An Artful Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  There was no sign of a William Millstein at the Canadian border crossings. Either he was effectively disguised, or he had crossed before the warrant was issued. Falucci’s report on Breinin called his alibi into question, so Kaminsky had ordered an officer to check with the Wednesday afternoon instructors and students in case anyone had seen him in the building.

  Sheik hadn’t yet tracked down Valerie, last name unknown, and hadn’t wanted to ask more direct questions about her at the Factory for fear of tipping his hand. After he left there, he had headed to the Seventeenth and talked to one of the cops who’d raided the place. The Warhol file included a list of those present during the raids, but there was no Valerie on it.

  The uniform told him that, when the creeps weren’t at the Factory screwing each other for the camera and shooting up speed and smack, they hung out at Max’s Kansas City, a restaurant and nightclub on Park Avenue South, at the northern end of Union Square. He decided to stop by there and sniff around. If Valerie was a regular with Warhol’s crowd, maybe the bouncer knew her. Or he could ask inside if anyone had seen her. He could pretend to be interested in producing her play.

  There were advantages and disadvantages to tackling Max’s on a Saturday night. On the upside, everyone who was anyone was bound to be there—that was also the downside. The place would be mobbed.

  Twenty-Nine

  When TJ arrived at the Up ’n’ Down at four thirty, he was greeted with a passionate kiss from Ellen, which he returned, and a knowing smile from Michele.

  “Yes, I told her,” said Ellen, snaking her arm around his waist as she led him to sit with her at the dining table. Michele perched on the arm of one of the easy chairs and regarded them with approval.

  “Okay, lovebirds, let me fill you in on Max’s Kansas City. It’s a real phenomenon in a neighborhood that’s dead after hours. The owner is a guy named Mickey Ruskin, who used to own joints in the Village that catered to the art crowd, and they followed him across town. Some of them already had a hangout around here, the Cedar Tavern, down on University Place, but it closed a few years ago. When it reopened a couple of blocks away, it was all gussied up, too ritzy for them. So now they argue about what, in the art world, passes for life-and-death issues at Max’s. You’ll hear them going at it tonight. A bunch of macho windbags, but they’re pretty harmless.

  “Anyway, when Andy found out that the bona fide artists hung out there, he decided rubbing elbows with them would lend him credibility. But I can tell you, it didn’t work. They think he and his gang are freaks, and they don’t make a secret of it. When they come in, the guys at the bar either snub them or taunt them—they call him Wendy Airhole. So he goes straight to the back room and takes it over. There’s a big round table back there, and that’s his headquarters.”

  “Do you go to the back room?” asked TJ, amazed at her familiarity with the scene at Max’s.

  “I did, a couple of times, but frankly it was boring. All bitchy gossip and in-jokes, obviously intended to make outsiders feel excluded. Drag queens primping and dishing, and everybody stoned out of their gourds. The waitresses hate them because they’re doing speed and acid, and when they’re tripping they ain’t tipping. Not my thing at all. I prefer the front room, where the art banter can be entertaining, and some of the guys are pretty cute. At least you know they’re straight.”

  Michele turned her attention to preparations for the evening’s scouting expedition. “You both look a little on the square side,” she declared. “Once I get you into some hipper clothes you’ll fit right in at Max’s.” She went to the closet and brought out a Mexican black lace minidress that she’d bought at Fred Leighton on MacDougal Street.

  Ellen regarded it with alarm. “I can’t wear that, it’s see-through! I’d die of embarrassment. Besides, I’m sure it’s way too big for me.”

  Michele brushed off her concerns. “It’s too small for me, that’s why I never wear it, and it’s meant to be loose. If you’re so modest, put on a leotard and tights underneath.”

  Ellen rummaged in her dresser drawer, found the dance outfit, and headed to the bathroom to change. When she emerged, both Michele and TJ agreed the new look was way cool.

  Michele handed her a pair of large pendant earrings and a silver lamé scarf. “Wrap this around your neck,” she advised, “and wear your sexy black boots. You’ll need some makeup, too.”

