by Mic Palmer
Just inches from Jack’s eyes, the Manet appeared to consist of nothing more than dabs and blotches.
“Do you like it?” asked Pelletier, noticing him staring at it.
“I don’t know,” responded Jack, never quite understanding the need for something so nebulous.
“What’s not to know?” he recalled his teacher saying nearly twenty years before.
“I guess I just prefer more definite forms,” Jack responded.
Stroking his beard, Orlando appeared frustrated. “There are no definite forms!”
Jack smirked.
“What we see is fractured light,” went on his teacher, “the forms are assembled in the mind – which is exactly what happens when we look at an impressionist painting. As a result they’re more truthful, less remote, less processed than traditional art.”
“So what you’re saying,” Jack irresistibly countered, “is that impressionism takes the mental process of creating images and for whatever reason replicates it. Sounds kind of redundant.”
Orlando had two fingers on his carotid artery, as if he was checking his pulse. “Was the discovery of the double helix redundant? How about the laws of planetary motion? What the impressionists did was give us insight into not only the workings of art, but consciousness. In this one painting we can see not only where we were, but where we’re going; it speaks to our knowledge of light and movement, our relationship with nature, our values, our concerns, everything you want in a masterpiece. You see how the bull is barely even visible; what about the toreadors; do they appear heroic, frightened, or just plain numb? Yes, I can see it your eyes; it’s beginning to take on a new context, just like it’s supposed to; You’re seeing things differently, more critically, more expansively, all because of this one painting. Both victim and perpetrator in the process of mind, it’s nudging you forward, thinning the fog, making you better, more truthful, more aware. Is that redundant Mr. Lorenz?”
Jack heard a lot of words, but for the life of him couldn’t see what they had to do with the painting. In truth, he found it to be not only dull and muted, but annoyingly cropped – cutting off the toreadors at the knees. Nevertheless, he knew when he was beat. “I guess not,” he conceded.
“You’re just saying that,” observed his teacher, “but that’s why you’re here – to strip down your thinking, to annihilate your preconceptions, to force you to finally see. Art’s not about accurate proportions or amusing vignettes; it’s about progressive revelation, which means overthrowing what came before and creating something new.”
“Overthrow?” asked one of the better students.
“Reshape,” commented Orlando, “alter – preserving some parts, while destroying others, and that includes this childish obsession with life like representations.”
Turning on the overhead projector, Orlando appeared almost coy. “Let’s examine Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Look at how twisted the figures are, how elongated. Do they appear proportional, do they appear real?”
“Not really,” uttered Jack.
“Exactly,” cried Orlando, “and for that reason they’re more real; they’re emotional, evocative, chilling, humorous, cryptic, sarcastic, political, powerful, divine, which are all aspects of an ever evolving mind.”
A dull look came over Jack’s face, as if he had shut down.
Orlando pointed to his own forehead. “The world isn’t what’s out there; it’s what’s in here, and what’s in here is a matter of painful, incremental, sometimes heretical, discovery. From Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, to Parmigiannino’s sketchy long necked Madonna, to Tintoretto’s tortured baptism, to Franz Hall’s blotchily ruddy Gypsy Girl, to Ruben’s loosely rendered Samson and Delilah, to Vermeer’s almost photographically grainy View of Delf, to El Greco’s psychedelic View from Toledo, to Velasquez’s atomistic Saint Anthony, and so many others – it’s all part of the same process, wherein one takes from the other, refining, enlarging, collapsing, opposing, all for the purpose of expanding our world.
Impressionism wasn’t born overnight. It derived from a 5,000 year struggle, beginning with the Egyptians, leading into the Greeks, and then finally painters like Velasquez, whose little bursts of color, when taken together, created images far greater than the sum of their parts – more real, more truthful, even if they don’t represent exactly what we see.”
Jack made a face.
“You see, he’s rolling his eyes,” Orlando announced to the class, “like a true philistine. But he’s not the first. You could go back twenty thousand years to the very first cave painting and you’ll find the very same expression, for the exact same reasons – a thorough unwillingness to experience anything new. That’s the way it works. The few that get it are invariably marginalized, if not crushed, but ideas are durable and once born rarely eliminated. Look at the Macchiaioli school, whose critics named it for what they interpreted as a mere assortment of stains and marks. Anyone ever hear of them? Of course not. Nevertheless, we have the impressionists, whose works were also panned. ‘Blotches and stabs,’ the critics complained!”
“Blotches and stabs,” Jack repeated in his mind, as he stared at the Manet in Pelletier’s office. Owing to his close proximity, the images seemed to dematerialize, and it was a shame too. “Not a bad subject,” he thought to himself, “especially for someone who fancies himself a hero.”
Pelletier seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
“I thought the place would be full of arabesques and mosaics,” said Jack.
“I’m French,” said the merchant, with a hint of indignation, “not Moroccan.”
The two prints bespoke violence, mania, self-loathing and courage, leading Jack to believe he was on the right track. “Sounds personal,” he facetiously responded, hoping to get the man talking.
