by Andy Behrman
This isn’t the only get-rich-quick scheme I undertake. I start sending my money to a broker who invests it in foreign currency. I’m losing a couple thousand dollars a month, though he tells me not to worry—it’ll bounce back. I like the idea of sending him a monthly check because I can see how much I have invested with him written down on a statement and know how much I can hope to get back based on his calculations. It’s a process that appeals to my highly neurotic sensibilities. I try not to pay attention to the statements and look forward to my weekly phone calls with him, when he pumps me up with his market forecast. I actually believe whatever he tells me and ignore the facts of the statements. He exudes confidence, and I have no reason to believe anybody would cheat me.
The Death of Gustav Faelscher
May 7, 1991. New York.
Annike and I decide we are finished with our counterfeiting scheme. At the moment we don’t have any buyers—the market is flooded—and we are frightened about being found out by the authorities. So I put together a death notice and submit it to The New York Times for a fictional character named Gustav Faelscher that Annike and I create. I messenger it along with a check to The New York Times and am promised that it will appear in the next day’s issue. I use the Kostabi World phone number as a contact. The death notice reads, “Gustav Faelscher. Art dealer, filmmaker. Passionately devoted his life to bringing the work of contemporary American art to the German and Japanese art worlds. Private burial in Stuttgart. In lieu of flowers, direct all contributions to Jedermann.” “Jedermann” is a reference to Kostabi’s Everyman. I am announcing the death of the forger, actually believing that this will put an end to this project and the possibility of any danger to me. When the death notice appears the following day, Annike and I are both amused and extremely relieved. I actually believe we are safe now because the forger is dead and cannot be prosecuted. But exactly one week later the real trouble starts.
Rikers Island
May 14, 1991. New York.
When my phone wakes me up at 5:20 A.M., I figure someone is in trouble. It’s Mark, calling from Tokyo. I’m right. The someone in trouble is me. The game is up. “Don’t go in to Kostabi World today,” he tells me. “There’s a problem with some paintings Heather and I have found at a small gallery in Tokyo.” I know right away that I’ve been caught. My heart is racing. He vaguely explains that he and his “model” girlfriend, Heather, have found some unauthorized paintings, paintings that he didn’t sign. He tells me that John Koegel, his attorney, will be calling me later this morning. I immediately call Annike to warn her, then I get dressed, take a cab to Kostabi World, and walk into the dark studio only to find that the lock on my office door has been changed. Shit. All of my files, my Rolodex, and my personal belongings are locked inside. I’m in deep trouble. I take a cab back uptown and wait until my attorney, Larry Fox, gets into his office. I call him in a panic and tell him about my emergency. I’m shaking. He tells me to come to his office and make sure to bring his $5,000 retainer. I take the full amount in $100 bills from the freezer, grab a cab to his midtown office, dressed in a pair of jeans with the flag of Texas on the knees and a T-shirt, plunk the cash down on his desk, and lay out the entire story for him. I’m trembling and pacing. He holds his head in his hands and smiles in disbelief but moves into action quickly. He calls John Koegel and begins the negotiation process in an attempt to keep Kostabi from pressing criminal charges. Koegel responds by telling Fox that Kostabi wants to see me “on Rikers Island.” Not a good start. I wonder how I’m going to break this news to my parents and whether I’m going to go to jail that afternoon or if I will be arrested in a few days. I pace his office while I listen to one side of the conversation. Fox argues that Kostabi should seriously consider the offer of financial restitution because it’s unlikely that a D.A. will want to spend time and resources on a case like this and because the legitimacy of Kostabi’s art will become an issue. But Koegel doesn’t think Kostabi will budge. After Fox hangs up, I ask him how much it will cost to make restitution, and I start thinking of how I can raise the money by the day’s end. Who can I call? God, I hope I never have to tell this story to my parents. I beg him to do whatever he can to make a deal because I’m sure that I’m going to be arrested before the day is over. He tells me it doesn’t seem hopeful.
May 14, 1991. 4:00 P.M. New York.
