An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

“Has something happened to him?” she asked.

  Without being specific, Dillon told them that Lam had been found dead in his apartment and that he was investigating the circumstances.

  “What the hell do you mean by ‘found dead’?” demanded Lee.

  Dillon answered that apparently Lam had been killed by person or persons unknown, which is why he was questioning the artist’s friends.

  Pollock finally spoke. “Shit,” he said indignantly, “why the fuck would one of his friends kill him?”

  “If I talk to his friends,” explained Dillon patiently, “maybe I can find out if he had an enemy, and that might be the person who killed him.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Yes, we’re sure.” Dillon didn’t elaborate.

  Thirty-Two

  Sunday evening

  “Come,” barked O’Connell in response to the knock on his office door. It was eight p.m., and the detective sergeant had just come back on duty.

  “Here’s the ME’s report on Lam, sir,” said Jeff, the clerk, handing him a manila envelope. “Just came in. And there’s a message for you from Commissioner Valentine.”

  O’Connell made a sour face. “Probably wants to invite me over for tea.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said Jeff, missing the sarcasm. “It’s about the Lam case. He’s taken a personal interest. Wants you to do your utmost to find the killer as quickly as possible.”

  Struggling to keep his temper under control, O’Connell seethed internally. He didn’t want the clerk to see how insulted he was. As if he wouldn’t do his utmost without the commissioner looking over his shoulder. As if he wouldn’t solve the case as soon as he could without being told. He gritted his teeth. “I appreciate the commissioner’s concern and will keep him apprised. Call his office with a message to that effect.”

  “I’m off duty now, sir. I’ll get Billy to handle it.”

  “Good. And have him bring me the interview reports. Who else is on the case?”

  “Dillon has been talking to Lam’s friends, and Fitzgerald went uptown to check on the Cubans, find out if he had anything going there. Nothing on that so far. I think Dillon is still around if you want to see him.” O’Connell allowed that he did.

  The clerk intercepted Dillon on the way out. “Can you spare a minute for the boss? He just got the Lam autopsy results, in record time, too, but he’s in a black mood. He wasn’t real happy to learn that the commissioner has his nose in the case. Wants the boss to get his skates on. Probably lit a fire under the medical examiner, too.”

  “Brother, that’s all we need,” said Dillon sympathetically. “I’ll go in and offer my condolences. Besides, I’d like to know what the autopsy turned up.”

  A knock on the office door, followed by a growled acknowledgment, brought Dillon face-to-face with one very irritated detective sergeant. Dillon decided to lighten things up a bit, or at least try. “Jeff tells me you’ve received a Valentine and it isn’t even February,” he quipped.

  “Very funny,” grumbled O’Connell. “How does he even know about the case? What gripes me is—oh, never mind.” He sighed with resignation. “Let’s look at the postmortem.”

  The report described the body of Wifredo Óscar de la Concepción Lam y Castilla, a slender but well-nourished male, colored, age 40 (DOB 12-8-02), height 73 inches, weight 155 pounds. No gross abnormalities of viscera. They scanned to the bottom of the page. Dark bruise at base of skull, approximately three inches in diameter, left side, just above the hairline. Cause of death: acute epidural hematoma, the result of blunt trauma to the left occipital bone. This was the finding of Milton Helpern, MD, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner.

  “A blow to the back of the head,” said Dillon. “No wonder it wasn’t evident. The fatal damage was internal. His hair covered the bruise.”

  “Then it was a deliberate assault, but who hit him and why? Was it premeditated or impulsive? Damn, I wish we knew if anything was stolen. Maybe we could have one of his friends on that list Matta gave you look over the apartment, see if something’s missing.”

  No sooner had O’Connell suggested it than he reconsidered. “Wait, they’re our prime suspects.”

  Thirty-Three

  Dillon pulled out his notebook. “I interviewed most of ’em this afternoon,” he reported. “They all seemed pretty shocked, but that’s easy to fake.”

  O’Connell reviewed the options. “It had to be someone he knew. Either they had keys, or he let them in. If it wasn’t robbery, and it looks like it wasn’t, then my money’s on jealousy. He was porking one of the wives or girlfriends.”

