When he saw Sheik, Warhol cut short his conversation and went to greet the handsome newcomer.
“Hi,” he said amiably, “can you give me a hand over here?” He turned and walked the unidentified visitor to where two young men were manipulating a large silkscreen onto a sheet of canvas laid on the floor. He pointed to one end of the canvas.
“Grab hold of that end and pull it straight, will you?” he asked. “I don’t mind folds, but I can’t stand wrinkles.”
Sheik crouched down and did as instructed, and the screen was positioned on the flattened canvas. He and Warhol stood back and watched as one of the assistants poured black ink onto the screen and another fetched a squeegee. With one man on each side, they pulled the tool over the surface and forced ink through the screen.
“Now hold that end again, please,” said Warhol, and Sheik grabbed the canvas as the assistants raised the screen to reveal a portrait of the art dealer Sidney Janis, another of the prescient engineers who drove the Pop Art Express. His 1962 New Realists exhibition, which included Warhol’s 200 Campbell’s Soup Cans, had helped launch the movement.
The assistants tacked the canvas on the wall to dry, and Warhol studied it approvingly.
“Wow, that’s great,” he said. “Let’s do another one, on a different background.” He turned to Sheik. “What’s your favorite color?”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Green, like money,” was Warhol’s reply.
“Okay,” said Sheik, “let’s do green.” A new canvas was laid down, and one of the assistants applied a coat of bright green acrylic paint.
“Give it half an hour to dry,” Warhol advised. “How about some Coke while we wait?”
Sheik wasn’t sure if he meant a liquid or a powder, but he went along. “Sure,” he said. Warhol led his helpers to an elderly fridge in one corner and fished out four bottles of Coca-Cola. The band was also taking a break for refreshments. Not soft drinks.
Warhol made use of an antique wall-mounted opener and handed the bottles around. They pulled up some chairs and toasted the new portrait.
“I think Sidney will love it,” Warhol remarked. “Don’t you think he has a nice face? I want to do a whole series of him.”
Sheik had no idea who Sidney was, but he figured, knowing Warhol’s preoccupation with celebrities, that he must be someone important. He decided to use Sidney as an opening line to what he hoped would be an informative conversation about the Benton incident.
“I think I recognize him,” he lied. “Wasn’t he at the preview reception for the Thomas Hart Benton show at the Whitney?”
“I don’t know, he could have been,” said Warhol, “I wasn’t there. I think I got an invitation, but I get so many I can’t keep track. But Rodney and I and some of the gang went to see it a couple of weeks ago.”
“What did you think of it?” prompted Sheik.
“Oh, my God!” chimed in Rodney, one of the two assistants, “it was a fiasco!”
“Really? What was wrong with it?”
“Actually, we hardly got to see the paintings, because no sooner did we go in than we ran into Benton himself, and he made a scene in the gallery. Everybody got freaked out, and we had to leave.”
Sheik pretended to look startled. “Was that you guys? I heard about that from a friend of mine who’s a guard there. What happened to set him off?”
“Well, confidentially, it was all Candy’s fault,” said Rodney, not so confidentially, directing his remarks to the room in general. “Andy was admiring a painting of a nude woman, and Candy announced, rather too loudly, that she had a much better body than that slut and that she’d pose naked for Benton any time he liked. And give him a blow job if he wanted one. Of course Candy didn’t know he was standing right there!”
Thinking this might be the woman who threatened Benton, Sheik asked, “Who’s Candy?”
“Me, that’s who!” came a voice from across the room, where the party in question was having her elaborate coif expertly styled by Billy Name, the hairdresser and studio manager who was responsible for the Factory’s silver lining.
Candy Darling rose from the chair in a huff of offended dignity and marched over, powder-puff mules clacking, to confront them, hands on hips. “He really was very impolite to me, you know. Instead of insulting me, he should take me up on both offers.” Apparently news of Benton’s death hadn’t reached the Factory. “Just think, if he paints me in the nude he’ll have a whole new career.”
