Inside the museum I looked around for Gavin and spotted him working in his office with the door ajar. It was the Thursday night the museum stayed open late, nearly closing time. I walked around the exhibition spaces searching fruitlessly for something to look at so that I wouldn’t seem suspicious among the other disappointed visitors, but it was all video screens, puzzling installations, and academic verbiage. Careful, safe, and boring, it was the art of youth.
But once again it was conducive to lurking. I found a spot in the shadows behind a bank of video monitors, opposite Gavin’s office, and waited for the closing bell to ring. I examined my predicament with the care of that guy in the movie of Dracula who tears apart flies before popping them into his mouth. Even bad museums make me reflective.
Things didn’t look good. I was impotent and possibly insane, a moderately successful if largely uncelebrated painter, old-fashioned in my work and attitudes. An elephant ready for the elephant graveyard; but instead of shucking my tusks in an unfindable part of the jungle, I’d wrapped my wrinkled trunk around a 24-year-old erotic pyromaniac, who had burned me and then burned herself.
But who might be alive, on the other hand. I had to believe that she was, and that Gavin might have a clue as to where, if I could persuade him to talk to me. If he wouldn’t, I might just beat him to death. In my pocket I carried a roll of dollar Sacajawea coins in a sock. It might serve to get his attention. Rose had said she visited him when he was at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and I wanted to ask him about that. Nick Wilde, private eye: absurd.
The closing bell rang and I slipped deeper into the shadows just as a guard came to check the room. They were careful, but there was nothing to steal that I could see. The conceptualizations on display had already been appropriated and commodified.
I had a clear view of Gavin in his office when the lights were turned off. A desk lamp illuminated a classic scene: the Bennington girl was bent over his desk taking dictation, as the comics used to say in the burlesque houses of my own glorious youth.
Gavin, his red power tie dangling and flipping, was vigorously fucking his admissions clerk. Her elbows on his desk, her head cupped in her hands, she looked like she was pondering a question in semiotics. I had to hand it to Gavin: for a man my age, he was full of energy. It was easily the best performance art piece I’d seen in years. I restrained myself from applauding.
I waited until she’d left the museum, then stepped into Gavin’s office and closed the door. His shock was gratifying.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” There was something in his reaction to me that I didn’t understand. He should have been afraid of me, but he didn’t know that—yet.
“Tell me, Gavin, what do you find to say to a twenty-two-year-old? What do you talk about?”
He looked down at his tie and smoothed out a wrinkle I couldn’t see. Then he chuckled.
“Don’t you think that sneaking into the museum and spying on me is a risky proposition, Nick? I mean, after the spectacle you made of yourself at the opening? By the way, that tuxedo you wore was a hell of a fashion statement. What was it—Mesozoic era? Ah, those swinging seventies. . . .” He leaned back in his chair.
His self-confidence was extraordinary. I saw myself through his shrewd eyes: I was a man of his generation who refused to keep up with the times—who, in fact, stubbornly stood against fashion—a man not a hero even in his own life but a fool. A victim.
What would such a shnook be doing with Rose Selavy?
But rather than blush at this insight, I put my right foot up on the polished edge of his desk. When you see the light, go toward it. I was able to rest my stiff left wrist, not yet fully healed, on my knee. I held the pose, casual as a stork, and stared back at him. I doubted that he could see himself through my eyes.
He broke the silence first. “All right, all right. What do you want? Showing your work is Leland’s idea, you know.”
I had no idea what he meant. I think my jaw dropped. He had me. I took my foot off his desk.
“You don’t know, do you? That’s not why you’re here, is it?”
I shook my head dumbly. “Showing my work?”
“Yes. Would you believe the irony of that?” He stood up quickly and gestured to me. “Come on, I want to show you.” He was amused again.
I followed him into the depths of the museum, to the storage area, cluttered like some mad giant’s attic with the props of post-post modern art. There in the middle of the junk were my erotic paintings of Rose, shining like jewels in muck.
I was overwhelmed by my loss. Here she was in a one-dimensional world in which she’d never die. She was immortal in my best work—which I had sold to the enemy. Of course I was a fool. I cursed myself.
“How did you get these?”
“After Leland bought them from your gallery—at an exorbitant price, I thought—he gave them to us on loan, if we would show them.”
“What a fate for my beauties.”
“If it’s any consolation, showing them is not my idea. I didn’t want them. But Leland is chairman of the board here at the museum. His words are like unto God’s. You know.” He rolled his eyes.
“Fuck,” I said.
“Look at it this way, Nick. It’ll be a boost for your career to be shown here rather than some Chelsea warehouse. I will make sure good stories are written about you. This time I’m on your side.”
“Then I’m surely fucked.”
“Do you know that Leland actually thinks people are going to share his passion for Rose? She’s a Frida Kahlo figure—bound to be popular with all those folks who mistake romance for art. And let’s face it: they’ll come because they want to be titillated. Look at these paintings of yours. I mean, they’re pretty graphic. . . .”
He sneered, and I snapped out of my shock. Watching him look disapprovingly at my paintings reminded me of what I’d come to ask him.
