The Death Artist

by Jonathan Santlofer

  “Death artist, death artist, death artist. It’s all I’m hearing tonight. I’m sick to death of the death artist.”

  “Is that a pun?” Willie asked.

  Schuyler laughed. “Well, you’ve got to admit this death artist is creative. And he’ll certainly be remembered.”

  Amanda stared at him blankly, said, “Let’s just forget him and concentrate on the art, shall we?” She offered Willie and Schuyler what might be a smile—the red gash opened and closed like a shark’s mouth. “I think the NEA did Martina a great favor,” she said, referring to the National Endowment for the Arts’s very public revocation of several artists’ grants for reasons of obscenity a few years back. “It set her free, forced her to simplify. Who needs expensive art supplies?” The art dealer gestured at the drawings. “Could these be any more basic?” she asked, indicating the artist’s drawings created with her own menstrual blood on cheap rough newsprint paper.

  Schuyler Mills said, “Oh . . . no cow heads, dead sharks, or Madonnas splattered in elephant dung? I’m disappointed.”

  Amanda Lowe signaled the artist over.

  Martina, in heavy black boots, torn black jeans, and a black biker’s jacket, stomped heavily toward them like a prizefighter entering the ring.

  Mills’s eyes flashed mischievously. “Tell me. Do you collect your menstrual blood in a bottle to use later, or”—he swiped at his crotch, then flipped his hand up and waved it like a paintbrush—“work directly from the source?”

  “Direct,” said Martina, playing with her nose ring. “It wouldn’t make sense any other way. Look. If you start at one end of the gallery and follow the drawings around, you’ll get it. The drawings replicate my flow. See? At the beginning the drawings are real rich and dense, then they start to fade. By the end they’re almost not there.”

  “Ahhh . . .” said Mills. “The trickle-down effect.”

  Willie would have laughed except that his attention had been taken up by the appearance of Charlaine Kent, director of the Museum for Otherness, who poked her head between Martina and Schuyler. “What’s absolutely great,” she said as if she’d been part of the conversation all along, “is that the first drawings are so tough and visceral, while the last ones are ephemeral, almost . . . poignant. They walk the line between threat and seduction, don’t you think?” She directed this question to Willie, her long black lashes shading her eyes, her fingers toying with an enormous crucifix resting in the cleavage above her pink tube top.

  Willie smiled, taking in the dark fleshy curves of Charlaine’s breasts, her tightly curled cropped hair bleached a striking platinum, the crimson lipstick that accentuated her sensuous lips.

  “We’ve met before. Charlaine Kent. But everyone calls me Charlie.” She extended her hand. “I am a great fan of your work.”

  The words every artist longs to hear. Willie took her hand, flashed his best smile.

  Charlie ran her tongue over those crimson lips.

  But the moment was interrupted as Raphael Perez managed to loop his arm over Willie’s shoulder, edging both Schuyler Mills and Charlie Kent out of the way. Charlie looked as if she wanted to dig one of her stiletto heels right through Perez’s delicate alligator loafers.

  Willie, not wanting to offend any of these three art world movers, attempted to disengage from Perez as politely as possible, but, stepping back, stumbled into Amy Schwartz, director of the Contemporary.

  Schuyler Mills swooped down on his boss, an arm around her plump shoulder, a kiss on her cheek.

  Immediately, junior curator Raphael Perez insinuated himself between Schuyler Mills and Amy Schwartz. He whispered conspiratorially, “Amy. I really must speak to you about your resignation, about the possibility—”

  “Please, guys. I’m off duty.” Amy’s eyes darted between her two curators, Mills and Perez. “I’ll just leave you two to chat.” She forced a big smile, then regarded Martina’s menstrual drawings, whispered to Willie, “Have you ever tried painting with semen?” She pushed her bushy hair away from her face with her pudgy, multiringed hand.

  “I did,” said Willie, “but after collecting it my hand was too tired to hold the paintbrush.”

  Amy hooted, took Willie’s arm, led him away from the crowd. “Jesus, those guys, Mills and Perez, are gonna eat me alive. You’d think this damn director’s job paid a million a year.”

