by Cleo Coyle
Tucker was now baby-sitting the Blend, so Matt and I could be free to take off. By the time we reached the perimeters of SoHo, all clouds had vanished in the blue sky. In the streets, we mingled with tourists, day shoppers, and the lucky few who could afford to live in this trendy, too-swank neighborhood.
It was strange to be here again with Matteo at my side. I had been so busy managing the Blend that I had not been back to SoHo very often since I’d returned to New York City, and much had changed. Long-established art dealerships like the Perry Gallery, the Atlantic Gallery, and The Richard Anderson Gallery still resided side-by-side with edgier art showcases like the Revolution Gallery and Ferri Negtiva. But the area had become so upscale that Prada, Armani, and Chanel had established their presence here, too, rubbing shoulders with Pamela Auchincloss and the First Peoples Gallery.
Salons of designer jewelry and haute couture also seemed to be edging out the smaller galleries and antique shops. But the most noticeable difference was the absence of the World Trade Center, whose twin towers had once loomed over the neighborhood like giant silver sentinels, guarding New York Harbor.
Despite the many changes, my memories of this area were rich. Early in our marriage, Matt and I enjoyed shopping here, often accompanied by Madame, who was always pleased to dispense her wisdom and good taste in judging our selections. These days—post Matt’s cocaine habit, our divorce, and the raising of Joy—there was no way in hell we could afford to shop in most of these pricey outfits.
Though gentrification had spread through much of SoHo, there were still tiny pockets of low rent stores, dive bars, and tarot card parlors. Death Row was located on such a block, an area north of the exclusive Mitchell Algus Gallery on Thompson.
Along a row of three-and four-story buildings as yet untouched by the latest spurt of renovation, Matteo and I found several storefronts for minor galleries, low-end antique dealers, and vintage clothing stores.
“According to the address it should be right around here,” Matteo said, glancing at the handwritten note he’d scribbled down before we left the Blend.
I scanned the dingy storefronts and found the Belleau Gallery, Shaw’s Antiques, Velma’s Vintage Clothing, Waxman’s Antique Stoves and Fireplaces, but no sign of Death Row Gallery.
Matt touched my shoulder. “There it is.”
The exterior of the exclusive art gallery that had employed Sahara McNeil did not look anything like I had expected. Instead of a trendy storefront, Matteo directed my attention to an anonymous three-story building with a dingy antique shop on the first floor. Next to the antique shop entrance there was a flight of concrete steps leading down, below the level of the street to a basement door. Above that door, painted in five-inch stenciled letters were the words DEATH ROW.
Negotiating the irregularly constructed stairs, we stood before a barred steel door—not an aluminum security gate so familiar to New Yorkers but a real cast-iron door taken off a nineteenth century prison cell. The door was locked. A black iron doorbell fixture in the shape of a skull hung next to the entrance.
Matteo pressed the bell, and I heard a funereal gong sound deep inside the building. I almost expected Lurch from the Addams Family to appear—instead it was a clone of Uncle Fester who buzzed us in.
The man stood at the end of a long hallway lined with framed art. Inside, the air was warm and close, and the lighting had a subtle scarlet tinge I found unsettling.
“Welcome. The gallery is this way,” the fat man said jovially, waving us toward him.
The walls of the nondescript hallway were insulated brick painted institutional green. The floor was covered with cheap green tile as well. Though dismal and ugly, the hall was hung with expensively framed art prints and original theater posters. I didn’t recognize any of the artists and the plays were mostly unknown to me.
I spied a poster for an Off-Broadway musical called The Jack the Ripper Revue: A Tale of Saucy Jack. There was also a marquee for a Broadway version of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein which opened and closed sometime in the 1980s, and another Broadway poster for a musical version of Stephen King’s Carrie. It was the King poster that jogged my memory.
“I understand the décor of this hallway,” I whispered to my ex. “It’s from the Stephen King story ‘The Green Mile.’ The long green hall of the prison the condemned walked to the place of execution.”