She shrugged off her kimono to reveal herself in all her manly glory. From the neck down, she was a he. And a quite well-endowed one at that.
It was all Sheik could do to keep a straight face as Candy struck a few cheesecake poses. Andy, however, had no such inhibitions. He giggled and applauded, as did Rodney and their companion, who said, “Bring it over here, sugar Candy, and we’ll see just how sweet you are.”
Candy wagged a scarlet-tipped finger at him. “Look but don’t touch, you naughty boy. I’m saving myself for a hot date tonight, not with you, Ondine. Billy’s giving me a special do for the occasion.” She collected her robe and put it back on with theatrical flair.
“Anyway,” she continued, “it wasn’t me who got the old goat so riled up. It was Valerie who really made him pop his cork. She’s the one who called him a scumbag. But then every man’s a scumbag to her, so he shouldn’t have taken it personally.” She flounced back to Billy’s hairdressing station.
Sheik jumped right into that opening. “I’d love to hear Valerie’s side of the story. Is she around?”
“I haven’t seen her in a while,” said Warhol. “She usually comes around when we’re filming, looking for a part—and a handout. She’s been in a couple of my movies. She wants me to produce her play, but it’s not too interesting.” With that he lost interest in Valerie. “Let’s see if the green paint is dry.”
It wasn’t until they were positioning the silkscreen that Rodney thought to ask, “Who are you, man? Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m Sheik,” answered Valentino truthfully, but Rodney misunderstood.
“You don’t look chic to me, fella. In fact you’re fuckin’ butch, so that’s what I’ll call you.”
“Butch is fine with me,” he said with a grin, “or Fuckin’, if you want to be on a first-name basis.”
Twenty-Six
With other cases demanding his attention, Inspector Kaminsky had had a distracting morning. The previous evening’s call from Rouses Point had told him the border patrol had failed to identify anyone fitting Millstein’s description on the New York Central train that arrived at five after four. There had been a few young men traveling with families, but their documents were in order, and some male college students, also with valid IDs, who didn’t look anything like Millstein. Today he’d received similar reports from the other border stations with vehicular crossings. Either Millstein had changed his appearance and obtained convincingly forged identity papers, or he hadn’t crossed into Canada the day before.
* * *
Falucci’s interview reports were on Kaminsky’s desk when he returned from the scene of an armed robbery.
The Millstein one was inconclusive, and it made for discouraging reading. It stated that the detective visited the family’s apartment at four p.m. on Thursday, November second, 1967, and found Mrs. Anna Millstein, age forty-three, at home. She identified herself as the mother of William Millstein, age twenty-one, her only child. Neither her son nor her husband, Samuel Millstein, age forty-five, were at home.
As Kaminsky scanned the report, it was clear that Anna Millstein had no intention of cooperating with the investigation. Falucci had not told her the nature of the inquiry, only that he wanted to interview William in connection with an incident at the Art Students League. She gave no indication that she knew about Benton’s death and seemed more stubborn than nervous. When
Falucci asked where he was, he got the same answer she’d given on the phone: out of town. All her answers were equally terse and unhelpful. When did he leave? A few days ago. Where did he go? He didn’t say. When will he be back? I don’t know. Do you have a photograph of him? No.
Falucci had left his card, with instructions to contact him when William returned. He put the card on the hallstand by the door, and Anna Millstein glanced at it contemptuously as she let him out. He was certain she tore it up as soon as he left.
Outside the building, however, he had better luck. He had spotted a couple of the neighborhood hoodlums loitering on a stoop and asked if they knew where he could find Bill. They were about to blow him off when he flashed his shield and said he was interested only in talking to Bill, not in the reefers they were no doubt carrying. They both said they hadn’t seen him around lately, and one of them told him to ask at Rudy’s, a bar and grill a few blocks down on Ninth Avenue. He said Bill worked there weekends as a busboy.
