Ellen had graduated from Vassar with a degree in art history twenty-three years ago and moved to Greenwich Village to live the artist’s life, which turned out to be three lonely years of waiting tables and scrounging tips to pay the outrageous rent on a roach-infested studio with a panoramic view of a gray airshaft. That experience shocked her into the M.B.A. program at Wharton and a huge starting salary in a Boston merchant banking house. She talked the corporate talk and walked the corporate walk for fifteen years—in Boston and then Chicago and then St. Louis—before quitting to return to her real passion. In just three years she’d become one of the movers and shakers in the St. Louis art community, serving on the boards of the St. Louis Art Museum and the Regional Arts Council while running one of the most successful art galleries in the Midwest.
We’d met when we’d worked together on an Arts Council committee. Since then, I’d represented her on an insurance claim, she’d sold me a piece of sculpture, and we’d been guests at each other’s house—she’d come to my house with her Jewish boyfriend Gabe for the second night of Passover this year, and I’d taken Benny to her funky Halloween party last year (we went dressed as Beauty and the Beast, with Benny in drag as Beauty).
“So you know Sebastian Curry’s work?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” She shook her head derisively. “Strictly third-rate. I’m embarrassed to say that I actually sold a piece of his work two years ago. He’d been begging me to show his paintings, and I finally gave in. I listed it for twelve hundred dollars. It sat here for almost a year before I unloaded it for eight hundred on a social-climbing bimbo who said it was a perfect match for the wallpaper in her dining room.”
“All of these sales,” I said, holding up the list Jacki had compiled from the files at Stanley Brod’s office, “are from several years back. Was he worth more back then?”
“I doubt it.” She paused, gesturing toward the list in disbelief. “You’re telling me that Samantha sold almost two dozen of Sebastian’s paintings at an average price of fifteen thousand dollars each?”
“According to these records.”
“She must be the greatest hustler since P. T. Barnum.”
“Do you know her?”
“I don’t think so. I may have run into her at a few functions back then—art shows, opening nights, that sort of thing—but her gallery was closed by the time I opened mine. She hasn’t been in the business since then.”
“What do you know about Millennium Management Services?”
“Millennium?” Ellen frowned. “Never heard of them. What is it?”
“Some sort of agency, I think.”
“For who?”
“I don’t know. It received a fee on each painting.”
“How much?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“Really?” She seemed puzzled. “Six grand on a fifteen-thousand-dollar painting? What’s that—forty percent? That’s a huge commission. Do you happen to know what Curry got paid?”
“Seven thousand.”
She frowned as she mulled it over. “Ordinarily, I’d say the artist got screwed, but the sales prices for those paintings are so outrageous that it’s hard to feel sorry for him.”
“Maybe Millennium wasn’t his agent,” I said. “Maybe they were somehow responsible for finding buyers for the paintings. Maybe they were the gallery’s agent.”
“And the payments were finder’s fees?” She tilted her head as she thought it over. “I guess that’s possible. Some galleries, especially in New York and Chicago, pay finder’s fees to interior design firms that get hired to decorate corporate headquarters and big law firms. You don’t hear of it down here, though. Still, I suppose it’s possible. Are you able to tell from the records who Millennium was working for?”
“The gallery paid the fee.”
“That doesn’t mean that they were working for the gallery. A lot of agents for artists insist that the galleries pay their fees direct. That way they avoid fee squabbles with their clients.” She glanced at the list. “Samantha ought to know who Millennium was working for. Ask her.”
“I can’t, at least not without her lawyer present.”
“Well, Sebastian should know. Ask him.”
“I plan to,” I said. “What’s he like?”
She smiled. “He’s big and he’s dumb and he’s totally gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?”
“Beyond gorgeous, honey. Imagine the African warrior of your hottest sexual fantasy. We’re talking total eye candy—tall, great bod, cool dreadlocks, perfect teeth, a smile to die for. He should be the artist’s model, not the artist. In fact, I hear that’s how he makes some of his money these days. Wait until you see him in tight pants.” Ellen gave me a leer as she fanned herself with her hand. “I can understand why Samantha would be willing to carry his work. I can understand why any woman would. That’s probably why I agreed to carry one for him. Carrying it’s one thing—but selling it is an entirely different proposition.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, handing her the list that Jacki had put together from the gallery’s records. “These are the people that bought his paintings. Do you recognize any of the names?”
She leaned against the edge of her desk, put on her reading glasses, and studied the names, moving down the list one by one. When she reached the bottom she skimmed through the names again and then looked up. “I’ve sold pieces to six of the buyers. Two of the six are real surprises.”
“Why?”
“Because they actually have taste. I can’t imagine either one of them hanging anything by Sebastian Curry in their homes, much less paying fifteen thousand dollars for the privilege. The other four—well, I’m not shocked. They couldn’t tell quality from crap. If Sebastian Curry happened to be the artist of the hour—and who knows? Maybe he was back then—they wouldn’t blink at paying fifteen grand. But as for these two,” she said, pointing at the names with her finger, “how Samantha got them to pay those prices is beyond me.”
