Anticipated Results

by Dennis E. Bolen

  “Don’t worry about it, officer.”

  “Detective. Call me Dave.”

  “Well, Detective Dave, I’m a professional. I can take criticism. And to tell you the truth, sometimes I don’t think I’m a good artist either.”

  “But you’re good enough, aren’t you?”

  “Good enough for what?”

  “Good enough in a given year to hang in any gallery in town. Good enough to be at Cosmopolis or the Bonsai or wherever.”

  “Probably. It’s a matter of opinion, I guess.”

  “Well, our opinion is that you’re good enough.”

  “Thanks. Huh. Maybe I’ve been wasting my time with openings and networking and publicists and all that. Maybe I should have just got the police department to promote me.”

  “Good. All right.” Dave’s unexpected grimace unsettled Nick in a strange way. “Let’s get on with this.”

  “It’s your show, Dave.” Nick tried not to sound flip but knew he had.

  “Okay, now we come to the important part. This is what we’re here about, essentially.” Dave paused. Nick was mystified as to what he seemed to want to convey. “Do you see what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “It’s what we’ve been talking about.”

  “My art?”

  “Not exactly. More like the reason your art isn’t more widely known.”

  Nick shook his head. “I’m not following.”

  “Our theory is that you haven’t had as much exposure as you might have, had it not been for certain prejudices certain people harbour against you.”

  It took a moment for Nick to comprehend. “Certain people such as …” Though he deliberately let his words hang, the detectives seemed determined not to complete his sentence for him.

  “… Mrs Beaumont.” Dave finally obliged him.

  “Right.” Alan folded his arms across his chest and regarded Nick intently.

  “Well. That is interesting. A motive. You have a theory about motive.”

  Dave seemed to ignore Nick’s musings. “Do you know a guy named Kyle Grigson?”

  “Absolutely. He writes for Arts Weekly.”

  “The entertainment paper.”

  “Right. He covers the gallery openings. Goes around taking pictures of people sweating into their Diors and Armanis. Does a real art-suck routine, if you ask me.”

  Both cops laughed.

  “Glad you said it and not us.” Alan was enjoying himself.

  “So what about Kyle?”

  “He says you have it in for Mrs Beaumont.”

  “Aw, for crying out loud! That’s a myth. She has it in for me.”

  “We heard that too.”

  “And for no good reason.”

  “Oh, hold on there. Some people think there’s a big reason. Apparently something called the bitch face incident?”

  “What?”

  “Bitch. Face. Incident.” Alan seemed determined that Nick hear each word clearly.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “That was what they called it.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs Beaumont’s staff.”

  “Well whatever they want to call it, it was crap. Accidental. And Kyle should know, he helped it happen.”

  “So you do know about it.”

  “I’ve never heard it called the bitch slap incident, but …”

  “Face. Bitch face.”

  “Or whatever. But I think I know now what you guys are talking about.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “I don’t know if I can, it’s so stupid.”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  Nick strived to locate the best entry point for the tale but encountered only a vacuum. He looked from one of the granite-faced detectives to the other and nearly panicked for a moment, unable to talk.

  “We haven’t got all night, Nick.”

  “Oh, okay …” Nick’s mouth was dry; he worked his jaw to create saliva. “First off … Thanks for asking me to relive just about the worst moment of my professional life.”

  “Nevertheless. We’ve heard a version of it from others, now we need to hear it from you.”

  “Oh man …” Nick hunched forward and rubbed his face with both hands, something he’d been wanting to do ever since coming home. It made him feel better but not better enough. “Well you know, for some reason Mrs Beaumont and I got off to a bad start …” He straightened up in his chair. “We first met up about fifteen years ago. I was at Emily Carr, just about to graduate. One of my instructors took me for a celebratory lunch downtown and Madeline was sitting somewhere off with a bunch of other rich ladies. At that time she was thinking about opening a gallery and knew my teacher and we ended up sitting with them.

