An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “So that’s where he was,” said Hare. “Jacqueline told me he didn’t come in until nearly eight a.m., and he was exhausted. He didn’t even undress, just dropped into bed. She couldn’t understand it. He hardly drinks, and she doesn’t think he has a lover. Anyway, she wasn’t going to wait around to ask him where he’d been.”

  Hare leaned across the table. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What about the shipment?”

  “It was supposed to arrive on Friday. I stopped by that afternoon, but Lam said it hadn’t been delivered yet. He was expecting it anytime.”

  The waitress appeared and freshened their coffees. The pause gave Hare a moment to think.

  “Suppose someone followed Carlos to Lam’s, waited until he dropped it off, then broke in and stole it? Maybe Lam put up a fight, and the thief killed him.”

  “Why wait until it was delivered?” reasoned Matta. “Why not just grab it from Carlos?”

  “Because if he’s out on the street, he could call for help or get away. Once it’s in the apartment, anyone who wanted it could go up and get it in private.”

  “There was no break-in.”

  “That means Lam opened the doors. It must have been someone he knew. No wonder the cops suspect one of his friends.”

  “No one but you, me, Lam, and Carlos knew about the deal,” Matta reminded him. “And we don’t know if Carlos delivered. The cop who talked to me said nothing about robbery. Of course he told me next to nothing, just that it was not an accident or natural causes.”

  Matta took a sip of his coffee and made a face. He hated the watery liquid that passed for coffee in New York.

  Hare stirred sugar into his. “We need to find Carlos,” he said.

  Sixteen

  Walking west on 110th Street, Fitz and Nita discussed their interview with Madame Carmen.

  “She’s quite a character,” said Fitz. “I guess that phony gypsy outfit goes over with her clients.”

  “It’s not phony,” Nita assured him. “She’s a real gypsy. Her family’s originally from Romania, but she has the kind of looks that pass for Spanish. I don’t know when they got to Cuba, but that’s where she was born and raised. Nobody knows how old she is—maybe she doesn’t know herself. She’s been here for about twenty years. She knows everybody, Cuban and otherwise. They all go to her with their troubles, which is why she’s such a great source of information. She’s not really a snitch—if she were, she wouldn’t last long in this neighborhood—but she can point me in the right direction, make suggestions, drop a name, that sort of thing. As we were leaving, she said, ‘Talk to Joey.’”

  They reached the corner and Nita stopped. “Let me have a couple of those headshots. I’ll go over to Joey’s. If he can give me a line on Lam, I’ll call you at the station.”

  Fitz was not at all insulted by her offer. In fact, he was relieved. He was in unfamiliar territory, had no contacts on the street, didn’t speak the language. Might as well have been in a foreign country. All doors were closed to him except the ones that Nita opened.

  “Thanks, Nita. You don’t have to take this on, but I appreciate it. Who’s Joey?”

  “José Ramirez. He’s a nasty little hoodlum who runs a protection racket out of a storefront on Lexington. His family moved here from Santiago de Cuba when he was a kid and opened a restaurant. Cubans are a tiny minority here, and they’re very enterprising. Like my dad.” She paused.

  “Anyway, when Joey grew up he decided that shaking down restaurants would be more profitable, and a lot less work, than owning one. His threats are backed up by a bunch of thugs he calls a social club. They take care of collections. He also has a couple of girls on the street. It’s a lucrative operation.”

  “Why don’t you close him down?”

  “No one wants to press charges. Silence may not be the best policy as far as the law is concerned, but it’s the safest. These people have a lot at stake. Better to shut up and pay up than to risk a beating, a fire, or worse. So far, it’s been mostly threats, some minor breakage, a couple of shopkeepers slapped around. Just enough to convince people that Joey means business. And he’s smart. He doesn’t squeeze too hard. He calculates how much each victim can afford. His boys do keep an eye on the clients. They never get vandalized, and nobody robs them—except Joey, that is. But he doesn’t dirty his hands. Just sits behind a desk like a big shot and directs traffic.”