  “There’s a few lookers on the list,” Dillon offered. “The Matter dame for one. Her first name’s Mercedes, married to a photographer name of Herbert. They live up in Tudor City. The husband wasn’t at the party, doesn’t socialize much. Doesn’t talk much, either. Didn’t look like the jealous type to me, but she’s the sort you’d want to keep an eye on if she was your wife. A real hot number.”

  O’Connell’s eyebrows went up.

  “But not my type,” Dillon added quickly. “I like a little more meat on the bones. Anyway, Willem de Kooning, the Dutchman down on Carmine, he’s got a girlfriend I wouldn’t kick out of bed for being too skinny. A young one, too, Elaine Fried. She was there when I showed up. Said she lives with her mother in Brooklyn, but it was too late to go home alone after the party, so her boyfriend kindly let her crash at his place. Yeah, pull the other one, I’m thinking. The Dutchman’s a lot older, small but tough looking, could be the possessive kind.

  “The real knockout is the blonde who’s married to the guy that found the body,” he continued. “She went to the party without her husband, so I paid her a call. She’s French, but speaks good English. According to her, he was working late, like he told us, or rather like that Duchamp fella told us for him. So she went on her own and says she never even noticed him come to collect Duchamp.

  “The next time she saw him was at eight this morning, when he headed straight to bed and went out like a light. But he must have filled her in before he fell asleep, ’cause she wasn’t at all taken aback when I told her Lam was dead.

  “I tell you, Boss, she is something. Drop-dead gorgeous, the athletic type. I spotted a trapeze rigged up in the front room, and she said she’s an acrobat.”

  “Suppose Breton didn’t just stumble on Lam’s body,” O’Connell speculated. “Suppose his wife, what’s her name?—Jacqueline, thanks—is practicing her acrobatics in Lam’s bed. Breton gets wise and settles his hash. Then he comes to us with his fairy tale.”

  Dillon considered the theory. “Then how do you explain the costume, Jack?”

  “He’s trying to divert us, make us think it’s a Cuban cult killing. Or maybe it is.”

  Thirty-Four

  Yun Gee waited until he knew O’Connell would be back on duty before he called the Sixth Precinct. Not having his own phone, he used the booth in the corner drugstore.

  “I talked to the On Leong boss,” he reported. “He knows Lam. He says I’ll be informed.”

  “Good work, Yun,” replied O’Connell. “I know this wasn’t easy for you. I hope this helps us find Lam’s killer, and if it does, it’ll be thanks to you.”

  Gee hesitated, then tried to explain the situation to the detective. “If On Leong was involved, the boss already knows all about it. It was hard to tell, his voice and his manner gave nothing away, but I don’t think so. If another tong is responsible, the boss will find out why. Then he’ll decide what to do. In that case, I don’t think he’ll come back to me, because I said I want justice, not revenge.”

  O’Connell pondered this information. “Are you telling me that if a rival tong was responsible, On Leong will settle the score without involving the authorities?”

  Gee was relieved that the detective understood what he was saying. He didn’t
want to explain how the elaborate structure of rivalries, territorial disputes, and factional loyalties operated in Chinatown. The point was—and O’Connell had perceived this—that if Lam was dealing with a tong, the matter was out of police hands.

  “When it’s settled, someone will get word to me,” said Gee. “When I know, you’ll know.”

  “Listen, Yun, I don’t want you to stick your neck out,” O’Connell cautioned. “You have a family to think of. But if it turns out that one of the tongs was responsible for Lam’s death, I want to know why he was killed. Do you think they’ll tell you that?”

  Even though O’Connell couldn’t see it, Gee shook his head. “No.”

  Thirty-Five

  Sunday night

  Officer Fitzgerald had changed into his street clothes and was just clocking out when the night man, Sergeant Greco, called to him from the desk. “You’re wanted on the phone, Fitz. It’s Diaz from the Twenty-Third.”

  He felt himself flush slightly and turned away as he took the receiver. “Fitzgerald here,” he said as evenly as he could. Not that Greco was fooled.