“Well, this is supposed to be Death Row.”
“And so it is,” said the big man, standing in front of us. Though portly, he was clad from head to toe in black Armani—slacks, shirt, and jacket. He held his hands behind his back so his bald, pink, oversized head was the only splash of color in a shadowy silhouette. As was the fashion of late, the bald man’s shirt was buttoned tightly around his neck, and he wore no tie.
When we reached him, the man thrust out a puffy hand for Matteo to shake. I noticed pink flesh bulging over the tight collar under the man’s cherubic face, which was free of all facial hair, including eyebrows. As he motioned us through a narrow door, I noted that his shoes appeared to be Bruno Magli, his watch a Rolex.
“Welcome to Death Row. My name is Torquemada.”
I glanced at Matteo. “Torquemada?” I murmured. For some reason, I associated the name with some heinous historical atrocity.
Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
The suffocating hallway suddenly opened into a massive, bright art gallery that dominated the entire basement. Though this interior gallery had no windows, strategically placed mirrors, a high white ceiling packed with ductwork, and a polished hardwood floor increased the illusion of brightness and space. The lighting was subtle but intense enough to highlight the work displayed, and the whole space was well appointed and tastefully done—which was more than I could say about the art.
I noticed several other people in the gallery. A young, trendy-looking couple seemed to be browsing, and two middle-aged Japanese men were locked in conversation with a tall, well-proportioned young woman who looked like Prada’s version of Elvira. Matteo’s eyes were immediately drawn to her.
“An amazing space,” Matteo told Torquemada. “I never would have imagined such a splendid gallery could be found at this address.”
Torquemada lowered his eyes and his lips turned up slightly at the compliment.
“Are you looking for anyone’s work in particular?”
At that moment, my eyes locked on a grisly painting depicting a scene of brutal murder and mayhem. The central figure was a woman, slashed and mutilated, hanging over the edge of a bed. Blood seeped from her wounds and pooled on the floor. The figure was crudely done yet very detailed. The colors were lurid and intense—so intense they almost seemed to glow. A window dominated the upper right corner of the canvas; through it, a bland street scene was depicted, totally lacking in detail, as if the artist had showered all of his obsessive attention on the doomed figure in the foreground.
“This work is called Lustmord, a German phrase that roughly translated, means ‘sexual murder,’” said Torquemada as he stared up at the image. “The original was painted by Otto Dix in 1922. Sadly, this is only a print produced in Germany during the Weimar Republic in the 1920s, but quite rare nonetheless. This example is signed and numbered.”
“Interesting,” I said, averting my gaze.
“Is this what I think it is?” Matteo asked, resting his hand on an unfinished wooden chair with crude metal electrodes attached to it.
“That’s the actual electric chair that serial killer Jonathan Fischer Freed died in, but don’t ask me how I got it,” Torquemada said conspiratorially. “I’m sorry to say that item is not for sale.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Matteo dejectedly.
Browsing, I came upon a section of the gallery dedicated to clown paintings. That’s right. Clown paintings. Just like the ones you’d find in any flea market in America. Competently but not expertly rendered, each picture featured a different clown. Odd, but innocuous, I thought
.
“These are a series of works painted in prison by serial murderer John Wayne Gacy,” Torquemada explained. “He turned out hundreds of oils for avid fans before he was executed on May 10, 1994.”
“Electric chair?” Matteo asked.
“Lethal injection,” Torquemada replied. “I recently acquired these particular works from a collector who passed away…”
I looked at one of the paintings and thought I saw a cruel glint in the eye of the supposedly innocuous clown. The painting was called Pogo the Clown and was subtitled A self-portrait.
“Gacy tortured and murdered twenty-eight young men in a homoerotic frenzy,” Torquemada continued. “He was struck with a swing as a child and the injury resulted in a blood clot that he insisted clouded his sense of right and wrong. Despite this real or imagined infirmity, Gacy was a talented painter and a prominent businessman who was active in his community. Dressed as Pogo the Clown, Gacy entertained sick children at the local hospital and helped with their fundraising activities. He was so influential in Chicago politics that he once had his photograph taken with First Lady Rosalynn Carter.”