  Fitz was unimpressed. “Sounds like a two-bit punk to me. You think Lam might have had dealings with him?”

  “It’s a long shot, but worth checking out. Madame Carmen felt some bad vibrations, and nobody gives off more negative energy than Joey.”

  “You don’t believe that psychic mumbo jumbo, do you?”

  “No, not really,” Nita said, hedging. “But you can’t deny that her intuition is pretty good. You saw for yourself. Her hunches, if that’s what they are, sometimes pay off. Besides, I was thinking of getting onto Joey anyway. Like I said, the Cuban community is very small. If Joey doesn’t know Lam, nobody around here does.” She checked her watch. “It’s nearly noon. I’d better get over there.”

  Fitz knew there was no point in his going along. It might just complicate things. “I’ll go back downtown and report,” he told her. “I’ll be at the station in a half hour. You’ll call me as soon as you can?”

  Nita recognized the signal that told her his concern was more than professional. “Of course,” she replied with a smile calculated to charm. “I won’t keep you in suspense.”

  Seventeen

  The black sedan with Connecticut license plates pulled up to the curb on Tenth Street, opposite the gate that led to Patchin Place. The driver got out, unlocked the gate, and eased the car into the alley and down to number five. The forty-mile drive from Darien had taken a little over an hour and a half. Anne Matta’s father believed that his car got the best mileage at a speed of thirty or less. His wife’s volunteer work as a United Service Organizations driver allowed them ample gas ration coupons, but he saw no need to waste them.

  As he opened the back door for his daughter, William Clark once again stifled his dismay at the prospect of Anne and her four-month-old twins living in a second-floor walk-up on a seedy dead-end street in this crummy neighborhood. Since he was paying the rent, he thought they should be someplace nicer, but Anne had convinced him that her husband needed to live near the other artists, who congregated in and around the Village. Besides, she had told him, for the same rent in a better neighborhood, they wouldn’t have room for a studio.

  She could handle the groceries and the stroller, she said. “I’ll take them up first and then come back down for the boys.”

  They unloaded her overnight bag and the basket with the baby supplies, which Anne carried across the sidewalk, up the three steps to the front door, and into the hall. Clark followed with the twins, Gordon and Sebastian, one in each arm. He wondered how Anne would manage once they started walking.

  Her husband was no help. Oh, he was charming, intelligent, probably quite talented, though to Clark his paintings were ugly. He made a big fuss over the boys, bragged about how handsome they were—just like him, was the implication—but never lifted a finger to feed them or bathe them or change their diapers. But Anne was committed to him and wouldn’t hear a word of criticism, so Clark had learned to keep his misgivings to himself.

  Anne made two trips to the second-floor hall, deposited the stroller, groceries, and luggage, and returned downstairs. She took the sleeping boys from her father’s arms.

  “No need to come up, Dad,” she told him. “I’m an old hand at this already. You get on home.” She stepped toward him and stood on tiptoe for a kiss.

  With the twins in her arms, he couldn’t embrace her as he would have liked to. He wanted to sweep her up, bundle her and the boys back into the car, and drive them home to Darien, away from this unsavory place and her feckless husband
.

  When she met Matta in Paris in 1938, he was a fledgling architect with a promising career ahead of him, but no sooner had she fallen in love with him than he threw it over to become a painter. What sort of prospects did that offer? Even in Paris, the center of the art world, the most advanced artists were starving, and of course, Matta wanted to be one of the innovators. On top of that, the war came and they had to get out.

  Clark reflected on the bright side. Thank God Matta didn’t take her to his family in Chile! They would have been completely cut off for the duration, and she would have been among strangers, not knowing the language, totally dependent. At least here we can keep an eye on her, help with the expenses, and the twins were born United States citizens. And they’re less than an hour away by train. If things fall apart, he reasoned, she and the boys can always come to us.

