TJ’s ears pricked up. Scumbag. That’s what Fitz said the woman at the Whitney had called Benton.
“Does Miss Scumbag have a real last name?” asked Sheik.
“Solanas,” said Frank with disdain, “Valerie Solanas, a crazy dyke. The founder and only member of the Society for Cutting Up Men, acronym SCUM, complete with a manifesto she hawks around the Village. She tried selling it in here once, but Fudge threw her out. She was raving that all men are scumbags, swearing to eliminate males altogether and set up a female utopia. A real nutjob. She hangs around Andy, but she’s a misfit even in his creepy crowd.”
Just then Frank noticed TJ and remembered his mission. “Hey, Tim, aren’t you looking for a dyke who hangs out with Andy? Maybe it’s Valerie.”
Sheik turned and regarded the young redhead’s blouse and beads. “In spite of your girlie outfit, I doubt she’s your type,” he said dryly.
TJ felt his face redden and struggled to cover his tracks. “No. I mean yes, you’re right. I’m not, you know, looking to date her or anything. I just want to talk to her about…um…something I’m working on.”
“Thinking of starting a Society for Cutting Up Dykes?” quipped Sheik. “That would be SCUD, like the Soviet missile, our secret weapon in the war against murderous lesbians. Eliminate them before they eliminate us.”
That prospect tickled Frank’s funny bone, and he chuckled as he served another customer while Sheik and TJ waited impatiently for him to return. When he did, TJ put a five on the bar and ordered two more beers. Not wanting to embarrass him, Frank took the money, drew the beers, and gave them to him with two dollars change. Sheik drained his glass and ordered another beer as well.
“Listen,” Frank told them both, “you don’t have to wait here for Solanas, she’s not hard to find. She lives in the Chelsea Hotel. Just hang around the lobby, and she’ll find you. She turns tricks there. She calls herself a writer, but she’s actually a hooker—makes her living balling guys. Funny profession for a man-hating lesbo.”
“What does she look like?” Sheik asked him.
“Medium height, scruffy brown hair, big chin, scowls a lot. Nasty, pinch-faced bitch. If you’re after some mean pussy, she’s just the ticket.”
“No thanks,” said Sheik emphatically, “I’m only interested in her play. Andy told me she offered it to him, but he turned her down. I’m starting an experimental theater company, and I’m looking for new material. Guess I’ll head over to the Chelsea and see if she’s around.”
“Why don’t you go along, Tim?” suggested Frank.
Much to Sheik’s relief, TJ demurred. “I can’t, I have to take Ellen home. I can find Valerie another time, now that I know where to look.”
In fact he didn’t need to find her at all. He had the information he needed—her full name, a description, and her likely whereabouts—to give the police a solid lead to the woman he believed must be Benton’s killer.
Returning to the back room with the drinks, TJ could see that Ellen was annoyed. She frowned as he approached their table. “What took you so long?” she demanded. Her expression changed as she saw the excitement he’d struggled to conceal out front.
“Listen, I’m really sorry, but it was worth the wait.” He sat, moved in close, and lowered his voice. “I found her!”
“No kidding! Is she here?” Ellen whispered eagerly.
“No, but now I know who she is, and where she lives. Another guy was asking about her at the bar. Nothing to do with Benton, he wants to produce a play she wrote. Just a coincidence that I overheard what he said, but from what Frank told him about her it has to be the same woman, a lesbian who hangs out with Warhol. He called her Miss Scumbag, because that’s what she calls all men, and Dad told me the woman we’re looking for called Benton a scumbag.”
Ellen picked up on that immediately. Her heavily penciled brows furrowed, and her mascara-rimmed eyes narrowed. “So you got this inside info from your father? You said it was from somebody at college.”
Idiot, I put my foot in it again, he winced inwardly, and tried to make a course correction. “I didn’t exactly say that, not in so many words. But you’re right, I did imply it. I promised Dad I wouldn’t tell anyone, even you, so if you’re there when he asks how I found her, please pretend you didn’t know anything about why we were here or who we were looking for.”