Slowly edging closer to Elvira, Matteo came upon a bookshelf made of old bones—human bones by the look of them. I might have found this shocking, except for the fact that I’d seen shrines in Italy made of human bones and they were often quite lovely in a macabre sort of way. And I have no doubt that Matteo had seen more unsettling things than this simple bookcase in the Third World. Indeed, Matteo’s eyes quickly moved past the bizarre furniture to scan the books themselves.
On a rib-caged shelf, a glass case held a shopworn magazine face out to display the cover, which featured a photograph of a woman’s torso and head completely encased in black leather.
“We have a complete set of John Willie’s Bizarre magazine, all twenty-six issues,” Torquemada said. “If you are not acquainted with the title, Bizarre was an underground fetish magazine published in the forties and fifties. We don’t deal in much erotica at Death Row, but we have a bit here and there if the items are collectable enough.”
“What type of art do you deal in, Mr. Torquemada?” I asked.
“Just Torquemada, Ms.—?”
“Cosi,” I said.
Torquemada folded his hands.
“To answer your question, primarily Death Row Gallery provides an outlet for the violent outcasts of our society to exhibit and market their creative endeavors.”
“You mean you sell art by murderers.”
“You put it crudely, Ms. Cosi, but accurately.”
He shifted his gaze to Matteo, then back to me.
“You’re obviously searching for a particular item. I’m sure I can be of service.”
“Actually, I was looking for the work of a particular artists,” I said. “A young man who calls himself Mars…”
Torquemada stared at me doubtfully. “Mars?”
“Sahara McNeil told me about him. Recommended his work.”
At the mention of Sahara’s name, Elvira turned in our direction.
“Mars?” Torquemada said tersely. “You can’t be serious.”
The couple seemed oblivious to the change in the tone of our conversation, but the Japanese businessmen were now glancing in our direction, too.
Torquemada gripped my arm, none too gently.
“Will you both please follow me to my office,” he said with forced politeness.
I shook my arm loose from his grasp as I followed the dealer through the gallery to a door marked PRIVATE. He quickly unlocked it and motioned us inside. Torquemada followed Matteo and I through the door and closed it quickly.
The office was small and stark, with off-white walls displaying framed posters announcing Death Row gallery shows. An Apple computer with a sleek, thin monitor sat on the desk and a slew of art books and catalogs packed a set of tall shelves. Stacks of black leather artist’s portfolios leaned against the length of one wall, and the corner of the room, behind the desk, was dominated by a human skeleton posing with a silver tray in its hand, as if it were serving lunch. There were some items on the tray, but Torquemada spoke up before I got a good look, calling my attention away.
“Now what is this all about?” Torquemada demanded, his face florid. “I already spoke to a police detective. If you two are more of the same you should at least identify yourselves as such.”
“We’re private detectives investigating the death of Sahara McNeil,” Matteo smoothly stated without a second’s hesitation.
“What’s to investigate?” Torquemada said, his arms wide in an open shrug. “She was flattened by the Sanitation Department, end of story.”
“You don’t seem broken up about it,” I noted.
“No, I don’t, Ms. Cosi. And neither would you. Little Sally was a below average sales representative whose inability to schmooze the clientele and the artists we represent nearly cost me one of my best clients.”
“Mars?”
Torquemada laughed. “Hardly. Poor Mars, a.k.a. Larry Gilman, is nothing but a wannabe.”
“I have it on good authority that he has a record as a violent felon. That he may have committed murder,” I replied.
