nelligan arched his eyebrows. “Don't belong here? Surely, any man eager to immerse himself in art belongs here. Would you thwart the passions of two aficionados?"
It was a risky ploy, but it worked. Mr. O'Nelligan's eloquence halted the rhino in its tracks. Confounded, Piker muttered, “My boss won't want you around."
"We have a quick question,” I said. “Shouldn't ruffle his feathers too much."
Stuart Worley now stepped into the room. “I had hoped our acquaintance had run its course."
"Nope,” I corrected. “We've turned up again. So, last night's game was a doozie, eh? You're a lucky man to have been there."
Worley's face darkened. “Just stick to business."
"Fair enough. How can we contact the makers of the alarm system?"
Without a word, Worley vanished into the back and promptly returned with a business card, which he shoved into my hand.
"Dunkle Brothers Quality Alarms,” I read aloud. “They're local, I see."
"Yes,” said Worley. “I'm sure they'll bedazzle you with tales of the alarm trade. Now be off."
He was way too haughty and I was feeling feisty. “Not everyone hops to your commands, chum."
I couldn't believe I'd actually tossed that out, but the reaction to it was swift. Piker suddenly appeared an inch from my face, making me fear a rendezvous between his teeth with my nose. “No one calls Mr. Worley chum,” he hissed.
"Apparently not,” said Mr. O'Nelligan as he pulled me backward through the door. “Well, we must withdraw. Good day, sirs."
He bustled us into the car just as Piker stepped out to the sidewalk and flung his rolled newspaper at me. It flew through my opened door to land on Mr. O'Nelligan's lap. I slammed the door closed and sped off.
My comrade laughed freely. “My, that was an uncharacteristic show of bravado, Lee Plunkett. I'd say you were a split second away from fisticuffs."
"That pretty boy gets my goat,” I grumbled.
"I assume you're referring to Mr. Worley because Mr. Piker roughly resembles a sack of root crops. Well, at least we've acquired the day's news.” He began to leaf through the paper.
I pulled out the alarm company's business card and checked the address again. “I don't know where this is. We'll have to ask around for directions."
I complied. “What's up?"
He climbed out of the car. “I need a little stroll. Just to mull things over. Wait for me, won't you?"
Well aware that Mr. O'Nelligan did his very best mulling while strolling, I nodded and waited. I looked over the page of the New York Daily News that my friend had been reading. It offered an account of last night's baseball contest with the lead line, The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday. This alluded to the fact that Don Larsen was not only an erratic ballplayer, but also a noted carouser. I went through the full article, unsuccessfully trying to determine what had inspired Mr. O'Nelligan's enthusiasm.
I'd known the old Irishman to go ambling for a good two hour chunk, so I was grateful when he returned after only twenty minutes. He smiled gently and informed me that he had found a telephone booth and placed two calls—one to Donna Zampino, the other to the local police. I was given driving instructions but no real information beyond that. Such was Mr. O'Nelligan's way. We drove on as Elvis Presley's voice rose from the radio, admonishing us not to be cruel to a heart that's true.
* * * *
A half hour later, Mr. O'Nelligan, Donna, and I were standing in Gilmar Noll's studio.
Maxine was in fine form. “Why the hell do you guys keep showing up to pester us? This isn't a bus stop, y'know. And who's your little dolly here?"
Donna Zampino looked like she was about to slug the other woman right there and then. I rested a restraining hand on her shoulder. Noll was leaning in a corner, seemingly uninterested in our presence.
"Please bear with us,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “We're here to offer a solution to the theft of Mr. Noll's painting."
This got Noll's attention. “Really? You've found it?"
"Has Worley confessed?” Donna asked.
Maxine jumped in. “It should come back to Gilmar, right? After all, it was his to begin with. And if Worley—"
AHMM, December 2009 Page 7