Many legends surrounded Rudy’s, a classic watering hole that was rumored to have received the city’s first liquor license when Prohibition was repealed in December 1933. Earlier, it was said, the place was a speakeasy where Al Capone bent his elbow before he moved to Chicago. Adjacent to the theater district, it was a favorite haunt of the literati and glitterati. It was also where the Mets baseball team, New York’s “lovable losers,” habitually drowned their sorrows. From its vintage neon sign to its original mahogany bar, almost nothing had changed in decades except the prices, though the hot dogs were still free.
Falucci knew Rudy’s well from the periodic brawls and noise complaints to which Midtown North responded. In the lull between the lunchtime rush and the evening influx, the place was relatively quiet. He found the owner, Helen Rudy, tallying receipts in a booth in the rear. Lying next to the booth, her two large German shepherds eyed him suspiciously and emitted low warning noises as he approached, ready to see him off if he made a wrong move toward Helen or her money.
“Shut up, boys,” she commanded, “here comes the law. Better behave, or it’s the hoosegow for you.” The dogs quieted down, and Helen greeted Falucci with a genial wave. “C’mon over, Tony, and park it here. What’ll ya have?” She motioned to the waiter.
“Good to see you, Helen. I’ll have a ginger ale, thanks,” he said as he slid into the booth, and the waiter took his order to the bar. “How’s business?”
“Always slow between Halloween and Thanksgiving,” she answered, though the pile of bills she was counting looked substantial, especially for a midweek take. Falucci had never known a bar owner to say business was booming, except during the World Series.
“I’m told you have a busboy working here named Bill Millstein,” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Had, Tony, past tense. The faggot ran out on me, no notice, nothin’. And he better not come back, ’cause if he does, Prince here’ll have him for lunch, won’t ya, boy?” She glanced down at the dog, which replied with a growl. Falucci took that for “with pleasure” in Alsatian.
“I guess that means you don’t know where he is. I’ve already talked to his mother, but she’s clammed up. I may go back and see the father when he gets home from work, but I don’t think I’ll get anywhere with him, either.”
The ginger ale arrived, and Helen toasted Falucci with the Guinness she was nursing. “Here’s to crime, Tony, so’s you can earn your pension.”
He smiled as he returned her toast, then got serious. “I’ll be back on the beat if I don’t make some headway on this case. Problem is, I think the guy may have skipped the country.”
“What’d he do, rob a bank or something?”
He told her about Bill’s induction notice, and that he’d burned his draft card and said he was going to Canada, but nothing about any other reason for wanting to find him. That was reason enough.
Helen was sympathetic. “I guess that explains it, but he could have told me. I’m no snitch, I’d never have turned him in.” More than once she’d let locals wanted for smuggling arms to the Irish Republican Army hide out in one of the upstairs rooms, and as far as her sympathies for the war effort were concerned, she was vehemently opposed to Lyndon Johnson and his policies. In her opinion he was a villain who might well have engineered the Kennedy assassination so he could take over the presidency.
“You called him a faggot,” said Falucci. “Are you saying he’s queer, or is that just what you call any guy you’re mad at?”
“I shouldna said that, but he got my Irish up. Left me shorthanded last weekend, and I’m scramblin’ to cover for him, so I was pissed off at him, still am. In fact he is queer, not that it’s obvious, far from it. Personally I don’t give a flying fuck what people do in private, as long as they don’t cause trouble in here. Bill never brought his sex life into the bar, never flirted or came on to anybody. Just a really nice kid, good at his job, too. That’s another reason why I’m mad at him for leavin’ me in the lurch. He’ll be hard to replace.”
“Then how do you know he’s queer?”
“Because he told me, only he said gay, not queer. He needed somebody to talk to, and he knew I wouldn’t judge him. He couldn’t go to his parents, he was afraid his old man would kick him out.”
“What was the problem?”
