“Yes?” Chris asked into the receiver.
“Mr. Marlowe?”
“Yes,” said Chris.
The speaking policeman flashed his badge toward the camera. “Can we come in and speak to you?”
Chris contemplated the question for a moment. “I’ve been having some trouble lately and frankly, I don’t know you. Anyone can get a badge on the interweb or Canal Street or Coney Island.”
“The interweb?” the teeth-picking cop asked.
“He means the Internet. The guy is like a hundred.”
“Oh, I’m not all that old.” Chris didn’t offer his actual age.
“Sir, we are from the police department. And, we have questions.”
“What are you doing, Chris. Let them in.” Elmer had dressed; he stood next to Chris and looked at the screen. “They really do look legit.”
“Okay, I’m going to buzz you in. But I have a very strict rule about no guns in my house, so we’ll have to talk outside.” Chris hit the three button and heard the buzzer. He watched the police ram open the door. He took a shawl from the chair and wrapped it tight around him and opened the door. A chilly blast hit him.
Again the police flashed their badges. “Elmer? Is that you?”
Elmer held out his hand. “Nice to see you again. Officer Leander?”
“Yes, that’s correct. And this is Officer Hero.”
“Chris, you should let them in. It’s too cold for you to talk to them with this door open.” Elmer took Chris’ elbow. “Officer Leander was at Tamburlaine the night you were poisoned the second time. He’s the one who got me for you, to translate all that eye blinking.”
He didn’t trust these men. Police or street thugs, they had an agenda and they carried guns. Chris had never liked the energy related to guns or the residue of energy that lingered on people who carried them. But, he acquiesced to Elmer who seemed to know these men. “Fine.” He stepped back, looked them over, and sat down at the table, focusing on his cooling cup of coffee.
“Why don’t you boys sit? Can I get you some coffee?” Elmer as hausfrau cleared a few dishes and returned with coffee cups.
Frustrated, Chris asked: “You said you have questions?”
Leander opened a notebook. He pointed to the newspaper on the table. “So, you’ve seen that they’ve found your painting? Thanks, cream for me, if you’ve got it.”
“Yes, my painting” said Chris. He nodded as Elmer warmed up his cup of coffee.
“The warehouse is leased by a Folgate Foundation. It isn’t a registered entity, but there is a Folgate Corporation just around the corner from here.”
“Yes, I know the Folgate family.”
“Family? No, there’s only one that we could find. Nigel Folgate. But, strangely, the credit card and lease agreement weren’t signed by him.”
“There are three. Nigel Folgate, who I believe to be an honest man, mostly. His nephew, Norton Folgate. He’s the one who has been harassing me for months. And, Nigel has a sister. I can’t remember her name.”
“We have no records at all of a Norton Folgate.” Leander punched his finger at the screen of his tablet. There are no business entities registered to him, no driver’s license, no Social Security number.” Leander continued to stab at the screen. “If the sister married, she’d have a different name.”
“Have you seen all these shows?” Hero asked. He touched several warping Playbills on the wall.
“Yes, of course.” Chris snapped at the man.
“Sorry,” said the youthful officer.
“How can there be no younger Folgate?” Chris asked. “Elmer, you were there with me. You’ve seen him. You heard Nigel speak of him.”
“I was with you when that man harassed you. I’d never seen him before that.”
Chris’ head swam. “You said you had questions?”
“Yes.” Leander pushed his screen several times. “Can you tell us again how you discovered the painting was missing?”
“I’ve told and retold this story.”
“Chris, just tell them again.” Elmer said.
“Why do you guys ask the same questions over and over?” He wanted these two men out of his house, make that three. Perhaps because he was a cop for so many years, Elmer seemed to have aligned up with his brothers too easily. Chris retold the story, arriving at Tamburlaine, the missing staff found in the basement, story of the masked gunmen, office broken into, painting missing. As he spoke, Leander typed and pushed at his screen. It felt like a Sci-Fi novel he’d read. In that story, those questioned ended up the next dead.
“Your painting will be held for a bit, as evidence, until we complete our investigation. That was really why we stopped by today.”
“That, and to hear your story again,” added the baby-faced cop who didn’t make eye contact, but instead watched the cat clock swishing its blue tail.
Leander stood, Hero followed. Everyone shook hands and the cops left.
“I don’t like any of this,” said Chris. “Something is off about those two. I don’t believe they’re cops at all.”
“Chris, Leander was the guy that helped the night you were poisoned.”
“That doesn’t make him a good guy; it just makes him a guy who was there.” Elmer was also a guy who was there that night.
Forty-seven
Chris pushed through the doors into the lobby of the Folgate Building. He tapped his foot on the marble floor in time with his manicured, red lacquered fingernail on the marble counter. “I’m here to see Nigel Folgate.”
The assistant eyed Chris with a smirk. “He’s not seeing anyone today.”
Chris wanted to slap that look off her face; he wanted to throw some shade about her bad dye job, uneven roots, and knockoff dress. Instead, he said: “Please tell him Chris Marlowe is here. He’ll see me.” He held the woman’s gaze until she blinked. “You know he’ll see me.”