After going back and forth with Kostabi’s attorney all day, we still haven’t made any progress toward a resolution of the crisis. I’m starting to panic about where I’m going to be sleeping tonight. Koegel assures us that Mark isn’t the slightest bit interested in a restitution deal; he has taken good care of me financially, he says, and I have been disloyal. And I was so positive that my attorney, with his superpowers fueled by my retainer, would have it settled by noon. Shit. This is a goddamn mess. I finally leave Fox’s office and take a cab back to the Upper West Side. I ask the driver to let me off at Gray’s Papaya on 72nd Street and Broadway, where I buy my last two hot dogs as a free man and walk home up Broadway enjoying the best hot dogs. Lots of ketchup and onions. At home I call Annike and my friends from Kostabi World, gathering as much information as possible about what’s going on there, and they sneak out to call me during their breaks. All the locks have been changed, and Mark has hired a twenty-four-hour security guard. Jessica, Mark’s assistant, has been fired. Mark and Heather are on their way back from Tokyo. The drama is getting more and more exciting every minute. Fox calls and tells me that there’s no progress. I’m doomed. It’s nearly 6:30 P.M. and I’ve almost forgotten that I’ve been invited to dinner at my sister’s apartment tonight. My parents are going to be there. I get dressed quickly and grab a cab crosstown. I roll down the window to take in a few gulps of Central Park air. Gives me an energy boost.
The timing of this dinner couldn’t be any worse, but for some strange reason I’m in an upbeat mood and I’m just going to break the news to my family as if I’ve just won a $25 million Lotto jackpot. I think that’s the best way to handle it. When I get there, everybody is playing with my newborn niece, and I make small talk while we’re having drinks. Finally, I call for everybody’s attention. “You guys,” I announce, “I was fired from my job today.” They look at me blankly, stunned. I take a deep breath and continue. “And I may need a criminal defense attorney.” My mother looks at my father, then they both turn and stare at me. Explanation. I quickly and excitedly tell them about producing fake paintings—I refer to them as “reproductions”—at a studio in Brooklyn and selling them abroad, leaving out as many specifics as possible. I’m enjoying the telling of the story and the attention that comes with it. I almost feel like it legitimizes my activities, and when I’m finished, I’m feeling good. They don’t seem to fully grasp it—it sounds to them like I’m in hot water—but they quickly pledge their support. I can see in their eyes that they want to believe I’ve done nothing wrong; they want to believe that all of my recently acquired wealth has come from legitimate art sales. They ask me if I’ll be needing to find the lawyer in the next few days. I tell them it’s not urgent yet. Within a few minutes the tension seems to subside and the worst is over—I’ve admitted failure and confessed to my parents. It’s like I’ve failed an important college exam. Study harder next time, son. But I can tell that I’ve really frightened them with this one. We sit through an uncomfortable dinner, and I tell them that I need to leave early. That evening when I return to my apartment, I look around to make sure nobody’s been inside it. Hello, hello. No answer. I collect all of my Kostabi canvases—twenty or so—roll them up, get on the subway, and take the PATH train to Jersey City, where Annike has a new studio. When I show up at her door, she’s surprised to see me standing there with my art collection slung over my shoulder. I tell her to put her paintings together quickly. She looks around her studio. Outside, except for some light coming from a nearby warehouse, it’s completely dark as we walk down to a dock on the Hudson River, roll the canvases around some cement blocks, and hurl them into t
he river. Thousands of dollars of faceless images disappear from the surface of the water—it’s going to take bringing in Coast Guard divers for the federal government to crack this case now. We’re both laughing, and I feel relieved, actually believing I’ve remedied the situation for good. As I ride the train back into Manhattan, I start imagining the discovery of these paintings. The thought of their faceless images floating back up to the surface throws me into a panic. Maybe I should write my own obituary. When I get home, I go upstairs, grab a pad, and make a list of everybody I want to invite to my funeral. Eighty-two people. I want to keep it small. I figure some people might bring dates.
