A Little Trouble with the Facts (18 page)

“They’re so incredibly superficial and self-important! As if it’s so difficult to write about a scene when people are waiting on you hand and foot—and tooth. As if it’s so tough to get sources when everyone in the entire milieu is circling you in a game of Ring Around the Rosie. And you’re the Rosie! Ugh. Did you ever notice how every headline for every story needs to be either alliterative or some spin on a popular movie title? And Buzz goes around pretending he’s so creative.”

Cabeza was chuckling at me. “Now you’re seeing your old self through the eyes of Sunburst Rhapsody.”

“No one said you could say those two words aloud,” I said,
pointing my straw at him. “Not until you tell me your real name, anyway.”

He glanced over at the deli man. “You think he’s going to tell Rush and Malloy?”

I bit into my sandwich happily. What did it matter anymore? All my secrets were liberated; Cabeza could be trusted not to tell anyone. He wasn’t someone who cared about such things; he cared only about the truth.

“So, they didn’t take the story?”

“Nope. Too ‘down-market,’ he said.”

Cabeza poured me more soda. “Don’t worry about it,” he said gently. “When we get this story, we’re going higher. Straight to the top.”

“Not with our little problem,” I said. I filled Cabeza in on everything I’d learned from Blondie at Twilo and from Wicked Rick at the memorial wall. He picked up the camera and filmed me while I talked. “I realized as I was pitching Buzz that I don’t have anything yet that could be substantiated and put into print. And my time peg—Wallace’s death—is moving further and further away as we speak. So the urgency to write about something that had to do with his art is fast diminishing. I need something to happen, some way to get to Darla.”

“That’s where your Valerie Vane persona comes in so handy,” he says. “This Blondie character likes you, likes to be associated with you. You could work that angle a little bit more, and maybe he’ll even take you over there after hours.”

I picked up the sandwich and took a smaller bite. “You know, I’m really starting to hate pretending. I don’t know, but something about spending time with you, about being able to just be who I am without working any angle with anyone—it feels more and more appealing.”

“Just a sec,” said Cabeza, getting up to ask the deli counter man if he’d shoot some frames of us together at the café table.
The old man offered a few obliging words in Italian. Cabeza put his arm around my waist and kissed me. “This is nice,” he said. “I’ll have one of the last known pictures of the girl called Valerie Vane, before she disappears into Sunburst Rhapsody.”

Maybe I’d quit The Paper and move somewhere serene, someplace without gossip, without fashion, and without art. Maybe Cabeza would go with me. We could get a little house in Woodstock and grow zucchini and tomatoes in our garden. We’d have kids and name them ordinary names like Joe and Sue. Maybe even Po. I’d known someone on the Eugene farm named Po, and he was happy being Po. Cabeza could edit his films, and I could write a book about my life in the big bad city. We could go on television and talk about nothing in particular. We’d be the Nick and Nora for Woodstock public-access television, not even PBS.

Meanwhile, Cabeza was jotting down some notes on what I’d told him about Darla and the art. “We’ve got a great story here.” He put the cap back on his pen. “We’ve just got to be strategic and figure out a good way to get it to the right people. We’ll just have to figure out a good time peg. Something newsy.” He pulled his seat closer to mine and cupped his hands around my hand. “We’ll be a great team.”

I kept thinking about that little house upstate. Forget the zucchinis. We’d plant hyacinths in the yard. I didn’t really know what they look like, but the word itself sounded lovely. Hyacinth.

I
was in the shower watching water pool at my feet and dreaming about gardening in Woodstock when the phone wailed. I steadied myself against the bathroom wall and kicked open the door. The machine got it, and I could hear Mickey Rood’s gravely voice: “Hi, Valerie, nice to hear from you.” Pause. “Sure, I’ll tell him.” Pause. “Yes, definitely. Good you called to let us know.” Pause. Rood was having a conversation with me. I figured it was best not to interrupt.