“How do you mean?”
“France colonized Morocco, didn’t they?”
This caused Pelletier to slide back in his chair and uncross his legs. “It wasn’t a colony; it was a protectorate, which meant just that. We kept other Europeans out and prevented the locals from killing each another.”
This was good; make him angry. The window at the back of the office bordered a courtyard filled with people. He wasn’t about to do anything now.
“I’m sure the French got something out of it.”
Pelletier’s tightly wound body seemed to undergo a quick spasm. “We got minerals,” he responded in a deep voice, “but in return we gave them roads, bridges, trains, commerce, schools, hospitals – all the necessaries of life.”
Just as Jack had predicted, the merchant had a chip on his shoulder, but where were the carpets?
“But enough about history,” said Pelletier, his jagged face having the look of pituitary extravagance. With sharp cheekbones, a big cartilaginous nose, and an enlarged Adam’s apple that jumped when he spoke, he let out a chuckle of the type that could have easily been substituted by a stream of obscenities. “What are you here for?”
“I think we can do business,” responded Jack.
With deepset glassy blue eyes that rarely blinked and dirty blond hair that was swept to the side, Pelletier couldn’t be called ugly, but there was something sickly about him, even when compared to Van Gogh. Although not quite green, he was a bit yellow, causing Jack to look around for a bottle.
“So, Lanny, what’s your place called?” asked the proprietor.
“The Carpet Bagger,” responded Jack. Having chosen to use the name of an existing but somewhat faraway business, he rightfully assumed that Pelletier wouldn’t be familiar with it.
“Clever,” commented the Frenchman. “And what did you say your surname was – Klemp?”
“That right,” said Jack, suddenly realizing how made-up it sounded. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“It’s very unusual. What’s the origin?”
“Mostly Dutch, but my family’s been here a while. I might even have some French in me.”
“That ca
n’t hurt,” said Pelletier. “But as far as carpets, the well has momentarily run dry. I have some on order, but haven’t been able to get a shipment in months.”
This was the type of thing Jack was hoping for – a clearcut statement that could be checked out.
“That’s too bad,” Jack replied. “I’ve seen your product. It’s beautiful.”
“You’ve seen one of my carpets, where?”
“At Euphrates. As a matter of fact I bribed a clerk to get your name.”
“Ahh,” said Pelletier, waving his finger. “You’ll go far in this business.
“You don’t have any stored in an outside facility?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Pelletier. “Except for the two decorating my home, there are none to be had.”
“Would you be willing to sell those?”
“If the price was right, yes; business after all is business, but I’m afraid I’d be served with divorce papers.”
“Say no more,” chuckled Jack. “Any word on the next delivery.”
“Probably within a month or so.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
“What’s your license number?”
This was another reason Jack had chosen The Carpet Bagger. With a mere phone call he was able to obtain not only the license information, but their tax ID number, all by speaking with a lower level clerk, who thought he was facilitating an order. Jack learned long ago as an investigator that you could find out just about anything you wanted, so long as you were willing to lie. The key was to be unwavering in your commitment. If you possessed any qualms or reservations, it wouldn’t work.
Upon giving Pelletier the number, Jack told him that he wanted to investigate a few other leads before committing to an order.
“Of course,” said the lanky rug merchant, as his watery blue eyes gravitated to a pile of mail.
Knowing that the meeting would soon be coming to an end, Jack gave the place one last look, but aside from noticing a large selection of newspapers, including all of the tabloids, he didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.
As Pelletier stood up to shake hands, the chair he had been sitting in rolled to the side, revealing a five by seven inch photograph of a woman and child.
“Your wife and son?”
“That’s right,” beamed Pelletier.
Feeling that the photograph might somehow prove to be important, Jack took the unusual step of actually studying it. “How old is he?”
“Six,” said Pelletier. “He’s in the eighty-fifth percentile for height.”
“He looks like you,” offered Jack, without really meaning it.
“Don’t tell my wife that. She swears he’s the spitting image of her father.”
Silently agreeing, Jack’s eyes glanced toward the ceiling, as he tried to come up with more questions. “Does she work with you?”
“No, she’s an attorney; she used to work for the city, but left some time ago to take care of the boy.”
“Having an attorney in the family must come in handy.”
“At times.”
“Did you meet her in law school?”
“Me? No. Perish the thought.”
“You’re not a fan of the legal profession?”
“It has its virtues. What I’m not a fan of is organized education.”
“Yeah, I was never much of a student either.”
Pelletier seemed annoyed at the implication. “Have you ever heard of the University of Paris, Descartes?”
“No.”
“The Sorbonne?”
“Of course. I didn’t realize they were the same thing.”
“The Sorbonne has several schools; the University of Paris is one of them.”
“You went there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you finish?”
Pelletier had a scowl on his face. “Let’s just say I found the structure there a bit restricting, and the truth is, there’s only so much you can learn in school; wouldn’t you agree?”