The Social Butterfly
The countdown to my arrest begins that night when I turn off the lights and go to bed. My brain becomes further unhinged by the stress of my legal circumstances, and the crisis makes me increasingly manic. I dart from one obsessive errand to another—I have all of my clothes dry-cleaned and shoes resoled and start compulsive shopping, buying all kinds of unnecessary kitchen utensils and household items. I involve myself in a busy social schedule—parties, dinners, and movies, a full lineup of events. Sarah Wells, a friend I know through dealing art, is in town and has invited a group of friends to Le Cirque for dinner. Most of the people at the table are dealers or artists, so we all have a lot in common. We talk about the art market. The price of Warhols. The auctions. No one brings up my legal situation. It’s a perfectly fun night. I will schedule and multitask my life back into normalcy.
I write a fax to Annike, who has decided to take a three-week vacation in Germany:
Dear Annike,
Everything is still quiet on the Kostabi front. I think I told you that Heather left Mark. Maybe she found that he was a fake and not the real Kostabi. Carl [the receptionist] asks about you frequently. Jessica is on her way to Italy for a family vacation. Nothing very exciting to report about that place. I wish I could tell you that a large bomb or fire had destroyed Kostabi World, but no! I am still waiting to hear about several of my deals. I feel very confident about the Rothko painting and Klimt painting. I have a buyer for the Monet painting. She is a client of Ellen’s who lives in Chicago and I forwarded her the photographs of the piece that Ken overnighted to me today. It’s a pretty close connection. All of the money I’ve made dealing art and counterfeiting art is just about spent—on sushi, massages, nights at the Mondrian Hotel, Armani and Yamamoto suits, French contemporary paintings, airline tickets to Europe and Japan, documentary films, and recycled jeans with the flag of Texas on the knees. I really need to figure out a way to earn some money soon. So the money issue for me is very scary, too, and we’ll have to have a conference about it when you come back to New York. Annike, you say that there is almost no money at the sunny horizon, but of course there is. It just hasn’t found its way into our hands yet.
Love,
Andy von Strudel
Late one night, I stand naked in the front of the bathroom mirror, holding a pair of scissors in my hand, and start cutting big pieces of hair from the bottom of both sides of my head, then just chop random pieces from all over. I just don’t have the strength to overdose tonight or go out on an all-night drug binge. My hair is completely uneven and resembles a bad wig. I am perfectly content standing in piles of dark brown hair and am kind of pleased with the damage I’ve done.
I call an old friend from Wesleyan, Sabrina Padwa, because I know that she’ll be up late, and tell her about what I’ve just done. I take a cab to her apartment on the Upper East Side, and when I arrive, she appears shocked at my appearance. We look at each other and both start laughing. One side of my hair is considerably shorter than the other and the whole thing is wildly uneven. She looks concerned and takes me into her bathroom. She sets up a chair in front of the mirror, covers the floor with newspapers, and puts a towel around my neck. She tries to even it out the best she can, but it still looks frightening, as if I’ve been put through some kind of fraternity hazing.
The next morning, I return to Sabrina’s apartment, and we walk up Madison Avenue to Michael’s, a barbershop that is famous for kids’ haircuts. We’re both amused by the horses and cars that the kids around us are sitting in. The barber takes one look at me, raises his eyebrows, and tells us that he is just going to have to cut off most of my hair. So he gives me a buzz cut—my first one ever. I thank him for a great job, refuse the lollipop, and we walk down the street; all the while Sabrina says encouraging things about my new haircut, and I play with my bristly hair. We convince each other that my trademark long hair is a thing of the past and that this is the most perfect look for summer.
Miss Veronica
Since I’m two months behind in my rent, my landlord is more than eager to let me out of my lease early. I move from my duplex apartment on West 89th Street to a cheaper sublet, a studio on West 81st Street. I sell all of my antique furniture back to the store on the Upper West Side where I bought it, aptly named Better Times, for about $6,000.