She picked up the phone, spoke Chris’ name, and hung up. “Follow me.”
He wanted to snap his fingers. He didn’t gloat, or tried not to, but those shoes of hers were bargain basement, too. As the elevator opened on the top floor, Nigel met Chris.
“Alone?” Folgate asked.
“Yes. I had to see you. I want to talk to you.”
He steered Chris into the office and closed the doors behind them. “I was just pouring coffee for myself, will you join me?”
Chris chose a comfortable chair; Nigel poured him coffee and handed him a white porcelain cup on a wafer-thin saucer. He poured another for himself and sat opposite his guest. Chris tasted the hot coffee, enjoying everything about it, the aroma, the perfect, drinkable temperature. He left behind a lipstick mark, but did nothing to remove it.
“What can I do for you my dear friend?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Chris began: “The Picasso has been found.”
“Yes, I saw the papers.”
“It was found in your warehouse in New Jersey.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I was informed you have no nephew, but even your secretary, the last time I was here, asked which Folgate.”
“Chris, what are you accusing me of?” Norton set down his coffee cup and saucer.
“I’m not casting accusations. I suspect the police will be filing charges, issuing warrants. But, I’m just so confused. Who is the evil boy?”
“My nephew.”
“But the police say there is no nephew. He doesn’t exist.” The cup on its saucer offered the faintest of rattles before Chris placed them on the table. “Your sister’s boy?”
“No, there is no nephew.”
“Norton, you talked about him. He’s been harassing me for weeks. Who is this man impersonating your nephew.”
“I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“Nigel!” Chris sat back
, exhausted, flummoxed. “First you tell me you’ll protect me and then my painting was stolen. Why?”
“He wanted to prove that he could do it. After you were here we talked about you, about Jimmy…about the art. Do you still have that big Jasper Johns?”
“Who? Prove to whom?” Chris took out a handkerchief and tapped it along his neck.
“The boy wanted to prove to me that he could run the neighborhood. You and those Jews and that old Wop, you three are the only holdouts. We own the rest of the neighborhood. An entire neighborhood. We can turn it into anything. The boy has a vision and it doesn’t include ancient dives hanging on by a thread. So, what do you do? You up the ante. You get your place hopping. Now, the Wop doesn’t want to sell. The Jews never did want to sell, third generation. They’re making money again from all your drunks.”
“You’re making no sense.”
Nigel sipped coffee. He wiped his lips with a linen napkin, a white “F” embroidered in its corner.
“Well?” Chris asked.
“The boy is my lover.”
A quick laugh escaped Chris’ mouth before his mental editor could catch up. “He’s a quarter of your age, Nigel.”
“We’re married. He’s taken my name. When I die, it’s all his.”
“Well, this just gets better and better.” Chris felt the room spin. “Why is there no record of him? Son, husband, there’s got to be records.”
“Perhaps they haven’t caught up yet.”
“So, that’s how he knew how to break into the office. Jimmy taught you the lock.”
“Taught me? I built that lock. I taught Jimmy. And, I taught the boy.”
“Why? Why would you steal Jimmy’s painting? What was your connection to Franz?”
“We were lovers. I helped him get those paintings into the country.”
“Were they…are they…stolen?” Chris felt the heat rise to the roots of his curls. It would have been the late ’60s. No connection to World War II. But, Franz did have a German name.
“No. They weren’t stolen. He just didn’t want to report them. Most of those pieces were from a collection in France. No documentation. Franz did what Jimmy did. Bought work from young, unknown painters. Where do you think Jimmy learned to do that? Is the Jasper Johns still in Jimmy’s bedroom?”
Chris leaned forward and filled a glass on the tray with water, he drank a few sips, and then pressed the glass to his cheek.
“Not feeling well?”
He hated the memory of Nigel and him in bed with Jimmy when he was dying. “Just flushed. Unless you’ve poisoned me again?”
“Chris, I’ve never harmed you. And, the boy never harmed your staff. He shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have stolen the painting. But, he was trying to prove to me he would do anything. It just, well, got out of hand.”
“Got out of hand? I’ve been poisoned, there have been several attacks with fire and gas. My staff robbed at gunpoint…”
“Chris, I’ve had nothing to do with any of those things.”
“What about your boy?”
“As far as I know, he’s only responsible for the painting.”
“Why does he tell people he’s your nephew? Why not your husband, or your lover?”
“Our ages. People assumed he was my grandson; he thought nephew was a better title.”
The two sat for an elongated moment. Nigel held Chris’ gaze, keeping an amused look on his face.
“I’m so tired.” Chris leaned forward. “The police told me I’d get my painting back. And, it is my painting. Jimmy owned it and he left it to me. My club is a success right now. You can’t have it. And, he can’t have it either.” Chris stood up. “I don’t know what kind of cat and mouse game you thought you were playing at, but the rules have just changed. I will never, ever give up my club to you or anyone else.” Chris strode toward the door. The wheels inside his head spun. He wasn’t going to lie down for this anymore, that was for sure. “Tamburlaine is mine and you can’t have it.” He opened the door. “And that goes double for your boy!” He stepped out and slammed the door shut.