  “Glad I caught you, Fitz. Joey came through for us, though he doesn’t know it.” Nita was being deliberately cryptic.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How about I explain in person?” she offered.

  Fitz’s heart did a little dance.

  “I’m off duty. I’ll meet you. Where?”

  Inspiration struck Fitz. “Can you come downtown?” he asked, and she agreed. “Let’s meet at the Cedar Tavern, fifty-five West Eighth Street. Take your time, I’ll be waiting,” he told her.

  “See you soon,” she replied with enough enthusiasm in her voice to tell Fitz that this meeting wasn’t going to be all business.

  At the Cedar, a neighborhood watering hole that was a popular hangout for artists, Fitz ordered a Knickerbocker and positioned himself in a booth where he could watch the entrance. His were not the only eyes that brightened when Nita arrived. As he rose to greet her and escort her to the booth, the men at the bar were visibly disappointed. Lucky dog was clearly written on their faces.

  Out of uniform, they looked like just another young couple on a date. Maybe a bit better dressed than most of the clientele, more like the folks from the outer boroughs who came in to rub elbows with the art crowd, or the occasional tourists soaking up the bohemian atmosphere. Not much of that on a Sunday evening.

  A few regulars were clustered at a round table in one corner, deep in a conversation notable for its unusually subdued and serious tone. Although Fitz and Nita didn’t know them by sight, they were on Dillon’s list of Lam’s friends and were discussing his mysterious death.

  The two police officers sat opposite each other in a booth, and Fitz asked Nita what she wanted to drink. “What you’re having is fine,” she said. He ordered another Knick. He was glad she didn’t want whiskey or gin—he didn’t like to see a woman drinking the hard stuff. There’d been too much of that in his family. One of his aunts was a dipso, and his grandmother on his father’s side had died of drink.

  As for the men, they often turned to the bottle whenever problems arose and even when they didn’t. Fitz’s father, a captain at the Fifty-Ninth Precinct in Long Island City, was the exception. He’d taken the pledge when his mother died. Fitz privately vowed that if he ever felt himself going overboard, he’d join his dad on the water wagon.

  He sipped his beer and gazed appreciatively at Nita. “Now,” he said with a grin, “what’s the word?”

  “I saw Joey and gave him the picture. He said he didn’t recognize Lam, but he agreed to ask around. He got one of his gang to do the legwork, and the guy hit the jackpot. He was bragging about it in the Agozar—that’s the bar and grill next door to the so-called social club where Joey has his headquarters—and Luis, the owner, called me. I had stopped in there before going to Joey’s and showed Lam’s picture to Luis, but he didn’t know him. Neither did anyone else in the neighborhood, according to Joey’s stooge, Raul.”

  “Then how did he track him down?”

  “It happens that Raul has an uncle who owns a bar in the West Village, over by the docks. The Port of Call—you must know it. It’s on your patch. I told Joey that Lam lived in the Village, so Raul decides to show the picture to his uncle. Sure enough, he IDs Lam, says he was close with a sailor off one of the freighters in port right now.”

  Raul’s self-serving version left out the coincidental meeting with the anonymous shipmate and the fact that the sailor in question had found Joey, rather than the other way around.

  “This turns out to be very good news for Joey,” continued Nita, “because Lam and the sailor had a deal going that fell through when Lam got killed. Now, thanks to Raul, Joey is taking over, and there’s going to be a big payday.”

  Delighted with Nita’s information, Fitz grabbed her hands across the table. Not the normal response to a police report. She was a bit startled, but not unpleasantly. He quickly withdrew and cleared his throat. “Excellent work, Officer Diaz. Did Raul say what the deal was? Did he name the sailor and his ship?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Detective Morales is going to bring him in for questioning. He knows these boys real well, used to run with a gang just like them when he was young and stupid. Now he’s a smart old fox. I’ll find out if he’s got anything yet.” She slid out of the booth and went to the pay phone in back.

  Fitz took a swallow of beer and a deep breath. He was grateful for Nita’s absence—it gave him time to clear his head. Once his official report was filed, his part in this phase of the investigation would be finished, and as soon as Nita filed her report, hers would be, too. The detective branch would take over, and they’d both be back on routine patrol. More than six miles separated their precincts.