  Under protest, Ellen let her apply frosted eye shadow, heavy eyeliner, and a pair of false eyelashes. The finishing touch was bright pink lipstick. When she turned to show TJ, he couldn’t help but laugh.

  “It’s not the you I love,” he said, “but I have to admit it’s kind of glamorous, in a theatrical sort of way.”

  “Max’s is full of theatrical characters,” said Michele. “Believe me, she won’t be out of place. Now for you, TJ.” She stepped back and appraised him thoughtfully.

  “The jeans and sneakers are okay, but you need something more, shall we say, decorative on top.” Back to the closet she went, this time emerging with the flowered blouse she was wearing when they first met. “Take off your shirt, undershirt, too, and try this on,” she told him.

  He stared at the garment in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding. A girl’s blouse? They’ll think I’m a fag.”

  “Exactly right. Especially since you’ll be wearing the same shade of lipstick as Ellen. Hmm, maybe a bit of eye makeup, too.”

  TJ’s response was emphatic. “No way!”

  “Come on, scaredy-cat,” Ellen teased. “We need to find Benton’s killer, and it could be that woman from Warhol’s gang. We have to find out if she’s with him at Max’s, so we’re going to have to look and act like we belong there.”

  “Look, it’s a freak show,” said Michele. “You’ll just be like one of the gang.”

  TJ decided to compromise. “Okay, I’ll do the blouse, but you can forget the makeup. What if some of the guys from John Jay, or worse, the Police Academy, are in there? Lots of them are from around here. I’d never live it down.”

  “Tell them you’re working undercover—on-the-job-training for detective or something.”

  “With eye shadow and lipstick? Maybe if it was the Stonewall, but you wouldn’t catch me dead in that place.”

  “All right, have it your way,” Michele conceded. “See how the blouse fits, and I’ll give you some beads to dress it up. Lots of straight guys wear beads these days.” Reluctantly, TJ stripped off his shirt and T-shirt and slipped on the blouse gingerly, as if it were either ice cold or burning hot. It fit surprisingly well.

  “Damn,” he said, “how do you button this thing?” The buttons were on the left side instead of the right, and he fumbled to find them.

  “Don’t button it all the way. Leave a couple open, to show off your manly chest. Let’s top off the beefcake with some icing.” Michele draped a few strings of colorful plastic and glass beads around his neck, then stepped back to admire her creation.

  “You’ll do nicely,” she said with a satisfied nod. “I’d say you’re both ready to rock and roll. Of course it’s way too early. Andy and his gang won’t make an appearance before nine, but we’ll walk over there now and I’ll introduce you to the bouncer, that’s Fudge, and my buddy Frank, the bartender. That way you won’t have any trouble getting in later.”

  Thirty

  It had rained that afternoon, and reflections from the streetlights glistened on the pavement. The trio turned up their coat collars against the cool, damp breeze and headed north on Park Avenue South, while Michele gave Ellen and TJ a bit more background on their destination.

  Why, they asked, was it called Max’s Kansas City? She said that, according to Ruskin, after owning bars and coffeehouses in the Village for several years, in 1965 he’d wanted to open a steakhouse-style restaurant.

  “When I was a kid,” he explained to a curious reporter, “all the steakhouses had Kansas City on the m
enu because the best steak was Kansas City cut, so I thought it should be ‘something Kansas City’.” His friend, the poet Joel Oppenheimer, suggested “Max’s” as the something, and the name was born.

  Ruskin got his artist friends to do the décor, including a laser-beam projection from Frosty Myers’s studio two blocks north, through the plate-glass window and onto the back wall, bouncing off mirrors along the way. A crushed-car sculpture by John Chamberlain was a traffic hazard in the narrow passageway leading to the back room, where Dan Flavin’s corner piece of red fluorescent tubes cast a rosy glow over the Warhol entourage.

  The art-world establishment congregated up front by the bar, where they continued the booze-fueled debates that had begun at the Cedar Tavern in Abstract Expressionism’s heyday. But by the mid-’60s, the Cedar was history and a new wave of movements—Pop art, Op art, minimalism, conceptualism, Happenings—offered a virtual smorgasbord of artistic activity that crossed genre boundaries and invaded the worlds of dance, theater, film, music, and fashion.