The elevator was open, the box unattended. He strode in, pulled the grill closed, and grabbed the handle. He guided the elevator down to the ground floor in a herky-jerky manor; it arrived in the lobby with a hard bump.
“Mr. Folgate—” started the secretary.
“Can kiss my ass,” finished Chris as he shoved the two doors open onto the street and a great wind tore into the building.
He walked a block, cleared the Folgate Building, and his knees went weak. Chris propped himself against a dirty gate blocking a broken-glassed doorway into a long-closed shop. Wops, Jews, Spics, Fags. That’s what this neighborhood had always been; a strong, working-class neighborhood; hard working meat packers and shop owners. A vision began to form in Chris’ mind of what the neighborhood had been all those years ago and what it could be again. He felt more excited than he had in years. He also felt lonelier than he’d ever felt. How could those emotions reside so closely together inside of him?
With his footing regained, Chris walked toward home. The late fall chill went head-to-head with the great sunlit sky: A battle that would now rage until spring.
Forty-eight
Chris stopped at the corner. There ahead of him, at his front door, a gaggle of people waited in the streetlight’s illuminated circle. Someone held a television camera, another smoked, the red ember of the cigarette glowing red and hot at even intervals. He debated turning and walking back to the club, but he needed to change clothes before his set at Tamburlaine.
“Mr. Marlowe! Mr. Marlowe!” came the shouts as he drew closer.
Chris wished he’d taken a moment to freshen his lipstick.
“Mr. Marlowe! How long have you owned the painting?”
“What were you doing with a Picasso in your bar?”
“Mr. Marlowe!”
The reporters, he assumed they were reporters, blocked his door. Keys in hand, he found himself in the middle of them, all men, all pushing him with their shouted words and aggressive body language.
Chris inhaled through his adrenaline spike. In the middle, he couldn’t do much. “The painting was a gift. I’m so glad it’s been recovered,” he said.
A volley of questions from all directions.
“Boys, boys, one at a time.” He flirted, treated it like being heckled on stage.
The handsome man, the one from New York 1 News, chuckled. “Chris, do you think the painting was stolen because of the recent success at Tamburlaine?”
“Success at Tamburlaine is an ongoing thing, has been for more than forty years. But, you know that.” Chris winked at the television reporter. “You’re there all the time, aren’t you? You look so familiar.” Chris took another step toward his door; the gaggle shifted around him. “I don’t know why the club was targeted or the painting stolen. It’s been there for a very long time.”
“How did you end up with a Picasso?” someone asked.
“Well, no need to be rude,” said Chris. “The painting was a gift. Pablo was still alive when Jimmy got it. When Jimmy died, it was gifted to me.”
“The police say the painting was found in a warehouse leased by the Folgates. Do you think…”
He didn’t know how to attack Nigel and his protégé yet, so refrained from saying anything about them. “That’s what the Times said.” He shuffled another few inches toward his door, held the key ready. “The Times hasn’t reviewed a single show at Tamburlaine, so I have nothing to say about the Times.”
“You have a lot of expensive paintings, don’t you Mr. Marlowe?”
How did he know that? Chris spoke with caution, his mental editor on high. “I do have a small collection, but when they were acquired, they weren’t worth much at all. I’ve always supported artists, artists of all mediums. I still do. Money is
like manure, it’s not worth a damn unless it’s spread around, encouraging young things to grow.” Nothing wrong with a Dolly Levi moment.
Several of the guys groaned.
“There have been lots of strange incidents for you recently, haven’t there? Who do you think is harassing you? Do you think it’s the Folgates?”
“Well, I don’t know. There have been a few difficult moments. I’m just happy that Tamburlaine keeps bouncing back. You should come see Little Shop of Horrors or Ain’t Misbehavin’.” He felt the cool metal of the door, found the lock, thrust the key in, turned it, pushed with his whole body; the door creaked open. “Bring that camera to the club if you want more from me.” He slipped into the darkness and pushed hard on the door. It resisted. Chris feared the reporters wouldn’t let it close, but they did. He could hear the chuckles and crude comments, but said nothing. He stood for a long moment, letting his knees strengthen before walking down the alley.
He entered the kitchen to a ringing cell phone and doorbell. He pushed the button on the security monitor as he picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Chris, just checking on you. Just so you know, there are a group of reporters at your door.”
“Yes, Frank, I’ve just spoken with them.”
“Well, I was walking by your place on the way into work and…”
“The painting. They want to know more about Streetwalkers.”
On the monitor, one of the reporters repeatedly pushed the buzzer.
“What is that noise?” Frank asked.
“There’s an asshole laying on my bell.”
Chris pushed the button to speak: “Please stop that.” The noise stopped.
“Are you okay?” Frank asked. “I could be back over there in a minute with my baseball bat.”
The buzzing started again.
“Aren’t you sweet? No, it’s fine. I’ll be in early.” He hung up the phone and walked out of the kitchen. The buzzer echoed through the loft. In the bedroom, he stripped down to his boxers. He looked at the Jasper Johns, then the Jackson Pollack, worried for the first time that something might happen to them while he was out of the house. He rummaged through his fallen slacks for his cell phone and punched in his lawyer’s number.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 21
