Saint-Saëns’s “Havanaise” wafted from a small cassette player on a table near a low-slung chair.
“Marina’s baby,” Judy moaned sentimentally, and she started to cry. When she pointed to the tissues on the nightstand, Bella dug near the woven basket of yellow and rust asters and passed her the box.
Judy called to me, and I slid Bella’s bag onto the tiled floor. I stepped in and hugged her. I spotted a few small nicks on her cheek, a bruise on her neck, and saw that the back of her head had been shaved and bandaged.
“Thank you, dear,” she whispered. She kissed my ear. “I know what you did.”
I said nothing, and held on to her, my arms around her soft flannel robe, which bore the faint scent of her light, floral perfume.
She kissed me again and pushed me gently. “Next time you decide to come see me,” she scolded, “call ahead. I can put on a little makeup. Be a little presentable. Am I presentable, Gabriella? Don’t. Don’t answer that. Children lack that filter, don’t they? She’s likely to tell me.”
“You look great,” Bella announced.
“So, Terry, Terry Orr, what do you want?”
I shook my head. “We wanted to drop in and—”
“Terry. Terry.” She wagged her finger at me. “Visitors—and I know; the world’s been in here to cheer me up—they bring flowers, candy, magazines; Sadler Boyd brought a photographer. Bastard. Excuse me, Gabriella, dear.” She tapped the side of her head. “Brain intact, Terry Orr, if a bit frazzled. Thanks to you. Gabriella, be a dear and hand me my lipstick and compact, will you?” She pointed to the nightstand. Bella complied.
“Oh, mother of God. Here, here. Take it away, the mirror, the paint; Lord. Yeah, well, that they didn’t tell me: You lose a foot, you lose your looks.”
Bella laughed as she returned the items to the drawer.
Judy said, “Ask questions. Ask, Terry.” As I hesitated, she shifted on her elbows.
“Terry, what? Query me; grill me. I could use the excitement.”
I turned to my daughter. “Bella, how would you feel about getting Judy some water?”
“The pitcher’s full.”
“It’s probably warm.”
“There’s frost on the plastic. Look,” she said, pointing.
I dug in my pocket and came up with a dollar bill. “Go buy something.”
She frowned. “How long do you want me to stay away?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Fine,” she groaned.
“Thank you.”
Judy winked. “Call me later, Gabriella, I’ll tell you everything.”
Bella smiled, put her hat back on and went out into the hall. I reached and slid the soft chair next to Judy’s bed.
“Do you know who did it?” she asked as I sat.
“That’s why I came to see you,” I began.
“Terry.” She met my eyes. There was no playfulness in her now. “Tell me now.”
I said, “The voice on the phone—”
“Nondescript. A man. I don’t remember an accent. There may have been. Eastern European? Maybe.”
“And he said what?”
“‘There’s a bomb in your gallery. Get everybody out.’ And he repeated it.”
“Did he give a time? You know, like there’s two minutes, five minutes…”
“What I said is exactly what he said.” She pursed her lips, and she frowned. “Then he hung up. I was sure he was telling the truth.”
“Why?”
“He just sounded like he meant it He was clear. Adamant.”
“OK,” I said as I leaned back. “Nothing there.”
“You sound like those detectives who were here.”
“I don’t mean to,” I said. “I’ve got a few ideas, that’s all.”
“Are you doing this for me, Terry?”
I hesitated.
“Because I want you to,” she said. “I want it to be personal.”
“It is,” I said finally.
“You’re hiding something. Tell me, Terry. Do you think whatever you say will be worse than hearing my foot is gone?”
“No,” I replied.
“Someone hired you, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but that’s irrelevant now.”
“Edie?” she asked.
“It was Lin-Lin Chin.”
“Lin-Lin?” Judy said. “Really?” She sat back and shook her head. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Oops; oh, well. But, I don’t believe it. Really, I don’t. It’s impossible.”
“Why, Judy? Why impossible?”
“Because Lin-Lin loathes me.”
“Loathes you?”