Her frown melted away, replaced by a nod and a grin. “Okay, supersleuth, I’ll play dumb. Now, for Pete’s sake, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me who she is!”
Keeping his voice low, which was hardly necessary given the surrounding chatter, TJ described his conversation at the bar, though he omitted the jokes at his expense.
“Her name is Valerie Solanas, and she lives in the Chelsea Hotel. So we don’t have to wait around here for her to maybe show up. From what Frank said, Fudge probably wouldn’t let her in anyway.”
“Thank God we can split,” said Ellen. “I want to go home and wash my face. These eyelashes are driving me cuckoo!”
TJ helped her on with her coat. “I’ll call the police first thing tomorrow morning. I have all the information they’ll need.”
He left a generous tip for Debbie, and he and Ellen elbowed their way to the bar, where he expressed his appreciation to Frank.
“Thanks for the great dinner and the information, man. You really came through for us.”
But, like Frank, TJ was unaware that the handsome guy in the motorcycle jacket was an undercover detective who now had the same information.
Thirty-Two
Sunday, November 5
Over breakfast, Nita and Fitz listened with a combination of amusement and appreciation as TJ recounted the events of last night’s adventure at Max’s.
“I guess your time at John Jay isn’t being wasted,” observed his mother. “Tío Hector is training you well.”
“You’ll probably become the youngest detective on the force,” said his father, clearly pleased by the young man’s initiative and hopeful that it would inspire him to make more of a commitment to police work.
Happy as he was to have his parents’ approval, TJ reminded them that he was still uncertain about his choice of career. Nor could he claim to have done any sophisticated sleuthing in the quest for his quarry’s identity.
“I was just in the right place at the right time,” he said modestly, to which Nita replied that it was his deductive reasoning that had put him there.
“Honestly, I can’t even take credit for that,” he told her. “It was Ellen’s idea to go to Max’s. She knew it’s the Warhol gang’s hangout. She thought we could be less conspicuous there than if we tried nosing around at the Factory, and she was right.” Her cleverness and pluck brought a proud smile to his lips.
“You should have seen her, Mom, all dolled up like one of Warhol’s groupies, with big dangly earrings and a ton of eye makeup. She’s so natural and unaffected, it made her really uncomfortable, but it was the perfect outfit for Max’s. I won’t tell you what I looked like, it’s too embarrassing.”
Nita beamed at him as she cleared the table. “You two going steady?”
TJ rolled his eyes. “Oh, Mom, people don’t ‘go steady’ anymore. We’re just seeing each other in class and hanging out together, that’s all, nothing formal. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.”
The voice in his head admonished him. Liar, it said, you wouldn’t dream of dating anyone else. You’re nuts about Ellen, and she says she feels the same way about you. How much more steady could it be?
* * *
Before he left for work at Brother’s, TJ phoned Midtown North to make his report, but his information about Valerie Solanas was redundant.
“Thanks for the tip,” said the desk sergeant politely, “but we’ve already got officers on the way to pick her up.”
Guess I just lost bragging rights, said TJ to himsel
f. He wanted to ask how the police had identified her, but he knew the cop wouldn’t answer that question.
Still, he could congratulate himself that he’d managed to track down Solanas all by himself, even if it was a stroke of good luck that gave him the vital clues. And if she turned out to be the killer, the NYPD would no longer be interested in Bill. He’d still be wanted for the federal crime of evading conscription, but if he’d made it to Canada the government’s welcoming policy meant he didn’t need to worry about extradition—as long as he stayed in the closet.
When the fairy dusters gave Bill his fake papers and instructions on transitioning to life in Canada, they had warned him that the Canadian Immigration Act prohibited the admission of homosexuals. He would have to continue to pretend to be straight, and so would Vinnie if he decided to move to Canada and reunite with Bill after his discharge. The dusters would tell him how to contact his lover. They’d know how to find Bill, even if Uncle Sam didn’t.
