Cliff—now Louis—couldn’t sell anything without giving the Cahill Gallery half the money, even if they never gave Clifford a show. I wondered what Leonard Polski would do with his inheritance. I hadn’t seen most of the paintings. They were draped and standing in a huge storage closet opposite the den, and the light in the closet didn’t work. Next time I’d bring a flashlight and look at the rest of Leonard’s loot.
I flipped through Clifford’s address book. There were lots of names of galleries, other places he had probably sent a padded manila envelope with his resume, slides, SASE, and lots of hope. I liked his work a lot better than much of what I see in SoHo. but there was no way I could judge if it ever would have become hot enough to sell. Often that has as much to do with an artist’s life or who he knows as it has to do with his ability or originality.
I wondered if Clifford had gotten depressed about his inability to sell his “works.” He had probably been elated the day he signed the contract. That had been November 16, which would mean he had been working on things for his show since then. There had been no date set, no promise of how soon it would be or how many of his works would be included. Most shows were up for a three-week period, during which there would be an opening, often stacked with the artist’s friends and sometimes, like the invitations, paid for by the artist. But then you had the chance to hope, and who could put a price tag on what that was worth? There might be a sale, a visit by a critic, a positive line in the press. You might, after all, have a chance.
Peter Cole did not live in Fort Lee, but Woodcliff Lake. I found Morgan Gilmore’s number, too. He lived in Greensboro, North Carolina. I marked it with the highlighter, then put it on the nightstand with the rest of the papers.
In the morning, I’d try to reach Louis Lane. Alter that, I’d start looking for Billy Pittsburgh, who, Isuspected, was using a name other than the one he had been given as a child.
What did it all mean, all this name changing? I had even done it myself.
When I took .lack’s name, I had thrown away my own- I had detached myself from my past and my family. When we split, I chose to keep his name, not my own, even though I had used it for less than a year. I had set myself adrift. I had even rejected my profession, taking a job with the Petrie Detective Agency on lower Broadway, run by two brothers, Bruce and Frank.
I didn’t actually meet the older Petrie, Bruce, until I had been working at the agency for two and a half months. He was obsessed with electronic equipment for both surveillance and criminal activities. Every few months or so he’d surface from his windowless back office and show us the specs on the latest eavesdropping equipment, voice-changing telephone, letter bomb scanner, or microcamera in a key chain.
It was Frank who had hired me to work as a junior undercover agent trainee, meaning I would do the same work as the regular agents but for much less money, because, as he so wisely explained, what if you’re following a guy and he goes into the men’s room and there’s another way out? And when I presented the same scenario with a woman being followed, he had shoved some papers around on his desk and said he couldn’t sit around all day and waste his valuable time arguing with me, there was work to be done, and did I want the job or not? I said I did. When I got home, I called Lili.
Why do you want to put yourself on the outside looking in? she asked, one of her usual rhetorical questions. No, she said, changing her mind, for you. that would be an improvement. You won’t have time to press your nose against the glass. You’ll be too busy looking inside other people’s garbage cans to even wonder about how normal people live. You don’t really belong in the family, she said.
Family, Dennis had said, oh, you know.
Frank Petrie had put a tail on me right after he’d
I flipped through Clifford’s address book. There were lots of names of galleries, other places he had probably sent a padded manila envelope with his resume, slides, SASE, and lots of hope. I liked his work a lot better than much of what I see in SoHo. but there was no way I could judge if it ever would have become hot enough to sell. Often that has as much to do with an artist’s life or who he knows as it has to do with his ability or originality.
I wondered if Clifford had gotten depressed about his inability to sell his “works.” He had probably been elated the day he signed the contract. That had been November 16, which would mean he had been working on things for his show since then. There had been no date set, no promise of how soon it would be or how many of his works would be included. Most shows were up for a three-week period, during which there would be an opening, often stacked with the artist’s friends and sometimes, like the invitations, paid for by the artist. But then you had the chance to hope, and who could put a price tag on what that was worth? There might be a sale, a visit by a critic, a positive line in the press. You might, after all, have a chance.
Peter Cole did not live in Fort Lee, but Woodcliff Lake. I found Morgan Gilmore’s number, too. He lived in Greensboro, North Carolina. I marked it with the highlighter, then put it on the nightstand with the rest of the papers.
In the morning, I’d try to reach Louis Lane. Alter that, I’d start looking for Billy Pittsburgh, who, Isuspected, was using a name other than the one he had been given as a child.
What did it all mean, all this name changing? I had even done it myself.
When I took .lack’s name, I had thrown away my own- I had detached myself from my past and my family. When we split, I chose to keep his name, not my own, even though I had used it for less than a year. I had set myself adrift. I had even rejected my profession, taking a job with the Petrie Detective Agency on lower Broadway, run by two brothers, Bruce and Frank.
I didn’t actually meet the older Petrie, Bruce, until I had been working at the agency for two and a half months. He was obsessed with electronic equipment for both surveillance and criminal activities. Every few months or so he’d surface from his windowless back office and show us the specs on the latest eavesdropping equipment, voice-changing telephone, letter bomb scanner, or microcamera in a key chain.
It was Frank who had hired me to work as a junior undercover agent trainee, meaning I would do the same work as the regular agents but for much less money, because, as he so wisely explained, what if you’re following a guy and he goes into the men’s room and there’s another way out? And when I presented the same scenario with a woman being followed, he had shoved some papers around on his desk and said he couldn’t sit around all day and waste his valuable time arguing with me, there was work to be done, and did I want the job or not? I said I did. When I got home, I called Lili.
Why do you want to put yourself on the outside looking in? she asked, one of her usual rhetorical questions. No, she said, changing her mind, for you. that would be an improvement. You won’t have time to press your nose against the glass. You’ll be too busy looking inside other people’s garbage cans to even wonder about how normal people live. You don’t really belong in the family, she said.
Family, Dennis had said, oh, you know.
Frank Petrie had put a tail on me right after he’d
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