“Maybe that’s too strong, maybe. She wants me to let Sol go. She wants to represent him herself.”
I thought for a moment. “Does Beck have the same deal with you that Marina had?”
She nodded.
Marina’s contract with Judy, more or less a standard personal-service deal, permitted either side to walk away on a handshake, granted all commissions were paid and all work was returned. Beck should be able to drop Judy whenever he wanted to.
I said, “What does Beck say?”
She shrugged. “Sol is frail. Sol is a boy, sometimes. But Sol is stubborn. And he understands the level of his talent. He needs someone with experience to sell him.”
I shifted in the chair. “You don’t think much of his stuff,” I led.
“It’s salable. I don’t pretend to be a critic.” She added quickly, “And don’t think that applies to everyone I represent: Marina was gifted, Terry. Sol Beck is essentially a mimic. Hopper, Wyeth, Eakins, Sloan, the Ashcans. I’m not knocking it. He understands the craft, but…”
“Can he grow?”
“I’ve heard he’s done other work, but I haven’t seen it. I agreed to mount the show, to try to move the stuff, and I did. If he wants Lin-Lin to represent him, good luck.”
I paused for a moment. The paintings under the tarps at Beck’s on King Street. Middle-period Beck. I wondered what they looked like. How free could Beck be? How far from his influences could he move?
“Terry, what are you thinking? Tell me. Don’t keep secrets, Terry Orr.”
“Judy, nobody meant to hurt you. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I find it hard to take a lot of comfort in that, Terry.”
“You were supposed to leave like everybody else.”
“I’ve been telling myself, ‘If only I hadn’t gone into the back…’”
“I’m sure the explosion was meant to disrupt the opening.” And there were only two possible reasons for that: to abruptly end the show, or for publicity. But when Judy was injured, it all changed.
The publicity angle intrigued me, but it didn’t work for Beck as I saw him: a seemingly ordinary guy whose early, craft-dependent work was so derivative as to be easily forgotten. Had the work been at least trendy or innovative, had Beck a reputation, a persona, that could have been romanticized by a menacing event like a bombing, it might’ve worked. But pretentious critics and skin-deep commentators who would’ve loved that angle were likely to have walked away from it as soon as they saw Beck’s work, which was neither fashionable nor new.
“Terry, tell me why Lin-Lin hired you.”
I let out a breath. “It doesn’t make much sense. She told me she thought Beck’s father did it. Because he hates Sol.”
“Really?”
I shook my head. “That’s what she said. But it’s not possible. His father can’t do the kind of work that the explosion required.” I pointed to my shoulder. “Besides, I don’t think his hate runs in that direction.”
Judy paused. “Did you see Sol’s painting called ‘Father’s Day’?”
I told her I hadn’t.
“There’s a old man sitting in an outdoor café on Bleecker Street. He’s all alone, very bitter, small, diminished. You don’t doubt that no one wants to be anywhere near this guy. He drove everyone away.”
“That’s Beck’s view of his father.”<
br />
“We had the painting at the show.”
“Really? Where?”
“Let me think,” she said. “In front, on the south wall.”
“Not near the back room?”
“Where the explosion happened? No. Why?”
I said, “Just a thought.” But I let it go: If he’d wanted to destroy “Father’s Day,” Rosenzweig would’ve had to see the exhibition before setting the explosion. I told myself to stay focused: The bomber wanted to terminate the show by damaging the gallery without destroying any of the work, and maybe get a little free coverage at the same time. The universe of people who would want that was very, very limited.
“Judy, I’ve got to be direct, all right?”
“Of course.” She reached out and patted my hand.
“Tell me about Edie. Has she been here?”
“You mean do I think Edie could’ve done this?”
“I’m just brainstorming, Judy.”
“Is it trite for me to say she’s like a daughter to me?”
“No.” I smiled. “But it’s not very useful.”
She nodded. “Edie’s ambitious, Terry, and she’ll have her own gallery someday.”
“Judy, has she been here?”