  “My teacher introduced me as this next great sensation in the art world or something ridiculous like that and they all had a good bit of interest in me. So I yakked with all the ladies and Madeline was the friendliest of all.”

  “How friendly?” Dave’s voice had a deadly flatness now.

  Nick glared at him. “Nothing like that. She was …” Nick glanced from man to man.

  Both detectives eyed him.

  “I mean, even then she was almost into her fifties. I was twenty-seven.”

  Alan tsked. “It’s not impossible.”

  “Maybe not but it was this time. Over the years I’ve thought about it a lot. I mean, ironically, that was probably what she was looking for.”

  “But you weren’t interested.”

  “Hell no. In fact, and this is another gaffe I’d like to reel back in if only I could turn back time, I actually paid more attention to one of her friends …”

  “Who was younger.” Dave spoke with certainty.

  “And prettier.” Alan chimed in.

  “Exactly.” Nick sighed.

  “The next time I saw her was a year or so later when she opened the Bonsai. I went to the gala with a bunch of friends. I didn’t actually get an invitation. In fact, even if her staff tried to invite me I’m not sure I had a viable address in those days. I was living illegally out of my studio. Most of us were. We crashed any event that came along for the free food and wine. Couldn’t afford to miss that. And then there was the networking aspect. Some of my friends made out pretty good over time …”

  “But not you.”

  “Nope.” Nick eyed around his living room. “This is my only show right now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ll tell you my theory. And it has to do with what we’re talking about. So we’re at this grand opening of the Bonsai Rooms and Madeline looks across the crowd at me like I’m an insect or something. She cups her mouth to the ear of one of her helpers and somebody comes over and tells me to leave.

  “It was the only time before that or since that I’ve ever been kicked out of a place. Humiliating as hell. And none too good for my stature, if you look at it from that aspect. Reputation is everything in this business and I think mine was ruined that night. I’ve had some sales, sure, but not enough to make a living. I’ve had fans who thought I was hard done by. I mean, sure, I got invitations. Eventually a minor show at a community centre out in the burbs. But nothing to make a career. And here I am working a day job fifteen years later.

  “By now most of the people I graduated with have either had major commissions or big jobs in teaching or at least a modest national reputation by way of a Canada Council grant or two. I’m still trying to get a show downtown. I’ve done all I could. I’ve sat on boards of directors of community arts councils, theatres, cultural publications, you name it. Every so often I’d run into Madeline, who by that time was a major force in the art scene all the way across the country. She was never more than barely civil to me.

  “Then a couple of years ago I got lucky and made friends with this guy and his wife who wanted to open a gallery. They established Cosmopolis and wanted me for their inaugural showing, along with two other painters and a sculptor. It wasn’t my own show but it was a m
ajor spot downtown and these people had a lot of money. It was my big break. I was on my way. Everything was great. They liked the canvasses I did. They had me supervise the hanging and the lights. I was rockin’.

  “We had a healthy crowd for the pre-opening party. There was a band. Lots of noise. Kyle Grigson was there with his camera. He smirked at me across the room because he knew I had been sucking wind for so many years and for some reason he seems to think it’s funny to see a guy struggle so much. He’s a creepy a-hole and I’m not reluctant to pronounce on that. Wise-cracking sarcastic snob dickhead …”

  “We get you.” Though Dave wound his pen in the air to indicate a wish to get on with the story his expression affirmed approval of the opinion Nick was conveying. “What happened then?”

  “It was like out of a comedy script or something. We’re in this big crush of bodies and Kyle gets close to me and starts yelling. The sound is total, people talking at the top of their vocal range. The band is honking out noise. The general hubbub …”

  “You don’t exactly hear him.” Dave was visibly hanging onto Nick’s yarn.

  “My ears aren’t great at the best of times. I hurt them a lot working in a bottling plant during my student days. I can’t hear well when there are loud sounds around, like in clubs. I can’t carry on a conversation like some people seem to be able to.