“Me? Definitely. To listen to a bunch of hacks with no accomplishments and no real world experience, what’s the point?”
“Petty dictators,” grumbled the merchant. “Sometimes I felt I should have been teaching them.”
Jack chuckled. “So is that where you met her?”
“At the University? No. She went to school here.”
“NYU?”
“Fordham, I believe.”
“That’s a good school. I have a friend who went there.”
“Really.”
“What name did she go by? Maybe he knows her.”
“Please, what are the odds?”
“You never know,” responded Jack. “My friend was there about ten years ago, Paul Klee.”
“Then she wouldn’t know him.”
“She’s younger?”
Pelletier moved to the front of his desk, as if to usher him out. “No, quite the contrary.”
“She’s looks pretty young in that picture.”
“Thank you,” he smiled, “but she’s about my age. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, there’s a call I need to make.”
Jack took another look at the photo. The boy and his mother were seated at an outdoor table in front of a bookstore. Like the father, the child had a long face and blond hair, but that was it. In just about every other respect he resembled his mother, from his short, square, almost lupine nose, to his large, rather bulbous chin. Except for the fact that hers were blue and his were brown, they even shared the same eyes. In both cases they were large and elliptical, with thick lashes and heavy eyelids, but the effect differed depending on who you were looking at. While the child came off as rather sluggish, if not dim, the mother had a sultry, come hither quality about her. In some ways Jack felt a bit covetous. “She’s very attractive,” he commented, taking one last shot at sparking up a conversation.
“Most appreciative,” said Pelletier, picking up the receiver. “As to the rugs, do what you have to, and if you’re still interested, I’ll be here.”
“Fine,” said the former investigator and that was that. What had begun so promising had dissolved into thin air.
On the way out, Jack asked the big Mexican when the next delivery of carpets would be, but wasn’t surprised to find that his answer was consistent with what he had been told, and why wouldn’t it be? As much as Pelletier seemed a bit off, the facts just didn’t add up. Serial killers don’t have attorney wives, good jobs, and stable families.
Could he have made the whole thing up? Possibly – but Jack wasn’t buying it. He was too sarcastic, too ready to reveal himself, too willing to complain. He just didn’t fit the profile.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By the time he left Pelletier, it was about 10:30 AM, and he was hungry, so before making his way uptown to his next lead, he stopped off at a diner for an egg white omelet and some coffee.
“What type of bread you want?” asked the waiter.
Jack waived his hand. “That’s alright,” he told him, believing his meaning was clear, but within a few minutes, a plate of white toast was dropped next to his newspaper. Sopping with butter, it tripped his salivary glands, and for a moment he was tempted, but then he glanced at the front page, with its references to a manhunt and the death penalty, and quickly lost his appetite.
“Ketchup?” asked the passing waiter.
“No,” Jack responded with conviction.
While the paper contained nothing new, it was only the morning edition, meaning that something may have very well broken since it was printed. For all he knew people were sitting in their homes or in their cars, learning for the first time that he was a person of interest.
“I’ve got to pick up a radio,” he thought to himself, while turning the page.
“The Case for Torture,” read the title of an editorial. “Great,” Jack grumbled.
The author’s position was that the serial killer was nothing but a coward and that the penalty of torture would s
top not only him but future transgressors dead their tracks.
“Check please,” uttered Jack, as he scanned the adjacent article, noting fears of vigilantism. “Not since the hysteria surrounding the Son of Sam,” it went on, “have police officials been this proactive in cautioning the public not to take matters into their own hands.”
Jack’s brain was churning like a stomach full of sour milk. “That’s reassuring,” he mused.
Having paid his bill, he rushed across the street to a nearby pharmacy, where he picked up earphones and a cheap portable radio, which he immediately began monitoring.
“Nothing,” he thought to himself, as his trapezoids began to loosen. “But why the hell didn’t I think of this earlier?”
Now hot out, he watched a young woman in a thin floral sundress march her way up Twelfth Avenue. While pumping her bony fists in the manner of a power walker, she threw out her long knobby legs in a kind of modified goose step, but what caught Jack’s attention was the fact that there was a man about ten steps in front of her with the very same quirk. While the only feature they shared in common was a cleft chin, Jack was fairly certain that they must have been father and daughter, but just to make sure he followed them up the block.
Fragile in his confidence, he looked upon every inference as an indication of his abilities. Fortunately, this time it worked out. Just when it looked like that they were going to go their separate ways, the older man stopped and waited for her, right next to a sign announcing the grand opening of a major bookstore.
“Why not?” Jack thought to himself, temporarily buoyed by his deduction. If he was really going to go through with this, it behooved him to do all he could to understand his quarry, beyond of course what he had already picked up from a couple of long-running television programs, a well-received movie, and some news reports.
“This will do nicely,” Jack reflected, as he checked out the labyrinthine complex. With most of the patrons only interested in CDs, DVDs, or bestsellers, he could have buried himself in a corner and remained undetected for days.