“Yes. Yes. Today. And she calls. She calls.” She flung up her hand: a dismissive gesture.
“All right, Judy,” I muttered.
“So where does it all leave us?” she asked.
I slid the chair away from the bed and I stood. I went to the nightstand and poured cold water into a clear plastic cup. I handed Judy the cup and a plastic straw. She took a satisfying sip.
She returned the cup to me. “They give me a lot of pills, Terry. But I think I’m pretty sure what’s going on. I’m not really a ball of fluff, you know.”
“Yeah, I know that, Judy.”
“I’m going to beat this thing.” She brushed her hair from her forehead and she pinched her cheeks. “I’m alive, Terry. You know, they rolled me down the hall this morning. Very bad idea. Very bad. I had this awful vision: me, ninety-seven years old; you know, like I never left here. A one-legged skeleton in a medieval wheelchair.” She feigned a shiver. “Brrrr. Not Judy. No, not me. Not I. Oh no.”
“No, Judy, not you.”
“I’m determined to get out of here as soon as I can.”
I nodded.
“But, Terry, go out and get me a little peace. Understand? Let me know that it was an accident.”
“That you were hurt? I’m already sure it was, Judy.”
“Well, be certain.” Firm, almost forceful, she directed me: “Get the prick who did it. Then we’ll know.”
I nodded.
“Now, move back that chair. Turn up the music, and let’s lighten up before that beautiful girl of yours returns.”
I did as she asked and sat for several moments near the tape player; now Massenet was playing, seductively, powerfully. I found myself calmed by the tender violin solo and delicate piano and string section, and when I looked at Judy, I saw that she had drifted off to sleep, jaw slack, head nestled against the undersized pillow. I let the music continue, but I stood to turn off the fluorescent light above her, and I went to wait in the hall. I watched a weary nurse at the far end push along a cart filled with charts, lotions, ointments, and pills and other pharmaceuticals; I listened to Massenet.
I dug into my daughter’s crowded backpack, found a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled a “Be Right Back” note that I slid under the cassette player.
I waited a minute or two more, then went off to the nurses’ station to find Lin-Lin Chin.
Her roommate had been beaten as well. She had both arms in casts, and there was a thick bandage over her eye and fluid flowing into her from a clear plastic sack on a silver pole. It was hard to make out this dark woman’s features, with only the pale light from the hall reaching her, but she seemed to express pain even as she slept.
A thick curtain divided the room, and I passed it to find Lin-Lin, in the gray glow from the window, in the morbid spotlight: I could see the sickly yellow-green swelling on her face, the purple knot above her left eye, the red-and-blue marbling under her raised cheek. The stitches just above her eyebrow were exposed, and a tiny piece of the black string hung precariously near the frail hair; precariously, because it looked as if someone could simply reach in, tug it and reopen a gaping wound.
She had her hands folded on the top blanket. The serving tray had been swung over her and on it there were a cup and straw and a Polaroid photo of her cat.
Lin-Lin was staring absently at the dusky sky and the hovering buildings that crowded the downtown hospital.
I crossed in front of the dust-laden window and sat near her, placing my elbows on the bed and my head in my hands. She turned away; she was facing the curtain and the battered woman on the other side.
I whispered, “I assume you have a new assignment for me.”
She didn’t reply.
“Or is it the same one?”
“Go away, Terry.”
“Are you thinking of telling me it was a coincidence, Lin-Lin?”
“I was mugged.”
“A very inefficient mugger, wouldn’t you say? Hitting a woman without a pocketbook who’s carrying a small bag of groceries, almost certainly coming from the corner store.”
She turned to me. “Muggers aren’t very clever, Terry.”
“Lin-Lin, are you in pain?”
“No. Not really,” she said stoically.
I lifted my finger and held it above her cheek. “So, if I was to tap your cheek, right there, right where that little knot peaks…”
She stared into my eyes, then slowly lifted her hand to cover the side of her face. I pulled back my index finger, then pointed it at her.
“It’s you who isn’t clever,” I explained. “The bomb was a bad idea.”