  “Anyway, Kyle points to another part of the room and barks something in my ear that sounds like: ‘Sucky to see such a bitch face.’ Or some such thing. Coming from him, I really thought that was what I heard. No matter how unlikely it was, I thought he was trying some kind of snide joke on me, as usual. He repeated it. I swear it still sounded just the same. I shrugged, pointed to my ears, tried to look as cool as I could in case he wanted to take my picture. Then I tried to ignore him. But he got all huffy and yelled it again. ‘Sucky to see a bitch face.’ I got worried that he might think I was pulling a Madeline Beaumont, snubbing him because of his hanger-on status or some such art-snob posturing manoeuvre or other. So then, because I was trying to be extra nice, I got close to him and yelled, ‘Bitch face?’ He said ‘What?’ I hollered again as hard as I could: ‘Bitch face!’

  “Then it happens.” Alan spoke with a satisfied confidence. “Like in the worst movie you ever saw, the music stops just then.”

  “You know it.” Nick sighed. “Suddenly it’s all quiet. And Kyle isn’t looking at me anymore, he’s staring disgusted over my shoulder. And who the hell is standing right behind me within full earshot of my howling?”

  Dave went back to writing. “Had you seen her come in?”

  “Sure I had. She wouldn’t have missed an event like that, even with me in it. By this time she wasn’t just a gallery owner but also the commissioner of the city arts board, in charge of a hellish budget, in a position to help artists and venues and just about anybody else in the biz who might be trying to make a living. And after all these years I’m hoping she might give me an even break, maybe for my perseverance alone, maybe just for old times’ sake.

  “But the look on her face. I knew she’d heard me. I knew she’d likely been watching us across the floor. There was no way to explain it to her, joke it away or dismiss it offhand. The way she turned away and stomped off. I was puréed again, like instant breakfast. She stood glaring from the other side of the room. Kyle sputters and gawks at me and shouts, ‘I said, funny to see you in this place.’

  “I said, ‘What?’ My ears were ringing so bad I could barely hear myself talk. ‘After all your work. I wanted to congratulate you,’ Kyle says.

  “Most of the crowd hadn’t heard exactly what happened but I saw Madeline talking to the gallery people. When I got home there was a message on my answering machine. They were sorry, but they had to drop me out of the show. Something about funding not coming through at the last minute or something.”

  Nick had been leaning forward as he recounted his story, elbows on knees, his head mostly bowed. He looked up. “Do you guys mind if I have a drink?”

  “It’s your house, go right ahead.”

  He went to the hall, pulled scotch and a glass from the sideboard. “Anybody join me?”

  “No thanks.” The cops spoke in unison.

  Nick poured, returned to his seat and sat down. He took a deep slug and sighed. “You know who I’d like to kill?” He let the statement hang until he sensed a new stiffness in the room.

  Dave was staring at him. “We don’t kid around about stuff like that.”

  With whisky beginning to warm him, Nick chose to simply gaze into nothingness.

  A cell phone warbled. Alan fished it from inside his jacket. “Yeah?”

  Dave narrowed eyes at his partner and motioned with his head to take the call elsewhere. The big detective lurched from his chair and strode to the hallway. Nick surmised that he ended up in the kitchen, where he could be heard grunting monosyllabically into the phone.

  “We were expecting that call.” Dave spoke quietly. “It might just clear things right up.”

  “Huh.” Nick was barely listening, enjoying his drink and winding down. He made a promise to himself never to tell that story again under any circumstances.

  Then Alan was back. He flumped into his chair and gestured at Nick with the cell phone, looking at Dave. “He said it was what time he was at this studio place last night?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “From six to around eleven-thirty.”

  Alan turned to Nick. “You got witnesses?”

  “I told you …”

  Dave stood up. “Come on.” He touched his partner’s arm and they strode out of the room. Nick could hear muffled conversation from his kitchen but did not try too hard to discern what was being said, feeling sure he would be duly apprised. The detectives were back with him in three minutes.

  “Thanks a lot, Nick.” Dave was putting away his pen. “We’ll be running along now.”

  “Yeah.” Alan pocketed his phone.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yup. Case closed.”