* * *
With elaborate wrought-iron balconies on its north-facing façade and an art-filled interior accessed by an ornate twelve-story winding staircase, the Chelsea Hotel, at 222 West Twenty-Third Street, had been home to generations of residential and transient eccentrics since 1885. Among the lengthy Who’s Who of notable writers, artists, and musicians who roomed there at one time or another were several members of the Warhol circle, including Edie Sedgwick, René Ricard, Nico, and Viva, as well as Valerie Solanas—one of those who didn’t appear in Warhol’s 1966 film, Chelsea Girls, which was shot on location inside the hotel.
Officers Gomez and Fisher arrived at the hotel at nine a.m. and spoke to the desk clerk, who informed them that Solanas was out.
“Haven’t seen her in a few days, and never again would be too soon. We have a lotta loony toons in here, most of ’em benign, but she’s one I wouldn’t turn my back on without protection. I always keep the desk between me and her.”
“Why’s that?” asked Gomez.
“Take a look at this,” said the clerk. He reached under the counter and pulled out a water-stained mimeographed tract, titled SCUM Manifesto. “She peddles this piece of crap on the street. Charges women a buck and men two bucks for it. As if any guy in his right mind would buy it.”
“Why not?” said Fisher.
“Look right here on the first page and you’ll see why not.” The clerk pointed to the opening declaration of intent, which called on women to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation, and eliminate the male sex.
“It’s one long list of grievances against men. She says they’ve turned the world into a shit pile, and the remedy is for women to exterminate them,” he continued. “And look what she says here, toward the end.” He flipped the pages and read, “If SCUM ever marches, it will be over the President’s stupid, sickening face; if SCUM ever strikes, it will be in the dark with a six-inch blade.”
Fisher and Gomez looked at each other, and Fisher asked, “Can we take that?”
“Keep it,” said the clerk, tossing the document on the counter dismissively. “It was too messed up to sell, so she left it here for my enlightenment. It enlightened me, all right. I learned that she’s one dangerous dyke.”
While Gomez collected the manifesto, Fisher handed her card to the clerk. “Call me when she comes in,” she told him. “I don’t need to tell you not to let on that she’s wanted for questioning.”
“Mind telling me what for?”
“Yes, I do mind. Just let me know when she’s in the building.”
Thirty-Three
Monday, November 6
The League cafeteria was exceptionally quiet between classes when instructors Robert Brackman, who taught painting, and Robert Beverly Hale, the anatomy teacher, both of whom had morning and afternoon sessions, took their lunch break. Joining them were Dagmar Freuchen, whose popular fashion illustration class had finished at half past twelve, and Edward Laning, whose class started at one.
“I guess it’s no surprise that only about half my students showed up this morning,” said Hale, “and I expect the same will be true for this afternoon’s class. And some of the ones who did come are a bit nervous, to say the least. Can’t say I blame them, with Benton’s killer still at large.”
Freuchen was not so sympathetic. “What nonsense,” she countered. “You’d think a homicidal maniac was on the loose. Benton was a sexist blowhard who finally got his comeuppance. Whoever killed him did us all a favor. Now we can have our lunch in peace!”
Laning shook his head. “You’re a cold one, Dagmar. Must be that icy Nordic blood in your veins. You may be glad he’s out of your hair, and frankly I won’t miss him, either, but you can’t deny it’s disconcerting to the students. Under the circumstances, it’s likely that one of them, or one of us for that matter, is a murderer.”
“It’s not only the students,” said Brackman, “the models are spooked, too. Larl Beecham, who poses for me in the mornings and Charlie Alston in the afternoons, called in sick on Friday and hasn’t been back since. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, except maybe cold feet.” Both his and Alston’s life drawing, painting, and composition classes were held in Studio Nine, the crime scene, which had been reopened on Saturday.
“I hope Priscilla Watkins shows up for me this afternoon,” said Hale, “She was bit skittish at the end of last week. I’m in the middle of a series of anatomy lectures, and I really don’t want to start over with a different model.”