  “Money’s not the issue for Schuyler,” Willie whispered. “Art is like the most important thing in the world to him. He’s going to get it, isn’t he?”

  Amy whispered back, “Look, Willie, I know Sky has been a great supporter of yours, and yeah, he’s a real dedicated guy. Sometimes too dedicated, if you ask me—it gives me the creeps. But I don’t know who is going to get the job. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. It would put you in a terrible position. Just forget it, okay?” Amy looked up. Mills and Perez had moved in, peering at her. “Oh, brother,” she said.

  But Charlie Kent moved in, too, looped her arm around Willie’s shoulders. “Are there any new paintings in your studio?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Schuyler, before Willie could open his mouth. “But they are all on reserve for my show at the Contemporary.”

  “Well, not all,” said Perez. “There’s that large civil rights painting that neither of us cared for.”

  “Really?” said Charlie, eyeing the curators with derision. “Why is that?”

  Perez ran his long fingers through his thick dark hair. “First of all, it’s too big. Second, I found the subject matter a bit . . . dated.”

  “Dated?” Charlie Kent’s eyes burned with indignation. “Might I remind you, Mr. Perez, that for African Americans like Willie and myself the civil rights movement has never ended, is never dated.” She clutched Willie’s arm, asked seductively, “Exactly how big is it, Willie?”

  “Big,” said Willie, smiling with his eyes. “A major piece. I’ve covered old newspaper images of civil rights marches with ash and wax, then nailed on a bunch of burned wooden crosses.”

  “Sounds amazing,” said Charlie. She took Willie by the arm, turned him away from the two curators. “You know,” she said, “if you’ve had enough of this”—she gestured at Perez and Mills, the crowd—“I’d love to see that painting—now, if possible.”

  Willie led Charlie Kent right out the door.

  Some group on MTV were pretty worked up, their loud pattering faux black rap blasting from the television in what Willie considered his bedroom: a wooden platform and mattress bed, a metal coatrack on wheels instead of a closet. Books and periodicals were stacked up, scattered about—books on art and art history, specifically African art, black heritage, culture, and folk art, which created a sporadic trail across the fifteen-hundred-square-foot loft into the studio, where several more stacks stood like small off-kilter Mayan temples among the rolls of canvas, scraps of wood, metal, fabric, and found objects that Willie used to create his work.

  Charlie Kent stepped gingerly over the bits of wood and boxes of overturned nails, around small anthills of sawdust and stacks of books. “Wow,” she said, “I just love the way you use everything in your art. It’s pure alchemy.” She dropped her jacket onto a chair, revealed that pink tube top, the soft mound of her breasts, then arranged herself on a stool in front of his large civil rights painting, crossed her legs this way, then that. “God, the painting is even better than I imagined. Pure genius. I’m sure the board members of the Museum for Otherness will be absolutely thrilled to exhibit it—if that’s all right with you.”

  “Oh. Absolutely.” Willie’s eyes took in Charlie’s shapely legs, firm thighs. “It’s really cool you feel so strongly about the painting,” he said. “Because, you know, this is one of my most important pieces.” At least it is at the moment.

  “Oh, yes. It is important. And not just to African Americans.” She smiled, licked her lips.

  An invitation? Willie returned the smile. Am I reading the signals right?

  Charlie shifted her weight on the stool
—a flash of lace panties.

  Oh, yeah. Handwritten. He made his move. A hand on her thigh, a quick kiss on her full red mouth.

  As Willie maneuvered her past the piles of books and rolls of canvas, finally into his bed, Charlie was still thinking about Willie’s painting—how impressed the board would be with her finesse in getting it.

  Willie pulled his sweatshirt over his head. For a split second everything went dark, then an image coalesced. Charlie‘s pretty face, eyes wide open, her neck surrounded by a sea of deep, deep red. “Oh.”

  “Something the matter?”

  Willie blinked. Charlie’s mouth, only a few inches from his, was smiling. “No. Nothing.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed.

  She wiggled out of her micromini, then the lace panties. “When can we pick it up?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Your painting. For the museum.”

  “Oh, right.” He rolled halfway off her, reached over for his Palm Pilot. “Let’s see. It’ll be photographed on Thursday, so anytime after that is fine.”