  “But what about Madeline? Who’s threatening her?”

  “We’re pretty sure now it’s family-related.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Sorry to take up your time.” Dave nudged Nick on the arm. “This was just us being over-anal.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, uh …” Dave drew a folded paper from an inside pocket. “We won’t need this search warrant after all.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  Nick stood.

  Dave peered closely at a canvas. “This is excellent. Honestly.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Especially this one.” The detective went to a street scene Nick had done during what he called his ‘urban-naturalist’ period. “Great layers. Texture.” He pointed. “I enjoy your treatment of stasis.”

  “So Alan wasn’t kidding. You are an art-head.”

  “I was one semester short at Ryerson.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nick was feeling better. “What years?”

  “Early eighties.”

  “I was there a little before that. Just for a year.”

  “Good school.”

  “Did you know Stewardson?”

  “Stewardson was my advisor.”

  “No kidding!”

  Dave surveyed the other paintings, strolling slow with hands behind his back. “Yeah I did nearly the whole biscuit.”

  “Oils? Watercolour?”

  “And acrylics.”

  “Well …” Nick swilled his drink, almost happy. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m a cop now.”

  “Well you know, ah … All things considered, that makes more sense than it might look like at first. I mean, you know the theory. Painting brings the senses together with reason and mathematics in a scientific practice, blah blah blah.”

  “Yeah …” Dave smiled. “But how do you reconcile bureaucracy, routine, squalor, and boredom with the notion of the inspired craftsman creating earthly beauty a
s a reflection of the absolute?”

  “Hmm. Absolute cop-ism?”

  “Speaking of which …” Alan straightened from where with a meaty hand he had leaned on an armchair. “We gotta get going.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Dave examined another painting. “Brush strokes kind of muddy.”

  “How is old Stewardson these days?”

  “Haven’t seen him in years. But he was fine, last I heard.”

  “I used to keep up with him, but when I came out west …”

  “Best history-in-art man I ever met.”

  “I’ll say. You did his Group of Seven course?”

  “You too, right?”

  “Rocks, ice, and snow …” Nick dredged his aesthetics memory. “Some timber but mostly burned …”

  “… Rough, splashy, meaningless, blatant plastering and massing of unpleasant colours in weird landscapes.”

  They stopped talking. Dave pointed to another of the street studies. “That’s this place, isn’t it?”

  “Right”

  “Looks like you’ve painted every leaf.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “No, you didn’t. Brilliant.”

  They paused together. Nick’s chest was beginning to swell and he knew it wasn’t the liquor.

  “Some stupid looking car …” Alan had joined them at the canvas, pointing to a detail. “The Karmann Ghia.”

  “Alan!” Dave flung the word. “Will you keep your goddamn mouth shut for just one goddamn minute!”

  Nick had to firm himself not to step backward.

  Alan flexed as if shot, then recovered and grew an ugly sneer to banish whatever vulnerability he’d let briefly show. Without a word he stepped from the room and began a loud descent of the stairs. Dave sighed, straightened his tie, nodded Nick’s way, then followed his partner.

  Nick moved to the front window and watched as the tops of the cops’ heads materialized below and glided down the veranda stairs, through the hedge and away. He felt good, standing in his home, in the room with his images all around. The big old house felt particularly good, though the neighbourhood had declined. The prostitutes had been hounded out of the West End and their transactional madhouse had popped up on these street corners. He didn’t mind the condoms in the gutter, the cackled dialogue below the windows, even the bikers playing Frisbee out by his car. But the traffic noise made sleep a challenge. That was the worst part, trying to show up at a full-time job with little or no sleep. Still, there were good reasons to be living here. He kept staring, studying, not moving, though he desired more of the drink in his hand. Something about the attitude of the unmarked police vehicle on the street: its routine colour, the rhythmic sling of the detectives as they deked into their respective sides—by his perception they wore hats, though in reality they did not—and the chestnut tree, maturing into autumn with promises of tint, then dissolution.