I stepped out of the bathroom and made puddles on the hardwood floor, but I didn’t pick up the phone. “Oh, not much, just looking at the call sheet.” The morning news roundup from the wires. “There’s this breaking item about some dealer in Chelsea named Deitrick. Seems something happened at her gallery last night. I tried to interest Battinger but she won’t send a stringer out on it. I don’t know, seems like a good story to me. And thanks for calling in to let me know about your dentist appointment. I’ll convey the information to Jaime. I’ll get a clerk on those faxes. See you this afternoon.”

I toweled off, went to my closet, and started dressing. Dentist, I thought. He never forgot a single thing. I had no idea how much Rood knew about my snooping around Darla’s. All I knew was he was a pal.

Yellow police tape decorated a stretch of West Twenty-fourth Street in front of Darla Deitrick Fine Art. It spruced up the place. Gave it a dab of color. TV news crews were posted on the sidewalk like it was red carpet at the Oscars. I wondered whether the Wallace situation was leaving a string of bodies in its wake. I imagined Darla or Blondie sprawled on the floor, outlined in white tape. Another white-on-white.

I pushed my way through the camera crews, trying to get closer. The line of photographers and reporters wouldn’t budge. A police sergeant pushed to the front and said, “Let’s move this back, folks. We’ll let you in to see everything in just a few minutes. But you have to move this line back.” I moved left and got yelled at by a photographer, “Heads down up front!”

I still couldn’t get anywhere near the gallery. I heard Andrew Siff from NY1 News saying: “Thanks, Frank. I’m standing here in front of Darla Deitrick Fine Art in Chelsea where early this morning a group of vandals broke in and spray-painted an exhibition of white paintings valued in the millions of dollars. Police say the works damaged included Jasper Johns’s
White Flag,
on loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The piece is estimated to be worth more than twenty million dollars. The culprits, the police said, could be graffiti artists who, ironically enough, were once represented by the gallery owner. Back to you, Frank.”

So, no one was dead. But the exhibition wasn’t so pure anymore. A solid news peg. Finally, I pushed through the bank of reporters.

“Excuse me, officer,” I said to the closest man in blue over the yellow police tape. “I know the gallery owner and her assistant. Can you tell me if anyone was hurt?”

“No injuries,” he said. “The incident occurred during off-hours. Early this morning, probably around two a.m. No witnesses. The chief will be holding a press conference shortly.”

Even though I didn’t have all the details, I was starting to paint a picture of my own. Did they make a giant
X
across the white flag? Spray the Agnes Martin with red question marks? Maybe they’d mimicked Darla and wrote her famous words,
Paint Makes Art,
over the Robert Ryman. For Darla, it would’ve been like Piss Christ.

“What’s the extent of the damage?” I asked.

The cop squinted at me. I could count the years he’d been working the beat in the rings under his eyes. “The chief will be holding a news conference shortly.”

“All right, all right,” I said. “I don’t need to be told twice.”

“Apparently you do.” He didn’t crack a smile.

I backed away. The more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that there should be so many spray cans loose in New York. Was I following the Krylon, or was the Krylon following me? I’d blabbered on to Bigs Cru about Darla. They seemed a little too sedentary for a break-and-enter job. On the other hand, Rx was excitable, and maybe I’d excited him. Nah, I was taking too much credit. The world didn’t revolve around my little head of cherry-blond hair. There were plenty of artists who’d mourned Wallace with an aerosol moan. But one thing I knew: this had some connection to Wallace.

I dove into the press pool and swam to the back. I buried my press card in my shirt and put on my sunglasses, tied my hair into a ponytail, and then I walked down the block to a group of gallery assistants who were watching from a safe smoking distance.

God forgive me, I lisped a little like Bogey in the bookshop in
The Big Sleep
when I said, “Did anyone see Gideon go in there? I’m so worried about Gideon.” A young woman with uneven hair and an uneven dress gave me an uneven look. A Brit with floppy black hair said, “He was the one who discovered it. He called the police straight away. As I understand it, Deitrick showed up a bit later and they’re both still inside, answering questions.”

“Did you see the walls?”

“No,” said the Brit. “But I understand it’s brilliant.”