She replied, “Yes, it should have never happened.”
“Lin-Lin, if you were just a little bit smarter, you would’ve known you can’t chase off Judy by trying to hurt her. And anybody who reads the papers could’ve told you that whatever publicity you got would go as fast as it came.”
“I don’t know—”
“‘—what you’re talking about.’ Good, Lin-Lin. Now we got that thing out of the way.”
She rolled her eyes slowly, then shut them. I saw swollen purple veins on one eyelid and red scratches near the bridge of her nose. She seemed tiny in bed, alone and broken; but then I thought of Judy, trying to help Beck, working the room on his behalf, taking the phone call, chasing out the elite onto Greene Street. The explosion, jagged glass, smoke, dust; Judy on the floor, blood flowing, shooting from the bottom of her leg.
“Lin-Lin, play me straight. Lin-Lin.”
“I’m so tired,” she moaned.
“What were you thinking?”
She said nothing. She kept her eyes shut.
I went on. “An explosion. And then I’d tell Judy that it was Beck’s father. She’d drop your husband and you’d handle him. You’d be handling him as he rode on the publicity from the bombing. Was that it?”
“Terry…I want to sleep now.”
“And you’d need another gallery to mount the show. Then what? Sell the new paintings by Sol Beck, notorious artist? Those paintings under the tarp at your place on King Street? You’re an agent, Lin-Lin?”
“Terry—”
“What you are is a thief, a petty thief. Shoplifting. Four years ago. It put you in the system and you were out $1,000. So that’s you, Lin-Lin: You see something, you take it. The rules don’t apply.”
I added, “Does Sol know he’s married to a thief?”
She looked at me and I could see the bitter stubbornness in her eyes, despite the dark, angular shadows cast across the bed.
“Sol knows that only I can help him. This is his reality, Terry.”
I shook my head. “Here’s the reality: Judy is injured in the explosion. Rosenzweig is incapable of planting the bomb. Chris
t, Lin-Lin, how inept did you think I’d be? Did you think I couldn’t find out about a man who’s collecting a pension from the VA?”
“You do not think clearly,” she said flatly. “You do not calculate.” She tried to swallow. Her throat was dry; the cup and straw were on the rolling serving tray. It was the same type of cup and straw that Judy was using one flight below.
She coughed. “Sol is coming back.”
“We’d better hurry, then,” I replied.
“I can tell you nothing.”
“You can tell me about Bullethead.”
“Bullet—”She frowned and a thin, sour smile crossed her bruised lips. “You calculate, but you do not think clearly. Inexperience.”
“Remember what you asked me to do? Find out who did this to Judy. And I did. It was you, Lin-Lin. So you’ve got to do one thing for me, so I can close this up: Tell me who you hired to plant the bomb.”
“I didn’t hire anyone,” she whispered.
“You know Bullethead, don’t you?”
“I did not hire him,” she repeated.
“You owe money to this man you hired.” I shifted, moving closer again. “You owe money to the man who beat you.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“He’s coming back. He’ll be back.”
“No.”
“Why? Did you pay him?”
“Terry, leave me, please.” She coughed and that caused her to grimace.
“I’m going to find this guy, Lin-Lin. Are you going to help me?”
“I can’t. I choose not to.”
“Will Edie help me?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. I saw the bloody pinpricks near the black lashes.
“Look at me,” I said, “Lin-Lin.”
She did.
“He’ll come after Sol next.”
I thought about pushing the cup of water closer to her, so she could reach it and let the cool liquid soothe her arid throat.
But I didn’t. Instead, I just left.
We debated mundane matters on the short ride from the hospital and decided, finally, on sandwiches. The cabbie dropped us across from the Tilt, at Zolly’s Bagels. Rare roast beef for Bella, smoked turkey for me, and a pint of German potato salad, with thin slivers of bacon, for us to share. With a little friendly coaxing from Zolly’s wife Sheila, Bella ordered a garlic pickle and a can of Yoo-hoo. I shivered at the thought.
Closing Time Page 14