Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

“Orlando Krug?”

“No.”

“Is he in?”

“And you would be who?” His voice was nasal and arch, and as bored as his look.

“The guy looking for Orlando Krug. Is he in?”

The man shrugged. “No need to be grumpy,” he said, and he pushed away from the desk and went through a doorway in the back. He knocked at a door at the end of a short hall and opened it and went in. He came out a moment later and so did another man.

He was about sixty and tall, and his skin had the color and hard gloss of polished teak decking. He wore pressed jeans and a black sweater, and his white hair was cut very short. His brows were precise arches over wary blue eyes, and there was something in his gaunt face that reminded me of a monk. The abbot, perhaps, of a prosperous and deeply tanned order.

He had a deep voice and an accent that almost wasn’t there and that I couldn’t quite place. “I am Krug. How can I help you, Mr…?”

“March. I understand you represent Cassandra Z.”

Behind the desk, the blond man perked up. Krug glanced at him. “Ricky, make me an espresso, would you?” Ricky rolled his eyes but stood. Krug looked at me. “And one for you, perhaps, Mr. March? Ricky does quite a good job.” I nodded and Ricky disappeared. Krug sat behind the desk and waved me to the chair opposite.

“You’re familiar with Cassandra’s work?” he asked. His blue eyes were shining.

“Not familiar, but intrigued. I was hoping to learn more.”

Krug smiled. “Her work is indeed intriguing, Mr. March, though not widely known.” I nodded but said nothing. Krug kept smiling. “How did you become aware of it?”

I shrugged. “Idle chatter from informed people. A comment here, a comment there…eventually it adds up.”

Krug steepled his long tan fingers beneath his chin. “Indeed. What other artists do you follow, Mr. March?”

Ricky came in with two coffees on a small silver tray. I smiled more widely. “Eisner, Ditko, Infantino, Adams, Miller.”

Ricky set a demitasse cup in front of each of us, squinted at me, and left. Krug pursed his lips. “Comic-book artists.”

“I’m ready to broaden my horizons.”

“And you wish to start with video, and with Cassandra’s work?”

“I hear such interesting things about it.”

“From whom, Mr. March?”

“People who know.”

“I know all the people who know, Mr. March. If they know, it’s because I arranged for them to know. So if one of these people has referred you to me, please don’t be shy in saying.”

“And if they haven’t?”

Krug sighed. The lines on his face seemed to fold in on themselves and he looked like a dour walnut. “Then we can drink our coffee and discuss the work of any number of other artists.”

“But not Cassandra’s?” Krug gathered his brows in a look of minuscule sympathy and shook his head. “Interest alone doesn’t qualify me?” I asked.

“Cassandra’s work is very challenging, Mr. March- not easily accessible. A collector new to the medium, lacking the context…I would be doing you a disservice.”

I chuckled. “I’m grateful for your concern. Would money have an effect on my qualifications?”

Krug played with the thin gold watch on his thin brown wrist. “None, I’m afraid. Cassandra’s work deserves to be appreciated, not merely bought and sold.”

“I thought buying and selling was your job, Mr. Krug. Does Cassandra know that you’re so…discouraging?”

“These are her directives, I assure you.” His blue eyes were cold in his shiny face.

“Maybe I could talk to her about that.”

Krug sighed deeply and sat back in his chair. “The only thing Cassandra is more concerned with than how her work is disposed of, Mr. March, is her privacy.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if there’s nothing more…” He raised his cup.

“Just one thing: Do you still represent Holly Cade?”

Krug sipped at his coffee and never spilled a drop. One white brow rose minutely. “Holly who?”

“Holly Cade. She was part of a group show at your Woodstock gallery.”

Krug’s apologetic look was barely perfunctory. “I’m afraid I don’t recall the name.”

“No, of course not,” I said, rising. “It’s been a long time, after all.”

There was a health food store on the corner and across the street. It carried an amazing array of soy products, and its large window had an unobstructed view of Krug Visual. I browsed the spelt cereals and green teas for half an hour before Ricky came out. He was wearing a topcoat bigger than he was, and he headed east on Perry Street, struggling against the wind. I followed.

Ricky was a man with a mission, and the mission, apparently, was lunch. He turned on West Fourth Street and again on West Eleventh and went into a gourmet deli and spoke to the man behind the counter. He came out ten minutes later with a white plastic grocery bag and began retracing his steps. I came up beside him on West Fourth.

“That was good coffee, Ricky.”

He jumped. “Jeez!” he said. “I almost dropped the effing soda.”

“Sorry. I just wanted a quick word.”

Ricky drifted to the corner and stopped. His ferrety eyes narrowed. “A quick word about what? I’ve got to get this back to himself or never hear the end of it.”

“Cassandra Z,” I said.

Ricky put up his free hand and backed away half a step. “Forget it, Grumpy. I need this job. And even if I knew anything about herwhich I don’t- why should I tell it to you?”

I shrugged and took my hand from my coat pocket. “For fifty bucks, maybe?” The bill was crisp and new. Ricky looked furtive and reached for it. I put it away. “On the other hand, you say you don’t know much.”

“If you’re looking for a name or phone number or whatever, I guess you get to keep your money. She’s too good to mingle with the help when she comes around. She only deals with O, and he plays her very close to the vest- especially since that other guy came in.”

“What other guy?”

Ricky looked at me and grinned nastily. “Looks like I know something after all.” His hand was out again.

I took out the fifty but held on to it. “What other guy?”

“O banished me to the back room, but I could hear. He was a lawyer type, and he worked for one of Cassie’s interview subjects. He wanted to get in touch with her, or for her to get in touch with him.”

“Interview subjects?”

Ricky looked impatient. “As in the titles of her videos- Interview One, Interview Two, and so forth- you know.”

I didn’t but I nodded vaguely. “What did he want to get in touch about?”

“He didn’t say.”

“And this was when?”

“A month or so ago.”

“You hear any names?”

“I don’t remember,” he said. He saw the look on my face. “No shitI really don’t.” Ricky eyed my fifty. “So, how about it?”

“Nearly there,” I said, and took my other hand from my other pocket. “Anybody here you recognize?”

Ricky looked down at the photo and tapped a finger on the woman sitting at the edge of the group. “That’s her,” he said. “That’s Cassie.” I sighed. Holly. Wren. Cassandra Z. “Do I get the cash now?”

“Sure,” I said, and the bill vanished from my hand.

Ricky turned and headed toward Perry Street and I called to him. He turned around, impatient.

“Now what?”

“What are her videos like?”

Ricky smirked and shook his head. “Cassie’s stuff? Like nothing else I’ve seen, Grumpy, and I’ve seen a lot.”

“I told him you were shopping,” Chaz Monroe said, “and that you had money to spend.” He smiled and groomed the small triangle of beard on his chin with the back of his hand. He looked like a pudgy cat doing it. “All of a sudden he was glad to help.”