  “Excellent,” she said, undoing the top button of his black jeans. “I’ll have the museum’s registrar call you to confirm the pickup.”

  Willie silenced her with his tongue in her mouth, then stopped. “Oh, one other thing. The piece has got to be in the front room of the museum—the main one, you know. I mean, because it’s so important—to both of us.” He tugged his jeans off. “And like, nothing else can be shown with it—unless you’d like to frame up some of the sketches for the piece. You know, like, sort of give the public an inside look at how the painting came into being.” He rubbed a hand over her erect nipples.

  “Sketches . . . Ohhh . . .” Charlie moaned.

  “Feel good?”

  “Oh, great, baby, great.” Another low moan. “How many are there? Drawings, I mean.” She arched her back, displaying her breasts to better advantage.

  Willie licked one nipple, then the other. “About a dozen. You can choose whatever you like.” He raised his head, smiled at her. “And, ah, choose one for yourself.”

  “A painting for my museum and a sketch just for little ol’ me? Oh, Wil . . .” She took his face in her hands, kissed him hard on the mouth. Charlie was getting hotter and hotter. “Willie,” she said, excited to finalize the deal. “Come with me to the Venice Biennale, and I’ll get Otherness to foot the bill.”

  Venice! “Oh, baby!” Willie pushed her back on the bed, worked his cock between her thighs and into her more-than-willing flesh.

  Charlie was picturing Willie’s painting on the wall of her museum as she came. She wondered if it might not be a good time to hire a PR agent for the event.

  By the time her physical tremors had quieted, she had decided yes.

  He really shouldn’t do this. Not here. What if someone came in?

  But it’s late. The door’s locked. He leans back into the couch, his eyes trained on the video monitor.

  How many times has he watched this? Thirty times? A hundred times? So many that the images are practically etched into his brain—and that’s what he wants. Because this is the last time, and he wants to remember it—the image of her moving, alive—memorize it before he destroys it. Before he sacrifices it.

  The girl’s already undressed now, the camera licking at her nipples, the curve of her hip, in and out of the frame as she dances to some silent music—there’s nothing on the sound track.

  He breathes in, sharp, slides his hand inside his pants, strokes himself through his boxers.

  Damn. Why can’t they hold the goddamn camera steady? Amateur Films. They got that right. Still, it’s why he’s always sought them out, the reason for his collection of their films—the down-and-dirty production values, the non-actors they manage to employ. So real.

  He just wishes the guy on the bed would disappear. It’s her he wants to see. Vital. Sexy. None of the angry bitch here. Just pure lovely lust.

  Her hand seems to echo his; her fingers flicking through pubic hair, touching herself, head thrown back, eyes closed.

  Oh, damn. The guy again. Pulling her onto the bed, forcing her beautiful head down between his thighs. He always hates this part, doesn’t want to see it. Fuck. Just when he was so close, too. He hits the fast forward. No good. They’re screwing now. Reverse. That’s better. There she is again, dancing, peeling off her clothes.

  He watches another minute, transfixed, his hand working as the girl on the small screen dances.

  Ahhh . . .

  When it’s all over, he slips on his gloves, pops the video out of the VCR, pulls a long loop of tape out of the cassette, and puts it in his pocket.

  This will make the perfect gift. The perfect bait.

  And she’ll take it. He’s certain of that.

  22

  The coffee would not take effect—and it was her third cup. A terrible night. Bad dreams. Plus, Richard tossing and turning beside her. Their bed could have registered on the Richter scale. Too bad they weren’t having any fun. Kate had the police artist’s sketch on her desk—a black man, thin-faced, haunted eyes, the man Mrs. Prawsinsky said she had seen on the staircase the night Elena died. She’d already distributed the sketch to the squad. Uniforms were faxing it out to every precinct in the city.

  Now to deal with her mail, three separate plastic bags full, rerouted by the post office from Kate’s Central Park West apartment to the station house, bagged before anyone could get their mitts on it.

  Kate tugged on a pair of plastic gloves.