I assumed he meant brilliant in that British way, not necessarily meaning full of genius. Blondie had been the first on the scene. If I could get him, I’d be set with one or two official comments from Darla. I suspected she wouldn’t give me a one-on-one, since I’d failed to accompany Tyler Prattle to her opening. I nodded at my Brit, put on a confident smile and strode toward the gallery door. A copper stopped me just as I was pulling the handle. He was of the Irish model, the ones they mass-produce at the factory in Staten Island with the barrel chest and the broad shoulders and the smattering of freckles and the blue eyes that bore right through you.

“Can’t go in there,” he said. He put his thick pale arm across the door frame. I reached inside my shirt collar to pull out my press pass, hoping the name of The Paper might grease his elbow. Sometimes flashing the badge worked. Mostly it didn’t. If you had to fall back on credentials, chances are you weren’t getting close anyway. On blue eyes, I’d gambled and lost. He shook his head. “There will be a press conference in a few minutes. You’re just going to have to wait like all the others.” He pointed to the press bank. The reporters were like a lineup of restive horses behind the starting gates.

I took off my sunglasses and tried to keep his eyes, figuring calm and authoritative was my best bet. “Oh, excuse me, officer. I should’ve explained. I’m here at the request of Ms. Deitrick’s gallery assistant. He called me this morning just after he got in and asked me to come down. He’s worked out an exclusive with my editors.”

The copper’s blue eyes were so sharp they could’ve cut glass. “Name?”

“Name? Oh, name of the gallery assistant. Of course, Mr. Gideon…” I hadn’t played this far ahead in the game. “Mr. Gideon…Blondie.”

Ah, if only blue eyes would’ve brightened. I’d have whistled up something right then and we could’ve had a nice song. Instead, I cringed, awaiting his response.

“Gideon Blondie? I’m sorry, Miss, but nobody goes in until we get the captain’s say so. This is a crime scene. You’ll just have to wait for the press conference, just like everyone else.” He pointed to the steeds again. I watched a few of them whinny into the cameras and scrape their hoofs. It would be a race to the finish.

“Listen,” I said in a confidential tone to the copper. “Ms. Deitrick’s gallery assistant called me because I have been researching a story related to graffiti. If you could let me in, maybe I could help figure out who did this.”

Blue Eyes raised a single eyebrow, making an impressively high arc. “Oh, yeah? I’m sure the captain would love to hand you over to talk to the Vandal Squad. But unfortunately, the New York City Police Department doesn’t barter with reporters so they can get in the door before their competitors, and not even reporters with big names on their badges who’ve attended swanky Ivy League colleges. Now, maybe Steve Dunleavy…”

Someone inside yelled loud enough to pierce a steel drum. From what I could assume based on the sound of clacking Cobras, Darla Deitrick had emerged from the back office and was taking a look—presumably not her first—at her gallery. From the timbre of her screech, it sounded like it might be more colorful than a few
X
’s against the white. I tried to crane my neck around Blue Eyes’s arm, but he flexed his muscle against my nose. Darla got close enough so I could see her but not the art. A crew of coppers and gallery types trailed her like an Interpol art theft tag team.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she said, as if she were about to get a tetanus shot. “Bring in the cameras.”

A sergeant passed my copper and walked out into the street.
He announced the imminence of the press conference to the assembled pool. The camera crews and their mike-wielding producers picked up stakes as quickly as a traveling circus and made their way to the door. My copper looked down at me to reassert his worldview, that Ivy Leaguers were lowlifes. I almost blurted out, “I only went to Reed!”

As I watched the reporters file past me through the door, I tried to strategize. All I needed was to see the walls and talk to Blondie. Once the presser was over, I could hop on a train uptown and get to Bigs Cru at the memorial wall on 207th Street. I could mine eight hundred words out of that, easy. I’d be back at the office by noon with a daily to put every other hack in the room to shame. I’d get a byline, no contest.