“Rose said she interviewed you for her piece on Duchamp.”
“That’s right. I was just starting out in Philadelphia when the old fox installed Etant Donnes. She wanted to know about that.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Not well at all, why?” It was his turn to be mystified.
“I don’t believe you.” My fingers tightened on the roll of Sacajaweas in my pocket. “She came here just a few months ago.”
“Look, Nick, there was nothing between me and Rose. As soon as I saw that Leland had focused on her, I didn’t give her another thought. I didn’t know what she saw in you, but hell, she was young.”
“Do you know anyone who did know her well?”
“She got around. She was a heartbreaker. She cut a certain swath. . . .”
“Did you fuck her?”
“We went out to dinner.”
“You tried to fuck her and she wouldn’t?”
He nodded. I believed him. He would have bragged, otherwise.
“Who do you think did?”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for her.”
He did an arch double take that showed he saw I was really crazy. We understood each other now. A shadow of fear clouded his glass features.
“She died in that fire, Nick.”
“Say she didn’t. Say she was really alive.” The sock of Sacajawea coins was begging to be tugged out. “Say I’m crazy. Who would know about her?”
He shrugged. “People who know ghosts?”
“Humor me.”
“Does the name Boz Skeffington mean anything to you?”
“Yes. I keep up.”
“If you can talk to him, he might have some answers about Rose.”
I let go the roll of Sacajaweas and gave him a tight smile. Nick Wilde, private eye.
22
BOZ SKEFFINGTON
BOZ SKEFFINGTON WAS a rough-cut force of nature from Chicago who looked like a forties movie star and talked like a hoodlum. Although his primary art was the American one of self-promotion, his repertoire was European in its
variety and scope. He did everything from Chinese ink brush painting to huge public sculptures. Recently, Midge told me, he had begun making “art” videos that the faint of heart called pornographic. He’d started out in her gallery, so she called to ask him to invite us to his place in Riverdale.
It was a party, so we arrived close to midnight. Midge was excited by the opportunity to talk business with her old protégé, but she liked even more that we were doing something together. It was like a date. A perverse one, because she was horny, and I couldn’t help her in that department.
Boz’s house was a big 1920s pile set back on a golf-course-sized lawn that was spotted with his abstract metal sculptures. When we pulled up in Midge’s old Mercedes I gulped and thought of how I’d wasted my career selling to collectors like Leland Abbott. Boz Skeffington could claim whole nations as his patrons.
A French art lover greeted us at the door. She wore severe black glasses, a strand of pearls, and a skimpy maid’s apron. Long shiny chestnut hair fell over one bare shoulder.
“Bienvenue,” she said prettily. “Boz is expecting you.”
I stopped staring at the woman’s pert breasts and glanced at Midge, who removed her wrap and handed it over. She looked terrific. With her hair down and without her glasses, wearing a sequined silk organza top that showed her flat midriff, a leather skirt and belt, Midge was prepared to get her man. I was proud of her.
We followed the maid’s winking bare buttocks as she led us to her master down a long corridor bare of any art but a Chinese calligraphic design on the wall paper. Her high heels clicked on the parquet floor.
We entered a large room where Boz Skeffington was having a little midnight soiree with a dozen intimate friends in varying states of undress and erotic activity. He strode toward us with open arms, smiling so broadly I thought he might break into an aria. A bull of a man in an Armani suit, with a heavy gold watch on his wrist, he was every inch the modern artist as trickster.
He embraced Midge, picking her up and whirling her around. His voice boomed: “Midge, you are one gloriously sexy broad.” When he put her down, he buried his face in her neck and nuzzled. Then he stepped back and kissed both her hands, with loud smacking noises.
She blushed with pleasure, and introduced me.
“Boz, this is my dearest and oldest, treat him well.”
His unusually blue eyes were warm and merry with a secret understanding. It was obvious why Rose went after him. He was an earthy, smart peasant who’d made himself a king of art. I found him enormously likable. He wasn’t afraid to be exactly who he was, a rare courage for any man, especially an artist.
His handshake was surprisingly delicate.
“I heard about your bust-up at the Museum of Recent Art—you know, that they hurt your hands. In our business we’ve got to use our hands.”
He grinned and moved away from me, shadow boxing while announcing to the assembled orgiasts, “Hey! This dazzling dame is Midge Temple—I started at her gallery. And this handsome galoot is the famous and sexy Nick Wilde. Meet the artist who slugged his own collector.”
Thus announced by the king, we were greeted with effusions of welcome by his loyal subjects and family. Someone gave us drinks, and we were made to feel comfortable. One by one, Boz’s guests came up and spoke with us. I knew from reading profiles of him that Boz claimed to have three wives, six children, and up to twenty friends staying with him at any one time. He couldn’t stand to be alone, so like Warhol before him, he surrounded himself with supporting actors in his drama.
Watching Boz Skeffington move with the heavy authority of a lion around his lair, I felt another stab of envy. I didn’t care for his work, but I saw that he had succeeded in making his life into art, so there was no division between the two.
Noticing my stand-offishness, Midge took my hand. A wifely gesture.
“I think we’re both going to get lucky tonight,” she whispered.