  The first batch, a Con Ed bill, AT&T, assorted catalogs. The second, more of the same. The third, a cable TV bill, The New Yorker, Business Week, more bills, a postcard from a friend in Belize, a confirmation from the hotel she and Richard had booked for the Venice Biennale. But it was the plain white envelope she now held that stopped her.

  Inside was a copy of her author photo from the back of Artists’ Lives, with wings and a halo drawn on, tied up with a black plastic ribbon. Kate’s hands were shaking. Black ribbon. A death symbol? Maybe. A red border drawn around the picture, and a message—HELLO. What was it about the red marker, the printed letters that tugged at her memory?

  Kate looped the black ribbon over her auto pencil, held it up to the light. It wasn’t ribbon at all. It was a piece of video-tape.

  “You don’t have to wear the gloves all day, McKinnon.” Hernandez set the copy into the case for fingerprints.

  “Oh. Totally forgot I had them on,” said Kate, watching the Krazy Glue do its magic.

  “Sorry. No prints. Nothing. Whoever sent it wiped it down.”

  “What else can you do?”

  Hernandez turned it over in her gloved hands. “Type the paper, see if there are any particles imbedded. I can’t tell you where the copy was made, though. Too many copy shops in the city.”

  Hernandez handed back the piece of videotape, now inside a plastic bag. “Take this down to Jim Cross in Tech Services, Photo and Film Unit.”

  Jim Cross sat behind the video-splicing machine, half-glasses propped on the top of his head, pushing back what was left of his hair. The reels, tools, and tape cassettes that covered the nine feet of his running desk sprawled onto the two chairs and floor of the small office. He gestured for Kate to sit, but there was no place for her.

  “Sorry.” He swept a bunch of plastic reels off a chair. They hit the floor running, a few spiraled across the floor as if someone had sounded the gong for a race.

  Kate held up the plastic-encased videotape. “Is there enough to see what’s on this?”

  Cross studied the tape through the bag. “I’d say you’ve got maybe twenty seconds of film here. I can splice it onto something else and put it on a cassette.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Just give me a few minutes.” He turned away, cleared a path on his desktop. “You don’t care what it’s spliced onto, do you? I’ve got some old procedural footage here somewhere.” He sorted through a dozen or more open cassettes until he foun
d what he wanted, set it into the splicer, went to work. A few minutes later he turned to Kate. “Look through here.”

  Kate leaned toward a monitor that looked like a drive-in theater for ants.

  Jim Cross hit a switch. The film started to play. The procedural footage, a diagram of some sort, maybe a floor plan—it was too small to be sure. Then an abrupt change—a figure? a woman?—breasts, yes, a woman, nude. Then it was the diagram again.

  “It’s too small,” said Kate, straightening up.

  Cross pulled the film out of the editing machine, snapped it into a cassette. “Here,” he said. “Take it to one of the viewing rooms. Right next door.”

  Not quite the neighborhood Cineplex. A nine-by-ten-foot room. Peeling paint. Fluorescent light. Three televisions on stands. Six metal chairs for viewing.

  Kate popped the cassette into a VCR, didn’t bother to sit. There was a slight buzz in her head, muscles tense. She had to admit she was excited to see what he’d sent her. She hit play.

  A minute or so of that old police footage—a diagram of a room, something out of an old manual. Then a sudden change. Poor color quality. Amateurish lighting. But it was a woman, all right, and definitely nude, touching herself. Then, for maybe three seconds, her face, in sharp focus.

  Kate reeled back. It can’t be.

  Now it was that damn police diagram again.

  It took a few seconds for Kate to lean forward, hit rewind, then play.

  Elena.

  Kate hit stop, let herself fall into one of the stiff metal chairs, stared at the blank screen.

  What is this? And how did he get it to send to her? Had he been spying on Elena, secretly filming her?

  She had to look at it again. This time in slow motion.

  Excruciating. Twenty seconds stretched to a full minute.

  Kate studied the details. It was not Elena’s apartment. She was sure of that.

  She played it again. And again.

  Elena. The room. The bed. And just at the end, before that damn police diagram made an appearance, the shadow of a man entering the frame. Kate played it a dozen more times to see if she could identify him, but it was impossible.