“You interested in talking to them?” I asked.
She nodded. “Actually, yes. I’d like to see their paintings and find out what the fuss was all about.”
“You want to visit some of them with me?”
She gave me a curious look. “Rachel, you don’t just call these people out of the blue and ask to come over to see their paintings. You’d have to have a good reason.”
“I have one.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. You and I are putting together a special showing of St. Louis artists. We’re thinking of including a few representative works by Sebastian Curry. We’d like to see their paintings for possible inclusion in the exhibition.”
“We are, are we?” She was grinning. “And who exactly are we?”
“We’re representatives of the Art Guild of Metropolitan St. Louis.”
“Which is what?”
I shrugged. “A new group. Brand-new, in fact. This will be our inaugural event. That’s why you’re helping them put this show together. You’ve agreed to consult with the group in the selection of artists to include. I handle their legal work, which is why I need to go with you.” I winked. “I have to make sure everything is kosher.”
She laughed. “You’re terrible.”
“Come with me for two visits. Once I see how you handle the art part, I can visit a few others on my own and fake it. You choose which two you want to see. I’ll buy you dinner afterward.”
She considered it for all of two seconds. “It’s a deal. But we’ll have to meet them today ’cause I’m off to New York tomorrow.”
“Then toss me that phone book and let’s start calling. I have a court hearing right after lunch, but the rest of the afternoon belongs to you.”
Chapter Twelve
I’m here on the motion in Blackwell Breeders,” I told Judge Parker’s clerk.
“I am.”
“Knock on the door. The judge is ready.”
“Has plaintiffs’ counsel arrived?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s in there already.”
Of course, I said to myself, trying to control my irritation. This was the second time I’d found Mack the Knife already inside the judge’s chambers when I arrived for a court appearance in the ostrich case. Not that I was surprised. What Mack lacked in legal talent he more than made up in sheer gall. Over the years, he’d bullied his way through hundreds of lawsuits, building a lucrative practice with clients who believed that the best lawyer was a confrontational lawyer. The book on him was to be patient and hang in there. Although he curried favor with the trial judges—drinking with them after hours, hunting and golfing with them on the weekends—the breaks they gave him in the courtroom rarely survived scrutiny on appeal. But the catch was that few lawyers, and even fewer clients, had the stomach or the wallet to endure Mack the Knife through a trial and an appeal. Most chose to settle.
I rapped on the door and opened it just as Armour was delivering what sounded like the punch line to a dirty joke.
“…and don’t ride your bike for a week.”
Judge Parker was seated behind his desk, leaning back in the chair, his arms crossed over his ample gut. He chuckled and leaned forward, noticing my arrival and waving me in. “That’s a good one, Mack. Hello, counselor. Come on in.”
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.”
Armour got up from his chair to face me, his eyes doing a quick body scan. “Miss Gold,” he said, nodding curtly.
I returned the nod. “Mr. Armour.”
Mack the Knife was a burly, athletic man in his early fifties. He had a golf tan, a smooth shaved scalp, slate-gray eyes, and a neatly trimmed black mustache. In his khaki suit, crisp white shirt, and gleaming brown loafers, he reminded me of a corrupt CIA operative in a Latin American capital.
Judge Lamar Parker, by contrast, was the fleshy, heavy-lidded deer hunter from rural Missouri. Neither saint nor sinner, Judge Parker was a former insurance defense lawyer in his late fifties who’d used Republican Party connections to get appointed to the bench. His demeanor was affable, his rulings unimaginative, and his workday short. He rarely was reversed on appeal because he rarely was bold at trial.
“This is your motion, Miss Gold?” Judge Parker asked.
“It is, Your Honor.”
“What’s it seek?” he asked, paging through the file. As usual, Judge Parker had read none of the papers and done nothing to prepare for the argument.
“As the court knows,” I explained, “my clients seek a full refund on the male ostrich they purchased from Blackwell Breeders. They also seek compensation for injuries inflicted upon several of the hens, including the death of one. I’m here today asking the court to dismiss Mr. Blackwell’s claim. He alleges that he suffers emotional distress from the thought of his ostrich residing on my clients’ farm. Frankly, Your Honor, the claim is absurd on its face.”
The judge turned to Armour. “Mack?”
Armour snorted. “Judge, my client sold those gals a normal, heterosexual stud cock—the kind of animal that’s happiest when he’s putting the lumber to some hen.” He became solemn. “Except now he’s stuck out there in Kinkyland with—”
“That’s ridiculous,” I snapped, immediately regretting my interruption, knowing Armour would take advantage of it.
“Your Honor,” he said, pointedly ignoring me, “I’m simply attempting to answer the court’s question. May I continue?”
“Please do.”
He glanced at me. “Without further interruption?”
“Get on with it,” I said through clenched teeth.
