SoHo Sins (30 page)

“That figures. From Shanghai the dubs go all over Asia in O-Tech shipments.”

“Did you get all this from Margaret?”

“The young lady has grown very fond of me, and extremely pissed off at Andrews. She gave him up.”

“Andrews is the deal-maker?”

“Once Paul Morse came up with the idea and the material.”

“What about Philip?”

“Innocent as a jaybird—at least of this. Seems he’s too good a daddy to be a smut peddler.”

“Or a consumer?”

“Nice way to talk about your friends, Jack.”

“My mind goes a little bit funny when I don’t get enough sleep—it’s a hazard in my profession.”

“Which one?”

“Both. Art dealing, real estate—neither one is very conducive to mental health.”

Hogan wasn’t exactly brimming with compassion. “You’d sleep better with a wife beside you,” he said.

“Out of boredom?”

“Yeah, right, just laugh. You never gave marriage—your own or anyone else’s—much of a chance.”

“Shows how much you know, Hogan. I tried hard to understand monogamy once.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.”

“It was an internal process.”

After we hung up, I tried to keep my dark speculations about Angela from interfering with my work at the gallery. Why had she never previously complained about Paul Morse? When did she get enlightened, and did the key information really come from Melissa? What was Angela’s response? Remembering how she dealt with that nurse in Bronxville, I wondered if she had ever paid a visit to Paul, just to straighten him out.

Well, let Hogan do his work, I told myself—if he can tear himself away from Angela’s bed long enough to think straight. Meanwhile, I’ve got a gallery to run.

Laura had scheduled Mick Tarkower for our second show of the season. I set my mind on selecting the best three suites of photographs for our space. The shot of rows upon rows of fluorescent-lit grocery store shelves, in or out? The chained vulture? The Japanese teens with fuchsia hair and pacifiers in their mouths?

In the midst of my deliberations, Angela called to give me an update on Philip. She didn’t want to talk about anything else—not the opening, the party, her work, or Paul Morse. Patient care was her whole concern now.

“They’re moving him to a hospice,” she said.

“He’s that bad?”

“There’s nothing much left of him. The doctors can’t do any more, and he only annoys the nursing staff. The same question over and over again. He wants to know that everything has been paid in advance.”

I thought for a moment about the way Philip had lived, and the way he was dying.

“Tell him yes,” I said. “He’s paid up in full.”

How peculiar it must be for him now, I thought. Before Mandy’s murder, the accelerating loss of his brain cells had presented Philip, subjectively, with a faultless and loving spouse, a thriving business, innumerable friends, a magical influx of unceasing wealth. In a sense, he had pulled off a great coup: he had solved the problem of happiness. Wolfsheim’s Syndrome was a form of intoxication with no sobering up, a drug without any impending crash. Except death, of course.

But after Amanda was killed, cruel mysteries began to plague my friend. His beloved wife was missing, the business was out of his hands, most friends seemed to pity him, his money was as abstract as a calculus formula. Unable to remember the source of his distress, he was forced to ask about it again and again—like a boy who begs his father repeatedly to explain the loss of a favorite puppy.

“Oh, and Jack,” Angela said, “I enjoyed our chat today. Do feel free to come down for coffee with me in the mornings.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“Not a bother at all. In fact, it’d be nice to have someone I can really talk to. Kids, you know—all demands and silliness. I need a transition, an adult voice, to get into my work after Melissa leaves for school.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“And there’s no sense you prowling around upstairs all alone.”

“No sense at all. That’s very kind of you, Angela.”

“Is it?” She smiled. “I don’t know what’s come over me lately.”

Waiting for Paul’s signal about the next
Virgin Sacrifice
taping was beginning to wear on my nerves. One afternoon, to relieve the anxiety and give my young neighbor a treat, I took Melissa to see a Henry Darger exhibition at the American Folk Art Museum. It would also be a chance to find out if she was covering for Angela.

