Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

“That’s the actual electric chair that serial killer Jonathan Fischer Freed died in, but don’t ask me how I got it,” Torquemada said conspiratorially. “I’m sorry to say that item is not for sale.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Matteo dejectedly.

Browsing, I came upon a section of the gallery dedicated to clown paintings. That’s right. Clown paintings. Just like the ones you’d find in any flea market in America. Competently but not expertly rendered, each picture featured a different clown. Odd, but innocuous, I thought.

“These are a series of works painted in prison by serial murderer John Wayne Gacy,” Torquemada explained. “He turned out hundreds of oils for avid fans before he was executed on May 10, 1994.”

“Electric chair?” Matteo asked.

“Lethal injection,” Torquemada replied. “I recently acquired these particular works from a collector who passed away…”

I looked at one of the paintings and thought I saw a cruel glint in the eye of the supposedly innocuous clown. The painting was called Pogo the Clown and was subtitled A self-portrait .

“Gacy tortured and murdered twenty-eight young men in a homoerotic frenzy,” Torquemada continued. “He was struck with a swing as a child and the injury resulted in a blood clot that he insisted clouded his sense of right and wrong. Despite this real or imagined infirmity, Gacy was a talented painter and a prominent businessman who was active in his community. Dressed as Pogo the Clown, Gacy entertained sick children at the local hospital and helped with their fundraising activities. He was so influential in Chicago politics that he once had his photograph taken with First Lady Rosalynn Carter.”

Slowly edging closer to Elvira, Matteo came upon a bookshelf made of old bones — human bones by the look of them. I might have found this shocking, except for the fact that I’d seen shrines in Italy made of human bones and they were often quite lovely in a macabre sort of way. And I have no doubt that Matteo had seen more unsettling things than this simple bookcase in the Third World. Indeed, Matteo’s eyes quickly moved past the bizarre furniture to scan the books themselves.

On a rib-caged shelf, a glass case held a shopworn magazine face out to display the cover, which featured a photograph of a woman’s torso and head completely encased in black leather.

“We have a complete set of John Willie’s Bizarre magazine, all twenty-six issues,” Torquemada said. “If you are not acquainted with the title, Bizarre was an underground fetish magazine published in the forties and fifties. We don’t deal in much erotica at Death Row, but we have a bit here and there if the items are collectable enough.”

“What type of art do you deal in, Mr. Torquemada?” I asked.

“Just Torquemada, Ms. — ?”

“Cosi,” I said.

Torquemada folded his hands.

“To answer your question, primarily Death Row Gallery provides an outlet for the violent outcasts of our society to exhibit and market their creative endeavors.”

“You mean you sell art by murderers.”

“You put it crudely, Ms. Cosi, but accurately.”

He shifted his gaze to Matteo, then back to me.

“You’re obviously searching for a particular item. I’m sure I can be of service.”

“Actually, I was looking for the work of a particular artists,” I said. “A young man who calls himself Mars…”

Torquemada stared at me doubtfully. “Mars?”

“Sahara McNeil told me about him. Recommended his work.”

At the mention of Sahara’s name, Elvira turned in our direction.

“Mars?” Torquemada said tersely. “You can’t be serious.”

The couple seemed oblivious to the change in the tone of our conversation, but the Japanese businessmen were now glancing in our direction, too.

Torquemada gripped my arm, none too gently.

“Will you both please follow me to my office,” he said with forced politeness.

I shook my arm loose from his grasp as I followed the dealer through the gallery to a door marked PRIVATE. He quickly unlocked it and motioned us inside. Torquemada followed Matteo and I through the door and closed it quickly.

The office was small and stark, with off-white walls displaying framed posters announcing Death Row gallery shows. An Apple computer with a sleek, thin monitor sat on the desk and a slew of art books and catalogs packed a set of tall shelves. Stacks of black leather artist’s portfolios leaned against the length of one wall, and the corner of the room, behind the desk, was dominated by a human skeleton posing with a silver tray in its hand, as if it were serving lunch. There were some items on the tray, but Torquemada spoke up before I got a good look, calling my attention away.

“Now what is this all about?” Torquemada demanded, his face florid. “I already spoke to a police detective. If you two are more of the same you should at least identify yourselves as such.”

“We’re private detectives investigating the death of Sahara McNeil,” Matteo smoothly stated without a second’s hesitation.

“What’s to investigate?” Torquemada said, his arms wide in an open shrug. “She was flattened by the Sanitation Department, end of story.”

“You don’t seem broken up about it,” I noted.

“No, I don’t, Ms. Cosi. And neither would you. Little Sally was a below average sales representative whose inability to schmooze the clientele and the artists we represent nearly cost me one of my best clients.”

“Mars?”

Torquemada laughed. “Hardly. Poor Mars, a.k.a. Larry Gilman, is nothing but a wannabe.”

“I have it on good authority that he has a record as a violent felon. That he may have committed murder,” I replied.

“He was a co-defendant in an assault charge that was downgraded from manslaughter. Larry got into a bar fight with some Puerto Rican punk over a girl and the kid died later. Larry-the-murderer didn’t even do hard time — just parole. Likes to play it up, though. Thinks it’s good for his resume.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You have to have at least a modicum of talent,” Torquemada replied. “ Mars was strictly fan-boy. Japanese Manga meets Jackson Pollock. Really quite derivative. Sometimes I move his stuff to the Goths who can’t afford to purchase the real thing.”

“Like one of those fine clown paintings, you mean?”

“They may not be profound, Ms. Cosi, but they were produced by a mind bold enough to grasp a much darker vision of the universe than Larry Gilman’s. Or most definitely, yours.”

Yes, most definitely, mine, I thought, and thank goodness.

“How would you characterize the relationship between Larry Gilman and Sahara McNeil?” I asked.

“A lapdog to its master. He worshiped her. She tolerated him. Sahara moved art for Larry. She even let him come over to the gallery for long, soulful chats.” Torquemada examined his nails and sighed.

“Sahara probably liked the attention, but I doubt very much there was any more to it than that. She was ten years older than Larry in age — and light years ahead of him in education and sophistication. She had a degree in fine arts, Larry was a Jersey boy who’d dropped out of high school. What could she really find attractive about a crude post-adolescent no-talent?”

Torquemada moved to the leaning stacks of black leather portfolios and tossed one onto the desk.

“Mars came by earlier today, brought me these.” He flipped open the leather folder.

Inside were pictures painted in acrylic. Ten of them. The same woman in every one. I recognized her flaming red hair and green eyes from Cappuccino Connection night.

“Sahara McNeil…”