  This was the dynamic milieu that defined Max’s appeal. No lesser authority than William S. Burroughs, the Beat Generation iconoclast, declared that the place was “at the intersection of everything.” The mix of old guard and avant-garde attracted the jet-setters and pop-culture celebrities, as well as the hipsters, wannabes, and young hopefuls who congregated nightly under the sign announcing the house specialties: steak, lobster, and chickpeas.

  TJ was curious about Michele’s friendship with the bartender. “How do you know this guy Frank?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s a folk music fan. Tuesday is his day off, and he came to The Bitter End hoot one Tuesday night a couple of months ago. You remember him, Ellen, he’s the tall Italian stud with the cute moustache. He sat with us after we finished our set and flirted with me, said I was one groovy chick. He told me he liked a woman he could look in the eye.”

  “Oh, yeah, him,” replied Ellen with a smirk. “You didn’t fall for that line, did you?”

  “You know me better than that, girl. But he gave me his number, and he said to come to Max’s any evening as his date, which I’ve done a few times. Meanwhile, as I recall, you weren’t paying much attention to us, since you had an admirer of your own putting the make on you.”

  TJ bristled with mock indignation. “Do I have a rival? Show him to me, and I’ll knock his block off.” He stopped, crouched, and raised his dukes. That prompted a playful punch in the gut from Ellen, followed by a gentle headlock from her opponent. The match was decided by a kiss.

  “Break it up, you two,” scolded Michele, “we’re here.” The restaurant’s awning was only a few feet ahead. With a wave and a friendly greeting to Fudge, who gave her a nod of approval, she led them inside.

  Behind the bar, Frank DiBenedetto was polishing glasses and chatting to a few early birds. He was every bit as studly as Michele had said. When he saw her, his face lit up and he came out to greet her with an enthusiastic hug.

  “Hey, beautiful, long time no see. It’s been at least two weeks. You throw me over for one of those long-haired folkies? Tell me no or you’ll break my heart.”

  “Listen to this guy,” said Michele to her companions. “As if I were the love of his life. The reason his eyes are brown is that he’s full of shit.”

  Frank was deeply offended. “No shit, baby. Of the dozens of foxy ladies in my life, you’re the only one I truly adore.”

  “Before I throw up,” replied Michele, “I want you to meet a couple of real lovers, my roomie, Ellen, and her boyfriend, Tim.” They had decided to use his first name instead of his nickname. “These two are doing a little private detective work. They’re on the lookout for a woman who hangs out with Andy. Probably a lesbian.”

  “More than one of those,” observed Frank. “What’s her name?”

  “We don’t know,” said TJ, “but we’re hoping to get into the back room and keep our ears open, see if we can figure out who she is.”

  “Mind if I ask why you want to find her?”

  Ellen gave him a brief synopsis of the Benton case. “Oh, right, I read about that in today’s paper,” he said.

  She explained their desire to clear their missing friend. “We know he didn’t kill Benton, and we think this woman may be the real killer. We need to identify her and tell the police who she is. The feds will still be after Bill as a draft dodger, but at least he won’t have a murder charge looming over him.”

  “If I ever get in trouble with the law, I hope I’ll have friends like you to go to bat for me,” said Frank, impressed. “Here’s what you do. Come back around eight thirty, go to the back room and sit at the small table next to the big round table, have some dinner, on the house. I’ll tell the waitress you’re my guests, and she’ll put a reserved sign on the table, so you’ll be there when Andy and company arrive. He always takes the big round table, it’s unofficially reserved for him. That way you can eavesdrop, and if you’re not getting anything you can start talking about Benton and see if they pick up on it.”

  TJ liked the plan. “It’s sure worth a try.” He shook Frank’s hand gratefully. “Thanks for doing this, man. We really appreciate your help.”

  “Anything to please my darlin’ Michele,” he said as he hugged her again and planted a wet kiss on her grinning lips.