On a pedestal, under a pin-spot, sat enshrined the old manual typewriter on which the mentally defective janitor had composed
The Realms of the Unreal
, his fifteen-volume epic about a stupendous war over child slavery and the fate of seven young princesses known as the Vivian Girls. Many of the long, fold-out illustrations he made—drawn, traced and enchantingly hand-colored—were displayed on the walls or in freestanding glass slipcases that showed both sides of the complex narrative scenes.

“It looks kind of like the Civil War,” Melissa said. “Only with little blond girls and huge flowers and storms and flying creatures all added.”

“Anything is possible because the war takes place on another planet.”

“Who’s fighting?”

“The Abbieannians—they’re pretty much like Christians—are trying to fend off the Glandelinians, who want to capture lots of young boys and girls for slaves.”

“Kids wouldn’t make very good workers.”

“No? Why not? They’re pure energy, like you.”

“Work is for grown-ups. Grown-up losers.”

Together, we studied the vignettes as they alternated from bucolic gardens to battles and executions, and back again.

“Do you like the way he draws the kids?” I asked.

“Yeah, bunches of them get killed. Choked, hacked up, hung. Shot through the head.”

“But not the Vivian Girls. They always escape.”

“Like me.”

“Really? Are you in danger?”

“Naturally, from men. Mom tells me so.”

“Men like your Uncle Jack?”

“Oh, you wish.”

We walked on, letting the vivid pictures unscroll as we passed. I said nothing—one of my favorite tactics. Long ago I realized that the thing I had to fear most in the world was the ferocity of my own dark thoughts. So I learned to hide them deep and well—in silence, in work, in banter, in sly stories. And, oh yes, especially in liquor and sex.

“Why do the girls have penises sometimes?” Melissa asked.

“Nobody knows. Darger lived alone in one room and dreamed up these things after work. In Chicago. No one even knew the books existed until after he died.”

“Uncle Paul says penises are just for fun, but I don’t think so. Girls can have fun without those yucky things.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

Melissa grimaced. “Ha, ha, ha. You’re so funny….Don’t you ever get tired of jokes?”

“So be serious with me now.”

“All right, darling.”

We sat on a bench, with what Darger called the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm playing out all around us. Missy’s dress was simple and black, with a white collar. She was wearing adult perfume. Being with her, hearing her clear voice, I understood why there had to be fantasy realms we can turn to—a brighter one like Hogan’s heaven or a darker one like Paul’s video hell. Or both, if you were Darger.

“Tell me the truth about Aunt Mandy’s laptop,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You saw the date on her last e-mail. Whoever took the computer must have made off with it on the day she was killed. I don’t think that was you.”

“No, I was just pretending. Like Uncle Paul asked me to.”

“You were very convincing.”

“Sure, I can pretend almost anything.”

“But now you’re telling the truth?”

“Yes, honey, of course.”

“And you’re sure Paul took it from Aunt Amanda? If someone else did, you should tell me now.”

The girl’s expression grew troubled. “Well.” She stroked the hair away from each side of her face. “What happens to people in jail, Uncle Jack?”

“Nothing good.”

Melissa thought her answer over for a long moment, her hands folding and unfolding absently in her lap. When she spoke, her words were firm. “It was definitely Paul. He asked me to take care of it for him.”

“When?”

“A few days after that awful thing happened, you know.”

“You didn’t think it was strange?”

“Everything is strange about him, a little bit.”

“What did he say?”

“Just to keep the laptop so we could be in touch. And don’t tell my mom or anyone. He said Aunt Mandy had gotten a new one, so she asked him to pass this one along to me. She was all fine and happy when he left her place.”

“And Paul gave it to you several days later, after the murder?”

“Yes.”

I spoke slowly, softly, without any emphasis. “You’re positive?” I peered into her face. “It’s not, just maybe, something you found in your mother’s room?”

Melissa reddened. “No, I already told you. Don’t be stupid. No.”

“Promise me, Missy?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. We’re practically married.”

“You lied to me already—about the right day.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I didn’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

A few days later, I made a call—more urgent this time—to my morals coach, Hogan. I had gotten a coded e-mail from Paul Morse, saying that the next
Virgin Sacrifice
party was set for six
PM
the coming Friday.

“Should I go?” I asked.