I edged toward the copper and my chin met his arm. “Hold on there, now, little Miss,” he said, and lowered the bar of his arm to the level of my chest. Now I’d riled him. He would let even the Brit and the smoker with the uneven dress inside before he’d let me pass. I scanned the crowd filing past me for a familiar face from The Paper. Battinger would probably wise up at some point about the call sheet and send a Metro stringer down. This was too big a story for The Paper to miss. If it were Tracy, I’d kick her in the Achilles’ tendon. A little Tonya Harding action.

Now everyone and their cameraman and their stenographer and their pet Chihuahua had been let in the door, and I was still looking at a pale Irish arm. “Excuse me, officer,” I said. “I really am on assignment.”

He looked down at me as if he’d forgotten all about me. “Well, all right,” he said, moving out of the way. I lunged forward, though the entryway, and skittered to a stop in the middle of the gallery, where the press pool stood huddled in stunned silence. It was the quietest moment I’d ever spent among my colleagues from the fourth estate.

That red
X
through a white flag? Nope. A couple of question marks or squiggles scrawled across the walls? No such simplicity. The phrase
Paint Makes Art
scripted with water-soluble spray? Darla should be so lucky.

There were no white paintings anymore. A color bomb had exploded on every canvas, and where there had been nothing, now there was everything—pop-out lettering, squiggles, comic book superheroes, skulls, loops, cubes, rainbows, popping eyeballs, triangles within squares, horses, dogs, waves, apples, pears, and letters, letters, letters everywhere. The gallery walls were still white. But that was it. Everything else was a free-for-all.

Someone—some more than one—had spent a lot of time in here, painting. It was no splotch and run. No break and burn. They’d gotten in and they’d stayed a while. They’d found a way past the locks and the gates and the security guard—the one who came with Johns’s
White Flag
. Maybe all night.

There began some murmuring among the reporters, clucks of disapproval, sighs of shock and disbelief. A few TV reporters got down on their knees to start redrafting their scripts. Some of the cameramen who wanted better positions for close-ups were arguing with the coppers who were trying to keep them corralled.

Cy Twombly’s white-on-white was now a pink-on-green, a checkerboard design only a preppie could love. Someone had scribbled tiny childish purple letters on Agnes Martin’s pale gray lines, like a first-grade homework assignment on a wide-ruled pad. And the little red square on Malevich’s Suprematist abstraction had been turned into a square hamburger on a black and tan smoking outdoor grill.

Instead of “essence essentialized,” or whatever paradigm of purity Darla had plugged a few days earlier, this was aggression-aggravated, power and glory of color, love of color, messy and unabated. Casper the Friendly Ghost had gotten a makeover by Pucci.

I turned around to face the alcove just off the front door, where I knew I’d find Jasper Johns’s
White Flag
. It didn’t make use of the stars and stripes faintly etched into the thick paint. There was just one big green word covering the entire painting:
YOU
. I couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to mean, until I stepped back and turned to look at the whole gallery. Now I saw it: every other canvas had its own word, and reading it clockwise it formed a sentence: “YOU DO NOT OWN THIS ART.”

Then the TV cameras started rolling and the shutterbugs started clicking and the lights were flashing and the questions were flying. “Ms. Deitrick, do you know who is responsible for this vandalism?”…“Darla, can you tell us who had access to the gallery other than yourself?”…“Were there signs of a break-in?”…“Can you tell us the value of the work on display?”…“Does any of the work look familiar to you?”…“When did you discover this?”…“How did you feel when you arrived this morning?”…“Have you been in touch with the Met?”…“Are you insured?”…“Is it going to be possible to save the works?”…“What kind of experts will be needed?” And on and on.

Darla closed her eyes while the flashbulbs flashed. No matter how much she loved publicity, this was still a nightmare. The show had been open for only a few days, and she’d soon be wallowing in a mudslide of legal papers, when what she’d hoped for was a deluge of raves.

“Please, please,” she said, weakly. She was flanked by two flacks from Rubinstein Associates, the city’s top damage-control gurus. I recognized the brunette on Darla’s right because she’d taken me out to lunch after Club Zero for a consultation. Now, she leaned toward the bouquet of microphones arrayed in front of Darla.