“His boyfriend, Vinnie, got drafted. He was real upset about it, with good reason. This was about a year ago. I’d met the guy a couple of times, when he came in to meet Bill after work. An Italian kid from the neighborhood, also seemed straight, so I assumed they were just, you know, good buddies. I think they’d known each other since high school. They were both deep in the closet, used to double-date with girls to keep it looking kosher, never said a peep to the draft board when they registered, but now they were goin’ down to the West Village together on the sly. Hangin’ out with others like ’em, where they could express their feelin’s openly. Bill told me it wasn’t just about gettin’ laid, said him and Vinnie are really in love. On Christopher Street, they could finally be themselves.”
“Think I can get a line on Bill down there?”
Helen laughed out loud, and the dogs jerked their heads at the guttural sound.
“Fat chance! They got a network that helps draft dodgers, like an underground railroad for runaway queers. Ever heard of fairy dusting? That’s what they call it when one of ’em disappears over the border. If they dusted him, he’s gone.”
* * *
The Breinin report was more promising. Falucci had arrived at the Bethune Street apartment at five thirty and met Mrs. Patricia Breinin on the way in. He identified himself, explained his reason for visiting, and told her he had some questions for her and her daughter. “I’m sure Susan is here,” she said as she admitted him.
The entrance hall led to a back parlor on the right that doubled as a dining room. To the left, the north-facing front parlor had been adapted as Breinin’s studio. That door was closed, but Falucci could hear music inside, from either a radio or a phonograph.
“Do you want to speak to Ray as well?” asked Patricia. “I don’t like to disturb him when he’s working, but I will if you need him.” Falucci said not to bother him—in fact he didn’t want her husband to be present, but didn’t say that to Patricia. So she showed the detective into the back parlor, where Susan Breinin was doing her homework at the dining room table. A pretty teenager, she had inherited her father’s coal-black hair and piercing dark-brown eyes, but not his bombastic manner.
“Hi, Mom,” she greeted her mother cheerfully, then looked expectantly at their visitor.
Patricia introduced him. “Susie, this is Detective Falucci from the police. He’s investigating the Benton killing, and he needs to ask us some questions.” She offered Falucci a chair and took one herself.
“Gosh, isn’t it terrible?” said the girl. “Papa said somebody stuck his knife—Papa’s, I mean—in Mr. Benton. I hope you fi
nd out who did such an awful thing.”
Falucci took out his notebook and jotted down some preliminaries. Susan gave her age as fifteen and said she was a sophomore at the High School of Music and Art on West 135th Street, to which she commuted by subway. She was usually home around four, unless she had glee club practice or some other after-school activity. On Wednesday she came straight home. She and her father had tea together in the kitchen—she’d made it in the antique Russian samovar that was a Breinin family heirloom.
“I’ll make some for you, if you’d like,” she offered, but he declined politely. “Maybe when we’re done. I won’t be much longer.” He was hoping to finish before Breinin appeared.
“What did you do after tea?” he asked. She said she’d settled down to work on an essay for English class, and her father had gone back to his studio. He closed the dining room door behind him, and she heard the studio door open and the radio playing classical music on WQXR, as usual. She wasn’t sure of the time, but she thought it must have been around four thirty Breinin had put it somewhat later, closer to five.
Falucci then turned to Patricia, who said she was thirty-seven—some twenty years younger than her husband, noted the detective without comment. Maybe a second wife, he speculated. She said she worked as a salesclerk at the S. Klein department store on Union Square. Her shift ended at five, and she walked home across town—unless it was raining or snowing, in which case she took the Fourteenth Street subway to Eighth Avenue. Sometimes she stayed a few minutes to chat with her coworkers, but she was usually home by five thirty.
On Wednesday, however, they were stock taking in her department, and she didn’t leave until five forty-five, arriving home around six-fifteen. Her husband was still in the studio—she heard his radio playing—but he came out right after she got in, and they all had dinner. Knowing she’d be late, she’d made a stew the day before, so all she had to do was heat it up.
An Artful Corpse Page 13
