Authors: Alafair Burke
Long Gone (5 page)
“P
lease tell me this is one of your practical jokes.”
It had been three weeks since Drew Campbell had signed the lease for the Highline Gallery. Now she stood, one night before the grand opening, feeling tiny beneath the eighteen-foot ceilings and next to Jeff Wilkerson’s six-foot-three frame.
Jeff’s comment was a reference to her long-standing habit of testing what she called his Indiana goodness.
“I know,” he would sometimes say, “I’m gullible.”
But
gullible
was not a word Alice would choose to describe Jeff. To call a person gullible was to imply he was stupid. But Jeff was no dummy. He’d been a top student at Indiana University, both as an undergraduate and then in law school, moving to New York City to work at one of the world’s largest firms. But after seven years of slaving away at billable hours, he realized that life as a big-firm partner wouldn’t bring any monumental changes, so had hung out a shingle on his own.
No, nothing about Jeff was gullible. He was well read and refined, brilliant even, as much as Alice hated the overuse of that word. But he still had that Indiana goodness. He was trusting. Earnest. Vulnerable. He wasn’t the kind of person who even contemplated the possibility that others would fabricate facts for mere entertainment. Jeff was good. And his vulnerability made him sweet. It also made him a tempting target for people like Alice.
She’d lost count of the number of times he’d fallen for her ridiculous stories: that some breeds of cats could grow their tails back, that a car’s stereo would stop working if the transmission fluid fell too low, that she’d had a bit part in the Aerosmith video for “Janie’s Got a Gun.” As for that last one, even when he called to complain he’d watched the entire clip on YouTube without spotting her, she only persuaded him to watch a second time as she listened, stifling her giggles.
Granted, her pranks had occasionally misfired. To this day, Jeff was convinced that her father disliked him because, on her recommendation, Jeff had eschewed the usual handshake on their first introduction, opting for a flash of the peace sign instead. Her father was bemused by the episode, but Alice saw no point in disabusing Jeff of his impressions, because in truth her father did not like Jeff, but for entirely different reasons.
She kept expecting Jeff to stop falling for her jokes, but he insisted she had a poker face that could break a casino. He’d express disbelief, and like Lucy with her football, she’d persist that
this time
she was serious. She suspected he often feigned the credulity, but even so, her white lies and his Indiana goodness formed one of the few patterns that had cemented in their ever-fluid relationship.
Unfortunately, this was not another occasion for leg-pulling. They stood side by side, Jeff with his hands on his hips, Alice with crossed arms, perusing the series of black-and-white photographs.
“Those of us in the art world would refer to this as high concept,” she said.
“Nice try for your consumer base, but you forget that I know you. And I know that
you
know this is a bunch of pretentious crap.”
She tried out her most authoritative gallery-managing voice. “The artist refers to the SELF series as a portrait in radical introspection. By examining the baseness of raw physicality, we reveal our true selves and can therefore achieve a higher level of inner reflection.” She’d been diligent throughout the day in referring to Hans Schuler as “the artist” and to these photographs as the “SELF series.” As she stumbled through the words, she realized it might take more than a day to overcome the bad habits formed over the last two weeks, when she continually referred to Schuler as the “German Boy Toy” and to his pictures as her “porn collection.”
The centerpiece of the series was a photograph he called
Fluids
, featuring a taffylike strand of drool stretched from his lips to the bloody bite marks in his wrist. His hairy wrist. Prior to seeing the diverse variety of exposed Schuler flesh in close-up, she had no idea that one body could contain so much fur. She posed next to the
Fluids
photo in mock contemplation, placing the hook of her index finger beneath her chin.
“Can you picture me now on the cover of
New York
magazine? I can already imagine the tagline: ‘New Highline Gallery Seeks to Mainstream Radicalism.’”
He shook his head. “That is scary. You could actually pull that off, Al. Maybe you should have been an actress after all.”
She usually hated all iterations of shorthand for her already short name, but for some reason, when Jeff had taken to calling her Ally and then Al when they’d first met seven years ago, she had never minded.
“I feel like I’m selling snake oil. Radical introspection? What does that even mean, and why would we want to mainstream it?” She found the photographs aesthetically unappealing and intellectually vapid, so had simply pulled catchphrases from the artist’s Web site when drafting her own materials for the exhibit. “Please remind me I just have to make it through this first show, and then I can start highlighting actual artists.”
According to her deal with Drew, the Highline would open with an exclusive three-week showing of Schuler’s SELF series. She would have to continue selling Schuler’s work afterward, but could move on to showcasing other works.
“Just hang in there, all right? This is a good gig. You’re going through the rough patch now.”
She grimaced. “I don’t think I like the idea of anything
rough
or
patchy
with our friend Hans here.”
“So what is the man who bites himself bloody like in person?”
She plopped herself down on the low white leather banquette at the center of the gallery space and clucked her tongue. “You see. Now
there’s
the catch.”
