hired me, a real geek.
Hey, you never know, the Pinkertons could have sent me to find out all his secrets.
The tail was so ugly, you couldn’t miss him from a mile away. It did not require a genius to figure out what was going on. I called Frank.
“Next time,” I told him, “send someone less memorable.”
“Good work, kid,” he said. “You might not be a total loss after all.”
Now, why couldn’t anyone in my own family ever say anything that supportive!
9
You Can Never Be Too Paranoid
I WOKE UP to the sound of my own voice coming from the office. I hadn’t remembered to turn down the volume on the answering machine, which I leave on high during the day so that I can monitor calls from anywhere in the house. Living in this city, you can never be too paranoid. At least that’s what my shrink always used to say.
The next thing I heard was Dennis.
“Rachel, it’s Dennis Keaton. Please call me. I have something important to tell you.”
I picked up the phone. “Hey.”
“Have you seen the Times?”
“Not yet, Dennis. I was asleep.”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot other people do that,” he said. Great. My mother had been reincarnated as a gay guy.
“Can you hang on?” I asked.
“The C section,” he said. “Page nineteen, I'll hold.”
I went downstairs, opened the front door, and sent Dashiell for the Times.
To most people, a C section is a cesarean. If you live in New York City, it’s the arts section of the Times , the part your husband the dentist hands you while he reads the international, national, and local news and checks the value of his holdings in the business section. I found the article on page nineteen and picked up the cordless extension in the living room.
“So—‘Not the Death of Art. Murdered artist Clifford Cole’s works will be on display in his first one-man show this weekend at the Cahill Gallery in SoHo, a posthumous installation of the artist’s paintings, drawings and sculpture,’ ” I said, reading from the article that Dennis could probably recite by heart. “I guess Veronica Cahill finally figured out what installation is going to follow Dots.”
“What are you talking about, Rachel?”
“I stopped by the gallery yesterday, just to take a look, and they had this installation called Dots, the most god-awful stuff you ever saw. Well, no, I guess we’ve both seen worse. Anyway, I told the salesperson I sort of collected dog art, I had Dashiell there, and she failed to sell me a Clifford Cole. She said she didn’t know what the next show would be. But apparently Veronica Cahill figured out a good way to get some mileage out of the contract she signed with Cliff. The way it’s put here,” I said, referring to the article, “well, the notoriety will at least bring people in, maybe even critics. Death makes good copy, or so they say.”
“Do you believe this?” Dennis said. “ ‘An up and coming star of the downtown art world, cut down by human hatred just as his career was taking off.’ Where do they get this garbage? She never even guaranteed him she’d put one of his pieces in a group show. Now she’s his fucking patron. Excuse me while I go get a bag to throw up in.”
There was nothing but silence on the line for a long moment.
“Listen, Dennis, this is good, isn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t it be worse if no one ever saw Cliff’s paintings? They’re quite wonderful.”
He didn’t respond.
“Dennis?’
“You’re right, I know it, it’s just that . . .”
“I know. He didn’t get the support when he was alive, and he won’t get to hear the applause, right?” “Right,” he said, “and someone else will get the money.”
“Louis.”
“Louis?”
“Louis.”
“I thought his family ...”
“Louis.”
“Now I’m really going to be sick. Rachel, I bet Louis is behind all this publicity, this exploitation. I bet he engineered it!”
“It’s possible. It should certainly increase the value of his inheritance. Let’s
Hey, you never know, the Pinkertons could have sent me to find out all his secrets.
The tail was so ugly, you couldn’t miss him from a mile away. It did not require a genius to figure out what was going on. I called Frank.
“Next time,” I told him, “send someone less memorable.”
“Good work, kid,” he said. “You might not be a total loss after all.”
Now, why couldn’t anyone in my own family ever say anything that supportive!
9
You Can Never Be Too Paranoid
I WOKE UP to the sound of my own voice coming from the office. I hadn’t remembered to turn down the volume on the answering machine, which I leave on high during the day so that I can monitor calls from anywhere in the house. Living in this city, you can never be too paranoid. At least that’s what my shrink always used to say.
The next thing I heard was Dennis.
“Rachel, it’s Dennis Keaton. Please call me. I have something important to tell you.”
I picked up the phone. “Hey.”
“Have you seen the Times?”
“Not yet, Dennis. I was asleep.”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot other people do that,” he said. Great. My mother had been reincarnated as a gay guy.
“Can you hang on?” I asked.
“The C section,” he said. “Page nineteen, I'll hold.”
I went downstairs, opened the front door, and sent Dashiell for the Times.
To most people, a C section is a cesarean. If you live in New York City, it’s the arts section of the Times , the part your husband the dentist hands you while he reads the international, national, and local news and checks the value of his holdings in the business section. I found the article on page nineteen and picked up the cordless extension in the living room.
“So—‘Not the Death of Art. Murdered artist Clifford Cole’s works will be on display in his first one-man show this weekend at the Cahill Gallery in SoHo, a posthumous installation of the artist’s paintings, drawings and sculpture,’ ” I said, reading from the article that Dennis could probably recite by heart. “I guess Veronica Cahill finally figured out what installation is going to follow Dots.”
“What are you talking about, Rachel?”
“I stopped by the gallery yesterday, just to take a look, and they had this installation called Dots, the most god-awful stuff you ever saw. Well, no, I guess we’ve both seen worse. Anyway, I told the salesperson I sort of collected dog art, I had Dashiell there, and she failed to sell me a Clifford Cole. She said she didn’t know what the next show would be. But apparently Veronica Cahill figured out a good way to get some mileage out of the contract she signed with Cliff. The way it’s put here,” I said, referring to the article, “well, the notoriety will at least bring people in, maybe even critics. Death makes good copy, or so they say.”
“Do you believe this?” Dennis said. “ ‘An up and coming star of the downtown art world, cut down by human hatred just as his career was taking off.’ Where do they get this garbage? She never even guaranteed him she’d put one of his pieces in a group show. Now she’s his fucking patron. Excuse me while I go get a bag to throw up in.”
There was nothing but silence on the line for a long moment.
“Listen, Dennis, this is good, isn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t it be worse if no one ever saw Cliff’s paintings? They’re quite wonderful.”
He didn’t respond.
“Dennis?’
“You’re right, I know it, it’s just that . . .”
“I know. He didn’t get the support when he was alive, and he won’t get to hear the applause, right?” “Right,” he said, “and someone else will get the money.”
“Louis.”
“Louis?”
“Louis.”
“I thought his family ...”
“Louis.”
“Now I’m really going to be sick. Rachel, I bet Louis is behind all this publicity, this exploitation. I bet he engineered it!”
“It’s possible. It should certainly increase the value of his inheritance. Let’s
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