“Are you going to fuck him?”
“Do you mind? If you mind, I won’t.”
“You already have, haven’t you?”
“That was long ago.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, there are plenty of babes here, if you know what I mean.”
“Funny girl.”
She left me and sent to talk with Boz, who had taken the French maid under his arm. I wondered how I was going to get him to talk about Rose. I felt no jealousy. Hell—I would have fucked him.
Looking around at the revelers, I guessed they had been chosen by Boz for their beauty and youth. Judging from the languages I heard, they were European. They were comfortable with their bodies and each other, and their languorous movements made me think of harem scenes painted by Ingres and Delacroix. They were not artists, only Boz’s stock players in his videos; yet I couldn’t help thinking that I preferred their party behavior to that of the art crowds I saw at Manhattan gallery openings. I saw them as reviving the grand old bohemian tradition of wine, women, and song, rather than imitating the business world, as so many young artists were doing. I wasn’t being romantic—well, not entirely—I just thought the art made by business-oriented careerists was bland and meaningless.
The paradox was that this scene had been set by an artist who’d managed to beat the business artists at their own game.
“How do you like my pretty crew?” Boz asked, one arm around Midge, the other around the French maid. Somewhere in the background I could hear music by King Pleasure.
I thought about expounding on the charms of bohemianism, but just said, “It’s my kind of party. It does make me feel over the hill, all those young bodies.”
“This,” he bellowed with feigned astonishment, “from the man who captured the attention of the famous Rose Selavy? I don’t believe it. Artists are ageless—just like their art. At least, that’s the hype—excuse me, theory.” He laughed like he’d put another one over on the suckers, and it was such a generous, inclusive laugh we all joined him.
His hands were busy fondling the women in his arms, as if he couldn’t stop modeling shapes. One hand was jammed into Midge’s top, and the other cupped the French maid’s breast. He grinned impishly. They beamed.
“This is why we’re artists, Nick. My theory is that all good art comes from erotic motives. Bad art comes from ego.”
I didn’t want to debate good art or bad art with him, but how could I disagree? My best work had come from my affair with Rose.
“I guess I’ve just been stubborn. I like paint. I like textures on canvas. I like faces and bodies, so I’ve stuck with portraits.”
The French maid was rubbing herself under her apron and making eyes at me as we spoke. I ignored her. People were making love all around us, but I wanted to pursue my conversation with Boz. He was more thoughtful than I’d expected, and his tough guy accent seemed to disappear as we talked. I reminded myself that he was accustomed to charming ministers of culture, and CEO’s of major corporations.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Nick. You took on the forces of darkness big time when you slugged Lee Abbott.” He chuckled. “I’ve wanted to do it myself, but he has so many irons in the fire I’ve had to restrain my better impulses.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“You saw him with Rose, and—bam bam!” He shadow boxed again. “Yes!”
The French maid knelt before him and was tugging at his zipper. Midge looked offended, but she played it cool. I guessed she hadn’t talked business with him yet.
The maid’s hand was in his pants, playing with him. He looked down at her as if at a naughty but beloved pet, and stroked her hair.
“Baby, that feels sooo good—but not now, okay? I’m talking with my new friend, Nick, and I want to concentrate.” He looked at me and added, “but if you want to play with Nick. . . .”
I shook my head at this hospitable notion. She scooted away.
“After all, I still have to have a business conference with this gorgeous piece. . . of my past
. I need to save my strength.”
He hugged Midge to him, hand moving over her breasts while he stared straight at me. I smiled and lowered my gaze, then looked away when I saw what his maid had aroused bulging behind his open zipper. Midge was looking impatiently at me like I was a third wheel, but I wanted to talk about Rose. He made it easy. She was on his mind.
“Midge told me that you think Rose is alive, and that you’re looking for her.”
“I know it sounds nuts, but I thought you might be able to give me a lead. If she is dead, I’d still like to hear more about her. It would be something. We didn’t have much time together.”
It sounded desperate and pathetic, but I was shameless. He studied me thoughtfully, as if deciding how much punishment I could take. He moved in closer, pulling Midge with him, and took my arm. He lowered his voice.
“She was a chameleon. Nobody knew her. I called her my alien. I’ll tell you, she didn’t fit in around here—she caused strife and confusion whenever she showed up. But she had me hypnotized for about six weeks, then she disappeared.”
There was a hint of loss in his eyes that I recognized. Had he, too, been in love with her?
“Do you think she would have killed herself?”
He sighed. “She was a very reckless girl. She would do anything for excitement. She ran on high octane adrenaline.”
“What did you know about her?”
“I knew about her family, of course. I knew that she had an unusual upbringing, that she knew a lot of famous people and many notorious people. She loved art—”
“And artists,” Midge said reproachfully. She wanted me gone.
“She was original, one of a kind. She raised the temperature in the room,” Boz finished. “She was an equal. When we were together, it was the Boz and Rose show.” He chuckled ruefully. “What a pair we were!”
“Well, you’ve raised my temperature. If you don’t take me in the bedroom quickly, I’ll fucking explode.” Midge was feeling very frustrated.
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