  “You can please me by letting me go, you big ape,” she countered, her smile turned upside down in feigned disapproval. “It’s half past five, and I’ve got to get over to The Bitter End by six.”

  Frank clutched his heart and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh, no, she’s leaving me again! I just can’t compete with those guitar-strumming country boys who never take a bath. What have they got that I haven’t got, besides BO?”

  “My paycheck,” was Michele’s concise answer, and he couldn’t argue with that.

  Thirty-One

  After walking with Michele down to Union Square, they parted company. TJ and Ellen returned to the Up ’n’ Down, where they found plenty to occupy them for the next couple of hours. Their activities did not involve listening to records or guitar practice for Ellen. What they did practice was variations on the previous evening’s sexercises, with care not to disturb Ellen’s elaborate eye makeup. This also caused complications in the postcoital shower. She had to wear two shower caps, one for her hair and another for her face. When TJ saw her shields in place, he discreetly left her to bathe alone. He knew he’d be laughing too hard if he got in there with her.

  By the time they’d cleaned up and put on their mod costumes again it was past eight o’clock, time to head back to Max’s. A crowd was already gathering on the sidewalk out front, and Fudge was screening admissions. Those he judged to be under the legal drinking age of eighteen or mere gawkers and celebrity-spotters were turned away. He’d been alerted to expect TJ and Ellen, and he waved them through. Even this early, the place was packed with a raucous crowd of art-world denizens, mostly men and a few women, already several drinks in.

  Behind the bar, Frank spotted them and beckoned them over.

  “Better grab your table before someone else decides to ignore the sign,” he advised. “What are you drinking?” They ordered draft beers, and Frank drew them as he signaled to a waitress. “Hey, Debbie, over here.” An adorable, petite bottle blond with a pert smile and striking green eyes approached them.

  “These are my guests, Ellen and Tim,” he told her. “They’re the ones for the table in back.” He put their beers on a tray with a bowl of toasted chickpeas. “Enjoy,” he said, as Debbie picked up their order and led them to the table.

  “Watch that hunk of junk on the wall, it’s got claws,” she cautioned as they made their way down the passage. She’d bumped into the sharp corners of Chamberlain’s Miss Lucy Pink too many times to be a fan of his sculpture. She much preferred the Flavin in the back corner, with its fluorescent tubes, well above contact height, that bathed th
e room in eerie red light.

  Luckily their table was still unoccupied. Debbie served their beers, took away the reserved sign, and handed them menus.

  “Since this is on Frank, why don’t you go for the ship ’n’ shore special?” she suggested. “You get a nice broiled lobster tail and a club steak. It comes with salad and fries or baked potato. If you’re really hungry, start with the onion soup or the shrimp cocktail. Think about it, and I’ll be back in a few.”

  * * *

  An hour later, having followed Debbie’s recommendations and cleaned their plates, they were still anticipating Warhol’s arrival. Fringe members of his circle now occupied most of the booths and tables, but the big round table where he and his inner clique stationed themselves remained empty and waiting.

  TJ pushed back his chair. “I’m going up front to get a couple more beers,” he said as he stood.

  “Debbie will bring them,” said Ellen.

  “I want to pay for them,” he replied. “I don’t like taking too much advantage of Frank’s generosity. We’ve already had two on the house and eaten almost thirty dollars’ worth of food, so I’m feeling a bit guilty. I won’t be long.” He bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  She turned her face and gave him one back, on the lips. “I’ll be counting the minutes,” she murmured in his ear, which gave him a thrilling rush. Boy, he thought as he worked his way forward, love sure makes you goofy.

  The front room was noisy, smoky, and much more crowded than when they’d arrived. It took a while for TJ to get near Frank, who was talking to a strikingly handsome man seated at the bar, also Italian by the look of him, in a black motorcycle jacket. TJ squeezed in next to him as he was saying “—looking for Valerie. Bouncer says she’s not here, but you might know where I can find her.”

  Frank, who was drawing a beer for the customer, snickered. “I haven’t seen Miss Scumbag around lately. Sometimes prayers are answered.”