“Is the girl ready?”

“I think so. More than ready, in some ways.”

“You have to follow your instincts on this one, Jack. I can’t help you there.”

“Thanks a lot. Look where my instincts have gotten me so far.”

“I’m talking about your higher instincts this time, Flash.”

“Oh, right. You better pray that I have some.”

“I do, daily.”

That Tuesday, I stopped by Angela’s place and offered to take Melissa around to the openings at the end of the week.

“Perfect,” Angela said. “I do need to spend time with Philip, poor thing.” She called out in the direction of Melissa’s bedroom, “Sweetheart, you’d like to see some art with Uncle Jack on Friday, wouldn’t you? He’s awfully kind to offer.”

After a moment, the girl appeared at the end of the hallway, half in shadow. She was uncommonly subdued, staring at me over a white turtleneck that hung halfway to her knees.

“All right,” she said. “Can I watch movies at his house afterwards?”

“Of course, dear. That will be lovely, won’t it?”

When I arrived on Friday evening, Angela was ready to make a quick departure, lugging a bag of books she planned to read aloud to Philip. As soon as she left, Melissa came out of her room in her plaid skirt and knee socks. There was a great deal of space between the top of her socks and the hem of her skirt. As I talked, awkwardly, she slipped on the blue Bradford blazer over a sweater and a white blouse with a sharply creased V-neck. I explained to her where we were going and what she would have to do there. She nodded; her face did not flinch.

“Only if you want to,” I said. “Are you up for it?”

“Don’t worry, I’m good at acting,” she answered. “I’m practically a star.”

“I can believe it. Let’s go then. They’re expecting us.”

“Wait.”

She went into the rear of the loft and came back, minutes later, wearing a dark purple coat and a miniature candy-red backpack. The shining patent leather pouch was an alluring touch, a strap-on heart shape bulging outward between her shoulder blades.

“What are you bringing?” I said.

“Just girl stuff. Don’t ask.”

When we stepped out onto the sidewalk, Melissa shivered once.

“Are you cold?”

“I’ll be fine.”

We walked east, passing boutique windows until we crossed Broadway and encountered a couple of French restaurants followed suddenly by a bleak intersection. I took Melissa by the hand and led her slowly down Crosby Street. The evening was coming on early, a cool grayness engulfing the garbage bags and bundles of papers stacked in front of the old five- and six-story buildings.

“This street needs some shops,” Melissa said.

“You’re right, honey. But they’ll be here soon enough. Probably a Starbucks, too, before your junior-high days are over.”

“I wish there was something here
now
.”

I glanced ahead as we passed several darkened doorways. “There’s a little tapas joint. They have music there sometimes. Guitars, people clapping. Dancers stamping flamenco on a tiny square of linoleum by the bar.”

“It’s too cold for Spanish music today.”

“That’s when you need it most.”

“I don’t feel like it. I won’t have to dance like a Spanish girl, will I?”

“No, not like that.”

“What then?”

“You choose.”

After another block, the bulk of the designated old building seemed to rise up suddenly. We arrived at a doorway festooned with improvised buzzers.

“Ready?” I asked.

“If you are, Uncle Jack.”

I pressed button number four, hand-labeled “China Luck Trading,” and a moment later Sammy’s voice came out of the squawk box. “Yeah?”

“It’s Jack,” I said. “With Melissa.”

Almost immediately, someone very large and unknown to me opened the door. He was wearing dark slacks and a black T-shirt with a gold chain at his neck.

“You the art dealer?”

“That’s right.”

“Come in.” As we crossed the threshold, he smiled at Melissa and did his best to sound kind. “Hello, young lady. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you very much,” Melissa answered.

As we squeezed past the doorman, his hands went over me in the same way Sammy’s once had. He glanced at Melissa under the fluorescent light in the hallway but said nothing. He knew what was coming, so there was no need to pat her down. Instead, he led us into the ancient elevator, slamming the accordion gate. As he pushed the wooden handle of a drum lever, we rose slowly past several locked floors.

At the fourth level, he stopped and jockeyed the cab up and down a few times to make the match-up even for Melissa.