  “It was sweet of you and Mother to put up with us for a few days,” said Anne. “It was too bad of her not to let me lift a finger, but I admit it was a nice break for me.” She adjusted the twins in her arms. “These two are quite demanding.”

  Clark touched her cheek. “You know how much your mother and I love having you with us. You must come whenever you like and stay as long as you like.” He added tactfully, “Of course, Roberto is welcome whenever he can get away.”

  Anne was not fooled by his diplomacy. “I know how you feel about him, Dad. You think he’s wasting his time painting pictures no one wants to buy, but he works hard at it and he’s making headway. Peggy Guggenheim is promoting him. She has rich friends who she’s trying to interest in his work. Even the Museum of Modern Art is interested. But it takes time. He’s only been painting for a few years, and his ideas are kind of radical. Don’t think he doesn’t appreciate your support. I know you say it’s a gift, not a loan, but he wants to pay you back once he gets established. I have faith in him. I hope you will, too.”

  They had had similar conversations before, always polite, never spinning out of control, but always ending with the same unsatisfactory stalemate. She was devoted to a man he disapproved of, and she showed no sign of changing her mind. Still, he knew better than to alienate her. His consolation was how close they were to Darien. Clark actually hoped that Matta would prove him wrong, but if not, Anne didn’t have far to go.

  He kissed her again, and they said their goodbyes.

  Anne found the apartment door unlocked. The party guest who had slept on the couch had revived after Matta left and didn’t lock up on his way out. All the other remains—the full ashtrays, the stale food, the dirty glasses—were still there. The only thing missing was her husband.

  She surveyed the room with resignation, determined to have it cleaned up by the time he returned. Quickly, she parked the twins in their double crib in the bedroom and fetched her things from the hall. She didn’t bother to unpack. The kitchen garbage pail was spilling over, so down she went again to fetch an empty bin. With a window opened to air out the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the bin in the middle of the living room floor, she got to work.

  Eighteen

  Dillon watched as the two men came out of the coffee shop and walked toward Hare’s loft. Their conversation was animated, and even though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, it was clear that they were making plans of some kind. Hare gestured to himself and then poked Matta’s chest with a finger. I’ll do this, and you’ll do that, thought Dillon. He wished he knew what they had in mind, especially since they were splitting up. Hare went into the loft, and Matta turned west on Bleecker. Should I follow him, Dillon asked himself, or wait to see what Hare does next? Better stick with Matta.

  The artist and his tail headed up Bleecker Street to Hudson, then west on Gansevoort, toward the river. Wonder where this is leading, mused Dillon. His curiosity was soon satisfied, as Matta turned onto the dock at Pier Fifty-Two, where a freighter with the name Princesa painted on its rusting bow was taking on cargo. A crane lifted crates high in the air above the deck, and stevedores expertly maneuvered them into the hold.

  The gangway was down, and more men carried supplies and provisions on board. Matta approached a crew member with a manifest who was apparently checking the stock. Slipping behind a truck loaded with waiting cargo, Dillon worked his way as close to them as he dared. He was able to overhear only a few words that unfortunately were in Spanish. He saw the purser shake his head, heard him say él no está aquí, saw Matta press him, and saw the sailor’s frown and even more emphatic head shake. He clearly didn’t like the interruption.

  The artist reached into his pocket and extracted a pencil and a small pad. He wrote something and tore off the sheet. From another pocket, he removed a bill, folded it around the note, and handed it to the purser, who suddenly looked a lot friendlier. He nodded and spoke a few words in reply as he pocketed the paper.

  Matta turned and headed back down the pier to West Street. Once or twice he looked back over his shoulder toward the ship, so Dillon stayed behind the truck until Matta reached Gansevoort. He could easily keep his mark in sight from a block away, and he had a pretty good idea that Matta was now headed back to Hare’s place.