“Wally Green is taking it stoically,” observed Laning, “even thought he’d gotten pretty friendly with Tom. I saw them in here together more than once. I think Tom went out of his way to be nice to him after embarrassing him in my evening class. But whatever Wally’s feeling, he isn’t showing it. He’s just carrying on as usual, steady as ever, no nerves or anything.”
“Probably because he’s a World War Two veteran,” said Brackman. “He saw plenty of action in the marines, Pacific theater. If that didn’t harden him to violent death, I don’t know what would.”
“That could account for it, all right,” said Hale, and the others agreed.
“I may not have mentioned it before, but I knew Wally as a youngster, back in ’34, the year I started here,” Brackman told them. “His last name was Gruen then. His father was an artist, Johann Gruen, who taught a watercolor class on Saturdays, when I was teaching drawing. Little Walter used to come in with him. Sometimes he’d sit in on his dad’s class, and sometimes come to mine. Good-looking kid, quiet bordering on shy, and pretty talented. I thought he had the makings, but then Gruen lost his job and Wally didn’t come back to the League until a couple of years ago, when he started modeling. Hadn’t laid eyes on him in thirty years, but I recognized him. I suppose, being a portrait painter, I could see that he still has the same facial structure and the same shy, guarded expression.”
“Do you know why he changed his name?” asked Hale.
“He told me it wasn’t his doing. His mother changed it when the U.S. declared war on Germany, and people with German names were shunned, sworn at, even attacked. He was sixteen at the time. His parents were divorced by then, and she didn’t want Wally to carry the stigma.”
“I know what that’s like,” said Freuchen with feeling. “I’m Jewish—my maiden name is Cohn—so you can imagine the irony when Peter and I were ostracized by ignorant people who assumed the Freuchens were German. And that was while our native Denmark was occupied by the Nazis, and the resistance was fighting to protect Jews from arrest and deportation to the death camps!”
“Anyway,” Brackman resumed, “Gruen was a popular instructor, and he moved up to a weekday slot in ’35. But he was there less than a year, and then he was out. I don’t remember the circumstances, but I don’t think it was voluntary. Fortunately he got on the WPA right away, so he didn’t need to teach in order to support the family.”
&
nbsp; “What a godsend that was, for so many artists, me included,” said Laning. “During those years things were so bad the League nearly went under. I bet half the people teaching here now were able to get through the Depression because of the WPA’s Federal Art Project. That’s what paid for me to do the library murals, and the ones I did on Ellis Island, too. Imagine, a weekly paycheck from the government, just for doing your own work. The way I see it, Gruen was actually better off, don’t you think?”
“Sure he was,” replied Brackman, “while it lasted. But, as you know, when we got into the war the project ended.”
The art project actually limped along for a couple of years after Pearl Harbor, restructured as a war services program making posters and window displays, but it was impossible to justify spending government money on art when the military needed planes and tanks and battleships, as well as people to build them and soldiers and sailors to use them. With unemployment no longer a problem, the WPA got its so-called honorable discharge early in 1943.
Brackman skipped over the rest of Gruen’s story, which he’d been told in confidence.
When Wally was hired, Brackman had reintroduced himself and asked how his father was doing. Wally said he’d passed away many years ago, which didn’t surprise Brackman, since he hadn’t heard about Gruen or seen his work in any shows since the late ’30s.
Once Wally had gotten to know Brackman and felt comfortable confiding in him, he told him what had caused his father’s death.
After Gruen left the League, in spite of landing a steady WPA job he became increasingly depressed and withdrawn. His work and his health suffered, and in 1940 he was kicked off the project for repeated absence due to alcoholism, which Wally said was also what caused his parents’ marriage to fail. Gruen committed suicide three years later.
Respecting Wally’s privacy, Brackman kept those details to himself.
“Sadly,” he continued, “in 1943, Gruen died suddenly. Wally had just turned eighteen, and rather than waiting to be drafted he enlisted in the marines. That’s where he learned to play football. After the war he stayed in, played for the Quantico team for fifteen years, then coached for two and retired from the service in ’63.
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