“You mean to tell me that Hans’s hairy porn
isn’t
the catch?”
“Just a part of it, I’m afraid. Schuler apparently read one too many J.D. Salinger obits and has decided he’s a recluse.”
“Salinger went into hiding because he couldn’t stand the public attention anymore. Does your guy realize no one’s even heard of him?”
“First of all, he’s so
not
my guy. And yes, of course he realizes this, but he thinks being a supersecret man of mystery will give him an allure. Drew tried to persuade him otherwise, but he says the only appearances that matter are the images he chooses to reveal in film.”
“But you’ll meet him at his show?”
“Nope. He’s not coming.”
“That’s ... well, that’s ridiculous. How does he expect to sell anything?”
“That’s where we get to the mainstreaming part. How much do you think a Hans Schuler will run you?”
“Clueless on that, as you well know.”
“Guess.”
They’d had countless discussions about the randomness of art prices. Art was worth whatever a buyer was willing to pay in an arm’s-length transaction on the open market. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how many photographs he’s printing and signing. Assuming he runs a series of—what, a couple hundred?—I’d guess you’re charging at least a few thousand dollars.”
“Seven hundred bucks.”
“Dudes in Union Square Park charge more than that.”
“That’s why he says he’s mainstreaming radicalism. He’s making high-concept art available to any and all. And there’s no limited print run. Take a look at that lower right-hand corner there.”
Jeff did a half-raise forward to get a closer look. “What a cheeseball.”
Instead of marking each piece 1/some number to indicate where a particular print fell in a limited numbered series, Schuler had penciled “1/∞” onto every photograph to indicate an infinite run. According to him, there was no need to restrict art’s supply to make it precious. The very advantage of photography as a medium, he pontificated in the artist’s notes that accompanied the prints, was the ability to produce identical replications. By lowering the price, he would make his work accessible to more people, making him more influential than any artist who sold only a handful of pieces, no matter the price.
Alice suspected that Schuler himself didn’t believe a word of his trite puffery. The plain fact was that Schuler’s plan, if successful, would pocket him far more cash than a traditional showing for an unknown artist could possibly hope to yield.
She walked to the low white desk at the front of the gallery, removed an item from the top drawer of the steel side-return, and tossed it in Jeff’s direction.
“Nice catch.”
He inspected the tiny thumb drive. “Self,” he said, reading the simple personalization aloud. “So what is it?”
“Yet another piece of Schuler’s gimmick. Every buyer gets one of these stupid thumb drives. Everything you could possibly want to know about Schuler is then uploaded to the buyer’s computer.”
She unplugged the gallery’s own computer, a slim Mac laptop, and resumed her seat next to Jeff. “I guess if customers want to know more about him, I’ll just refer them to the thumb drive and his Web site.” She pulled up a familiar bookmark.
Jeff moved closer to get a look. They’d known each other so long that his knee against hers, his arm around her shoulder—they weren’t signs of passion or romance, but a level of familiarity and physical intimacy that remained between them regardless of where they were in their on-and-off experimentations with coupledom. “Not much of a site if that’s going to be his only venue.”
The home page was a stark black screen with Schuler’s name in white block letters, along with three links: New Work, Galleries, and Bio. She clicked on each link so Jeff could get the idea. The New Work page featured thumbnails of the photographs now surrounding them in larger proportions. The Galleries page referred to the Highline Gallery, with a promise of “additional venues to be announced.” The bio, supposedly a short version, listed training at an art school in Germany, some group exhibitions around Europe, and even a few grants.
“Someone gave him money to support this garbage?”
Maybe Jeff did have some skeptical bones in his body.
“Oh, who knows? Those grants could all be coming from our mutual benefactor, for all I care.” She gently clicked the laptop shut.
There was a moment when neither of them filled the silence of the empty space. When his knee was still against hers. The arm still around the shoulder. Eye contact.
“Look, I know you’ll be fine, but just be careful not to make any affirmative representations to your customers about his background. Limit your talk to his work. If anyone wants to know his credentials, steer them back to the art itself.”
“Well, for a seven-hundred-dollar photograph, I doubt I’ll be getting the third degree about his bona fides.”
“I just don’t want to see you get sued for fraud.”
“Got it, counselor.”
The moment between them had passed. She slipped the thumb drive into her jeans pocket. Retrieved their coats from the backroom. Tucked the tiny laptop into her gigantic purse. Took in the majesty of this space—
her
space, sort of—one last time before flicking each of a long row of light switches like dominoes, rendering the cavernous room dark but for the hints of street light fading through the front glass.
Jeff held the door open for her. “You’re lugging that laptop around with you?”
“It’s a hundred times faster than my dinosaur. A perk of the job.”
“You’re excited, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” She managed her tone of voice as if the gallery opening were no big deal, but inside she felt the same way she had as a child, clicking her knees together in the dressing room as her mother instructed her to sit still for the nice makeup lady. Something big was about to happen. And she’d be at the center of it.