  Their paths weren’t going to cross by chance. Unlikely that another case would bring them together.

  He was weighing his options when Nita returned to the booth.

  “Raul’s still on the loose,” she told him. “Joey must have heard that he was shooting his mouth off and told him to make himself scarce. Morales will find him tomorrow.” She looked at her watch. It was after nine o’clock. “Well, I guess I should be going. My mother will be waiting dinner.”

  Fitz treated her to his most engaging smile. “Could you call her, tell her not to wait? I was hoping you’d stay and have a bite with me.”

  “Won’t your folks be expecting you?”

  “I can call them. They won’t mind. There are plenty of mouths to feed at our table, one less won’t be missed. Besides, they’ve probably eaten already.”

  Nita considered. “We don’t have a telephone. I’ll have to call the landlady. If she’s in, it’s a date.” They went to the pay phone together.

  Thirty-Six

  The three men seated at the round table paid no attention to the young couple as they made their way to the back of the bar. They weren’t even paying much attention to their drinks, a real novelty. As usual, Harold Rosenberg had the floor.

  “You know what I think of the Surrealists’ crackpot theories, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like some of them personally. Not Dalí, of course, he of the ridiculous mustache. He’s little more than a clown. Not to mention a publicity hound and a sellout. The man has no shame, designing department store windows and fun-house pavilions and calling them manifestations of his paranoid-critical method, whatever that is. Nothing but hokum, available on order to the highest bidder. Wasn’t it Breton who coined the anagram ‘Avida Dollars’? That’s right on the money, if you’ll forgive the pun.” His own cleverness brought a smile to his lips.

  “Bill Hayter’s okay,” he continued. “Peel away the Surrealist veneer and underneath is an English gentleman. He doesn’t babble incomprehensible poetry or drone on about the beauty of the marvelous. That printmaking workshop of his is turning out some interesting stuff, and he’s a so
lid craftsman, regardless of the imagery he dreams up. And I’ve always thought well of Duchamp, as a person if not as an artist, and anyway, I don’t consider him a Surrealist. He never kowtowed to Breton, far too independent. That’s why Breton respects him.”

  “Vat about Matta?” asked de Kooning. “He don’t swallow Breton hook, line, and sinker.” A connoisseur of American slang, he never missed an opportunity to use it.

  “He thinks he’s going to take over,” replied Rosenberg. “He’s got Breton on the defensive. I was surprised he even showed up at Matta’s, especially since Jacqueline was there with David. When I saw her come in on her own, I figured she’d had another showdown with her husband. Of course Hare was already there, all the more reason for Breton to stay away. He’s stuck with that young upstart as the backer of VVV, thanks to which Jacqueline is dumping him, but he doesn’t have to socialize with him. So why did he come at all, then just collect Duchamp and leave?”

  “I found out why from the detective who questioned me. Dillon was his name,” said Motherwell. “Breton needed someone to translate for him when he reported Lam’s death. He’s the one who found the body.”

  “So that’s why he was in and out in such a rush. How much did Dillon tell you, Bob?” Rosenberg wanted to know.

  “Almost nothing at first,” Motherwell replied. “He said he was looking into an incident involving one of my associates.”

  “That’s what he told me,” interrupted Rosenberg.

  “And me,” echoed de Kooning.

  “He wanted to know where I was yesterday,” Motherwell continued. “I told him I was in the studio working on my collage for Peggy’s show. As you know, Maria and I never got to the party. She finds these gatherings tiresome, and I was making good progress, so we decided to stay home. I took a break for supper and went back to work.

  “Then he asked if I know Lam. I said, ‘Certainly I do. He’s a friend and a damned fine artist.’ The word he used, ‘incident,’ came back to my mind. ‘Has something happened to him?’ I asked. When he told me Lam was dead, my first thought was that he’d been in some kind of accident, but then why question my whereabouts? I confess I was confused and rather apprehensive and, of course, upset.” The memory made him reach for his glass and take a healthy swallow.