“He was a co-defendant in an assault charge that was downgraded from manslaughter. Larry got into a bar fight with some Puerto Rican punk over a girl and the kid died later. Larry-the-murderer didn’t even do hard time—just parole. Likes to play it up, though. Thinks it’s good for his resume.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You have to have at least a modicum of talent,” Torquemada replied. “Mars was strictly fan-boy. Japanese Manga meets Jackson Pollock. Really quite derivative. Sometimes I move his stuff to the Goths who can’t afford to purchase the real thing.”
“Like one of those fine clown paintings, you mean?”
“They may not be profound, Ms. Cosi, but they were produced by a mind bold enough to grasp a much darker vision of the universe than Larry Gilman’s. Or most definitely, yours.”
Yes, most definitely, mine, I thought, and thank goodness.
“How would you characterize the relationship between Larry Gilman and Sahara McNeil?” I asked.
“A lapdog to its master. He worshiped her. She tolerated him. Sahara moved art for Larry. She even let him come over to the gallery for long, soulful chats.” Torquemada examined his nails and sighed.
“Sahara probably liked the attention, but I doubt very much there was any more to it than that. She was ten years older than Larry in age—and light years ahead of him in education and sophistication. She had a degree in fine arts, Larry was a Jersey boy who’d dropped out of high school. What could she really find attractive about a crude post-adolescent no-talent?”
Torquemada moved to the leaning stacks of black leather portfolios and tossed one onto the desk.
“Mars came by earlier today, brought me these.” He flipped open the leather folder.
Inside were pictures painted in acrylic. Ten of them. The same woman in every one. I recognized her flaming red hair and green eyes from Cappuccino Connection night.
“Sahara McNeil…”
The pictures were wonderful, luminous, highly idealized portraits. The kind of pictures a passionate young man would paint in the throes of heated infatuation.
“I can’t even sell these,” Torquemada said, his voice pained and regretful. More melancholy than irritated, he closed the portfolio. “They look like pictures of fairies or something. Who’d buy them?”
Who indeed? Obviously none who shopped for fine art at Death Row Gallery.
I studied Torquemada’s resigned expression. One thing still bothered me. “You said Sahara McNeil almost cost you a high-end client. Who might that be?”
Torquemada moved behind his desk and sat. I tried to keep my eyes from straying to the skeleton hovering in the corner behind him, silver tray extended in an offering.
“Seth Martin Todd,” he said as Matt and I took seats across from him.
“The name doesn’t ring a bel
l,” said Matteo.
“Yes, well, I’m not surprised,” Torquemada replied, somewhat defensively, I thought.
“It just so happens that Seth Martin Todd is going to open a one-man exhibition at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles next week. His paintings now command huge sums of money. Money that generates commissions this gallery needs to survive. Sahara jeopardized my trusted relationship with Mr. Todd.”
“How?”
“Todd accused her of underselling one of his works,” Torquemada replied. “He blamed Sahara for a canceled appearance on The Charlie Rose Show, and also for mishandling an exhibition of his work at MoMa.”
“Did Mr. Todd threaten Sahara?”
“On a number of occasions. But he threatens everyone,” replied Torquemada with a wave of his puffy pink hand, “—even me.”
“So he’s just another wannabe? No danger at all?”
“I didn’t say that, Ms. Cosi. Seth Martin Todd is the real deal. He murdered two people. One of them his wife.”
Matteo leaned forward. “So he’s in jail? Or still facing trial.”
“The charges against him were dropped on a technicality. The murders occurred in Vermont and the small town sheriff who was the arresting officer botched the chain of evidence. A high-priced lawyer got all of the evidence against him thrown out in a pre-trial motion. Todd got off without even a trial, and the notoriety made his work highly sought after among a certain class of collectors.”
“Does Mr. Todd live in New York City?” I asked.
Torquemada snorted. “If you call Queens New York City, then yes.”
He opened a drawer, pulled out an index file, and drew out a business card. “Here’s his address. Give him my regards, if he’ll even see you.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, he’ll see us.”
“He refused to meet with the representative of the World Trade Center Memorial Commission yesterday. I wanted to send the man over, but Todd said the representative wasn’t morally or ethically fit to judge his work.”