T
hanks to the radio station’s Two-for-Tuesday playlist, Hank lost track of time tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of “Satisfaction,” followed by “Shattered.”
Sha-doo-be. Shattered, shattered.
He was pulled back into reality as the DJ with the corny voice introduced a block of Steve Miller Band. All he needed was to have “Abracadabra”—the worst song in history, by his ear—stuck in his head for the rest of the day. He switched off the radio, looking up for a double take at the redhead cruising up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. She wore those oversize Jackie O shades women went for these days, the heavy collar on a peacock blue coat flipped up around her face. Sky-high black stiletto pumps, the kind that look French and expensive. She might be a real bow-wow beneath it all, but she was rocking a look all right. Classy but with a little edge.
He looked at his watch. Crap. He’d been parked here for over twenty minutes, waiting with his camera for something worth photographing. Stupid. He could be spotted. Or someone downtown might wonder why he had so much solo fieldwork this week. Or, thanks to his little gas stops, Tommy in the garage might eventually notice that Hank was getting some damn good mileage out of the Crown Vics.
Hank had told himself four days earlier that the afternoon drive to Newark was a onetime deal, a harmless peek to make sure he could find the man if necessary, just in case. But this was his fourth detour in as many days. During yesterday morning’s drive, he’d sworn it would be the final drop-in. And Hank really believed he had meant it. But then he saw the car. A BMW. As in Big Money Wagon. Granted, it was a 3-series, not one of the super-high-end ones. Still, it was a better ride than this scumbag should be sporting.
He’d seen the guy—he didn’t like to use his name, not even mentally—walk from his crappy building to the apartment complex parking lot. But then instead of the man’s familiar blue Honda, he’d headed for the gray BMW. Hank had hoped to follow him. He’d even been willing to miss an eleven o’clock debriefing if necessary. But the guy had simply opened the driver’s side door and then closed it again, forgotten iPod in hand.
When Hank got the skinny on the plates, he’d felt a familiar rush of adrenaline—that feeling he experienced whenever he was in the hunt. The BMW’s registration came back to Margaret Till of Clifton, New Jersey. Maybe the guy’s new mark. Maybe Hank could warn her before she fell too deep.
When he finally gave up on the apartment yesterday, he’d buzzed by the woman’s address in Clifton instead, eager to learn Margaret Till’s connection to the man in Newark. He’d spotted her in the front yard, tending to begonias off the brick walkway with a tiny shovel and lime green canvas gloves, accepting a peck on the top of her head from the man of the house, still pulling on his suit jacket, late for work. A freckled girl with two missing teeth played jacks on the sidewalk. And beyond the girl was a gray BMW sedan, parked in the driveway next to the Lexus coupe that the happy husband was crawling into.
With one look at the car, Hank knew Margaret Till was not the man’s latest mark. It wouldn’t have been the first time a Mrs. Wholesome June Cleaver type stepped out on her family, but the problem was the BMW’s license plate: he recognized it, but it wasn’t the one that belonged on Margaret Till’s BMW. Last time he’d seen that combination of numbers and letters was two months ago, on the bumper of that scumbag’s blue Honda.
When Hank returned to the man’s apartment complex today, his BMW was still parked in the lot, adorned with Till’s stolen license plates. The switched plates probably meant the car was hot. Hank was tempted to drop the dime on the guy with an anonymous call to the locals, but car theft was chump change. Hank wasn’t about to risk exposure of his unauthorized stakeout missions for some chippy Class C felony that would get bumped down to probation on the county criminal docket.
Now he’d wasted twenty minutes parked on the street in a white Crown Vic in full view. This wasn’t exactly the hood, but someone might still make a G-man on the lookout. He was about to call it a day, maybe even for good this time, when he noticed the redhead again. Big shades. Blue coat. Looking great. Making her way up the steps with that same confident stroll she’d owned on the sidewalk. Right to his guy’s apartment door.
He ducked even lower in his seat.
Knock, knock, knock. The door opened. A quick kiss on the lips, and then the redhead walked inside.
Figuring a woman like that would hold a man’s attention for the near future, he stepped from his car, walked through the apartment complex parking lot to the BMW, and searched for the vehicle identification number through the front window. A folded copy of
New York
magazine blocked his view of the dash.
He thought about trying the door, but knew in his gut it would be locked. It was all about the risk-reward ratio. Low odds of reward. Medium to high risk of setting off a car alarm. Basic math told him to let it go for now.
He made his way back to the Crown Vic. Felt his pulse beat quicker than expected as he imagined a nosy neighbor calling 911 about the stranger near the BMW. Kept the key in the ignition just in case he needed to roll.
Nothing happened for the next forty minutes.
Nice car. Pretty girl. He’d spent so much time thinking about this man over the last seven months that he fancied himself something of an expert about his fundamental nature. And his expertise was telling him that his time watching Travis Larson had not been wasted. There was something here after all.