The new apartment is one empty room. Hardwood floors. It echoes. I bring just a floral Ralph Lauren couch that Allison loved, and I sleep in a Murphy bed. At night I sit and watch the traffic go by on Columbus Avenue. Every day I wait anxiously to be arrested. I’ve convinced myself that I’ll be grabbed under the arms by two plainclothes cops in dark suits and thrown into the backseat of an unmarked car. Frightened about entering and exiting my building, I avoid coming and going as much as possible. When my intercom buzzes, I hide in the shower and wait five or ten minutes before I come out. I panic when I hear footsteps near my door and a Chinese menu comes sliding through. I wish they would just finally come and arrest me. I am frighteningly alone in this place, desperate for the waiting to be over.
One night I’m up late watching a documentary on early Hollywood film pioneers that’s starting to bore me. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m a little stoned. Phone sex is not going to satisfy me tonight. I grab the Yellow Pages and look under “Escorts.” “Manhattan Nights.” Classy escort service. Upper East Side. Since 1985. I saw the ad a few weeks ago, and I remember I liked the graphics. It isn’t a tacky limousine or a skyline of New York or a big apple. It’s just the profile of a slender and bosomy woman. I call Miss Veronica. “Manhattan Nights,” she says. “Hello, I’m calling about your ad,” I say. She pauses and asks me to tell her something about myself, so I tell her that I’m a young professional in my early thirties, that I travel, and that I’m just looking for a massage. She tells me that it will cost me $200 for an hourlong session. “That’s fine,” I say. She explains that it’s late but that she’s still got a few girls available at her Upper East Side apartment. She describes a few of them for me: a former Penthouse model, a Brazilian beauty, and a statuesque Swede. “Tell me about the Swede,” I say. “What does she look like?” “She’s lovely. She’s five feet nine, 125 pounds, 36 - 24 - 36, blond, and has beautiful, tan skin,” she says. She gives me her address, and I tell her I’ll be there by 1:00 A.M. I grab a couple of $100 bills, brush my teeth, and get into a cab. I feel a rush of anticipation and excitement because I’ve never been to a brothel. When I get to the building on East 79th Street, I ring her apartment and she buzzes me in. In the elevator I think about turning back. My heart is racing. The doorbell makes a weird sticking noise. I feel like running, but a flaming redhead in her midsixties, badly wrinkled from sun exposure, opens the door. She is wearing bright orange lipstick, green eye shadow, and orange nail polish and some type of housecoat that isn’t particularly flattering. “You must be Miss Veronica,” I say. “Yes, I am,” she answers, shaking my hand and smiling. The living room is painted red, and there are three girls inside glued to the television. “You seem like an awfully nice young man,” she says, with a slight Eastern European accent similar to Dr. Kleinman’s. “I will introduce you to Monika now,” she says. “Follow me. Oh, but first we must take care of business.”
My hand is shaking; I take out the two bills and give them to her. She examines them as if they might be co
unterfeit. “Brand-new,” I say. She laughs. She leads me to a dimly lit bedroom, where a blond woman with dramatic makeup—glossy red lipstick, green eye shadow, dark mascara, and rouge—and highlighted blond hair is sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed, wearing just a black bra and panties. “I hope you will enjoy,” Miss Veronica says as she leaves the room and closes the door. Standing in this bedroom, sparsely furnished with a bed and night table, I feel pretty lonely. Monika helps me out of my clothes and instructs me to lie facedown on the bed. I look over my shoulder. She’s taking off her bra and panties and standing above me. She begins working my neck and shoulders, taking warm oil from the night table and pouring it all over my back, massaging it in. She has long legs like a dancer, a flat stomach, and firm breasts that sway slightly as she bends over me. Her pubic hair is shaved, and she has a piercing. She’s concentrating on my lower back and moving down my ass to my thighs, and I’m getting turned on wondering where this is leading. She’s taking her time and starts teasing my balls from behind very gently. Then she motions for me to turn over and massages my thighs; my cock is totally stiff. She grabs it, pours some oil on it, and strokes it while I’m playing with her breasts. I guess it’s okay for me to do that. After ten minutes of this, I come, and it’s all over. We say nothing to each other. I get dressed, thank her, leave the apartment, and walk a few blocks to a diner that I know. I order a bagel and cream cheese and then have a banana split, which is what I probably needed in the first place.