  Instead of taking the long walk down Bleecker, Matta decided to make his report by phone. Unlike most of the artists, for whom a private telephone was an unimaginable luxury, the well-heeled Hare had service. When Matta got to Eighth Avenue, he popped into a drugstore and used the public booth. He was in and out in five minutes and led the detective back to Patchin Place.

  I’ll get the beat cop to keep an eye on him, Dillon decided. There was that list of Lam’s friends to check out.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Nineteen

  When Hare returned from the coffee shop, Jacqueline was still lying on the bed, her naked body displayed to advantage on the colorful Mexican serape that he used as a coverlet. At age thirty-two, more than six years Hare’s senior, she was as nubile and captivating as a girl his own age. Once again he marveled at the beauty of her ivory skin, the silky blond hair on both her head and her pubis, and the strong, supple legs that had recently been wrapped around his shoulders. Her mood did not match her appearance.

  “What was so urgent that you had to run out on me?” Her frustration at their interrupted lovemaking had made her cross.

  Unfortunately for her, Matta’s news had indeed killed Hare’s appetite for sex. Although he couldn’t tell her everything, she would understand when she learned what had happened to Lam. He sat on the bed and folded the serape over her to minimize the distraction.

  “I’m sorry, darling, but Matta needed to see me right away. He told me that last night, while we were enjoying ourselves at the party, Fredo was lying dead in his studio. It was André who found him. It seems someone killed him.”

  “Oh no,” she gasped, and her body jerked upright.

  Hare pulled her into his arms. “The police came to see Matta this morning,” he explained. “They’re checking up on Fredo’s friends. He wanted to warn me that they’ll likely be coming here.” He stroked her cheek and kissed her forehead. “You should go home. André can tell you much more than I can, and the police may want to talk to you as well. It would be better if you were there, with your husband and child, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, agreeing. “André will need me to translate if they have questions for him. And I don’t want them to frighten Aube.” She threw off the serape and rose from the bed to retrieve her clothes.

  David caught his breath as he watched her dress. Even in her distracted state, every movement was graceful.

  God, how lovely she is, he thought. I must keep her out of this.

  She turned to him, her expression troubled. “David, who on earth could have done this? Why would the police think it was one of us? We all loved Fredo.”

  He avoided her eyes. “We don’t know the circumstances. They told Matta practically nothing. Anyway, it must be
routine to talk to friends and family when someone is killed, and his family is in Cuba, so we’re the closest people to him.”

  Closer than you realize, he was thinking. Not only friends and fellow artists but also business partners, and in a business that I’d just as soon the police didn’t find out about. That’s probably what got him killed.

  Twenty

  Joey Ramirez liked to keep his office door open. He had placed his desk—in the back room of the former candy store that served as his headquarters—opposite the door, so he could look through the front room to the glass entrance door and windows. That way he could see who was coming and going, and people outside could see that the boss was in his office, wearing a respectable suit and tie, looking like the successful businessman he was. Sitting behind the desk on an office chair raised to its full height also hid the fact that he was only five foot three.

  Unobtrusive gold lettering on the outside door read Lexington Social Club / Members Only, in English and Spanish. The young men who lounged in the front room enforced that rule. They were also clearly visible to anyone who doubted the muscle behind Joey’s organization.

  The office door was closed only when Joey was in a private meeting, as he was now with Juanita Diaz.

  “Welcome, Officer Diaz,” he began cordially. “I haven’t seen you in a while, not since that unfortunate misunderstanding with my girl Esperanza. What brings you to my social club?”

  Nita placed one of the headshots on the desk.

  Joey picked it up and took a good look. “Who’s the stiff?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “If I did, why would I ask?”

  Lying is like breathing to him, Nita said to herself, but I don’t think he recognizes Lam.

  “He’s a Cuban immigrant who was found dead in his Greenwich Village apartment last night,” she explained. “Name of Wifredo Lam. We’re trying to get a line on his associates. The local cops down there asked me to find out if he had any connections up here.”