“These women,” Armour said, shaking his head sternly, “concealed their inexperience and their incompetence and, even worse, their perverted lesbian lifestyle from my client at the time of the sale. Mr. Blackwell is overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and remorse over what he’s done to that poor ostrich. When Miss Gold has the opportunity to look him in the eye, she will feel his pain.”
“Your Honor, I’ve already looked Mr. Blackwell in the eye at his deposition. He could barely keep a straight face.”
“Smiling through his tears,” Armour answered. “The man is devastated. He’s entitled to compensation.”
“Your Honor,” I said, trying to contain my anger, “the only reason Mr. Armour put that ludicrous claim in the lawsuit is to confuse and prejudice the jury. It should be dismissed for that reason alone. More important, the claim has no scientific basis.”
Judge Parker turned to him. “What about that, Mack?”
Armour smiled as he unclicked his briefcase. “She wants science, Judge, I’ll give it to her in spades.” He started pulling scientific journals out of his briefcase and piling them, one by one, onto the judge’s desk. I skimmed the titles as they dropped onto the desk—Journal of Animal Behavior, Field Studies in Evolutionary Biology, Animal Husbandry Quarterly, Zoological Record.
When he completed his stack, Armour leaned back triumphant and crossed his arms over his chest. “How’s that for starters?”
“How’s what?” I responded. “What are these?”
“Scientific studies of animal behavior. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”
I started to answer when the judge held up his hand. “You make some good points, Miss Gold, but I think we’d all agree this is a case of first impression. The safest route here is to let the jury take a crack at it. We can clean up any miscues in the posttrial motions.”
***
Last chance,” Armour told me as we emerged from the courthouse. “Settle now or this trial’s gonna put your clients on the cover of the National Enquirer.”
“What’s your proposal?” I responded frostily.
“Well,” he said, scratching his mustache thoughtfully, “I might be willing to recommend a dog fall.”
I stared at him. “You drop your claims and we drop ours? You call that a good-faith offer?”
“Not an offer yet. I said it’s what I’d be willing to recommend.”
“Forget it, Mack. Your offer is as absurd as your lawsuit.”
“Suit yourself, counselor, but you’re living in a fantasy world.” He chuckled. “The only absurd thing here is someone who thinks a St. Louis jury is going to award one red cent to a pair of muff divers.”
I stared at him as a bunch of possible responses flashed through my head—all at the playground level, none a real zinger. Oh, where is Benny Goldberg when you need him?
Chapter Thirteen
Unbelievable,” Benny said, shaking his head as he sliced off another hunk of sausage. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I just walked away.”
“Nothing?” Benny took a big chug of beer and swallowed. “Nothing?”
I shrugged. “What would you have said?”
“Easy,” he said, putting down the bottle and stifling a belch, which rumbled ominously in his belly. He jabbed his finger at an imaginary Mack Armour. “I’d say, ‘Watch your mouth, bullet-head, ’cause I got chunks of guys like you in my stool.’”
I shook my head. “Works better coming from you.”
He gestured toward the cutting board. “You sure you don’t want some more?”
I held up my hands. “I’m stuffed.”
It was late afternoon. Benny had come by my office for a surprise happy hour. He’d stopped at his favorite Italian deli for a “light snack”—a smoked turkey breast, a thick slab of cheese, a jar of pickled onions, an Italian bread, and a truly repulsive sausage composed of semi-identifiable animal parts suspended in a pink gelatinous goo.
I shook my head in wonder. “An entire turkey breast, Benny?”
“Hey, girl, I bought it because of you.”
“Me?”
“You should have seen the smoked ham. Talk about enticing. I got sexually aroused just looking at it.”
“Spare me.”
“I did. That’s the point. Now that you’re becoming the Orthodox Jewish Princess, God forbid I should bring treif into your office.”
“That’s sweet. But speaking of treif, what in heaven’s name is in that sausage?”
“This?” Benny stared at it a moment, rubbing his chin. He finally shrugged. “There are some things man was not meant to know. So when’s the ostrich battle scheduled for trial?”
“Not for another month.” I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “I just want it to be over, Benny. Armour’s been a complete jerk—hid documents from me, lied to the judge, hired an investigator to harass two of Maggie’s former lovers. I feel like I’m stuck in an endless backstreet brawl with that guy. Each day brings a new dirty trick. Today, he dumped a pile of scientific journals on the judge’s desk, supposedly to support his contention that my clients’ actions could have changed that ostrich’s behavior.”
“And?”
“There was nothing even remotely close in there.” I shook my head in exasperation. “Just another sleazy stunt.”
“So what’d you expect? Tea and crumpets with Miss Manners? The guy’s a fucking scumbag. Hell, I feel like taking a bath after talking to him on the phone. Don’t sweat it, Rachel. When that case finally gets to trial, you’re going to nail his ass.”
“As my father would have said, ‘From your lips to God’s ears.’”
“You got that right. So how’s Angela Green’s case coming along?”
Trophy Widow Page 11
