Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

He slipped his cell phone into his jacket pocket and sat down across from me. He examined his wineglass and decided it was too close to empty. He lifted the bottle of Syrah and tilted it in my direction. I shook my head and he shrugged and filled his glass.

“Todd’s always happy to serve the cause of art,” Monroe continued, “and especially if it improves the value of his own collection.” He drank some wine and heaved a satisfied sigh.

“Did he say when?” I asked.

“Tonight. He’ll call me back with the time.” Monroe bent again to what remained of the lunch I was buying. He speared the last of his cassoulet even as he scanned the dessert menu.

Finding Chaz Monroe hadn’t been hard. I’d returned home on Sunday afternoon with Ricky’s words still playing in my head, and with my worry ticking louder. I thought about Holly’s videos and knew that if I wanted to understand what she was about- and maybe figure out what she wanted with my brother- I’d have to see them for myself.

I returned to the Candy Foam blog and followed BeatTilStiff’s postings from there to another contemporary-art blog called ArtHaus Polizei. It turned out to be Beat’s home turf. Polizei was an edgier version of Candy Foam, and besides Beat’s musings on recent gallery shows, museum exhibitions, and auctions there were long riffs on anime, music videos, sneaker fashion, and tattooing. “Fucking” was apparently his adjective of choice.

I’d clicked on a “Profile” link and learned that, besides being the proprietor of Polizei, Beat was “a New York-based freelance writer, art critic, and art acquisitions consultant.” I’d lingered over that description for a while and then clicked on the “Contact Me” link. I’d been vague in my e-mail about what kind of consultation I needed, but I was pretty clear about my ability to pay. I’d included my telephone number, too. The market for freelance writer-art critic-art acquisition consultants must’ve been a little thin, because I didn’t wait an hour for his call.

I told him I was interested in Cassandra Z’s work, and that I was looking for help in seeing some of it. My problem didn’t surprise him.

“I take it you spoke to Don Orlando?” Monroe asked. His voice was hoarse and ironic.

“We didn’t exactly hit it off.”

He snorted. “Which puts you in good company, my friend. O’s very control-freaky, and particularly when it comes to Cassie. I used to think it was a German thing, but now I think it was always fucking strategy. All that mystery and exclusivity has built a real buzz in certain circles, and done wonders for her prices.”

“Wonders,” I said. “Can you arrange a viewing for me?”

“A viewing with an eye toward acquisition?”

“That’s the general idea.”

We’d talked about his fee, but I hadn’t bargained hard. I wanted him motivated, and in any event it was David’s money I’d be spending. I’d heard a cigarette light when we settled things, and Monroe had seemed relieved and eager to get started.

“I’ll make my calls and we can touch base tomorrow, let’s say for late lunch.”

He’d picked Cousin Dupree’s, a new and much hyped bistro on the Upper East Side, and he’d kept me waiting for twenty minutes. He was talking on his cell and smoking a cigarette when he almost stepped through the door- a rounded, fortyish man in a gravely abused camel hair coat and wilted Gucci loafers. The hostess had stopped him at the threshold and pointed him and his cigarette at the sidewalk, but he’d taken it affably enough. I’d watched through the window as he puffed away and made more phone calls. His tangled hair was black and shiny, and so were his eyes. They sparkled above his ruddy cheeks and, along with his sly, puffy mouth, gave him the look of a seedy cherub.

Monroe drained his glass. “No dessert for you?” he asked. I shook my head and he looked suspicious and ordered a flan. He was looking over the list of Sauternes when I cleared my throat.

“How many of her videos have you seen?” I asked.

Monroe answered quickly. “Five: Interviews Two through Five and Interview Eight.”

“How many are there?”

“Twelve so far.”

“What are they like?”

He thought about this longer. “I won’t ruin things for you by trying to describe them,” he said finally, “and in any case I wouldn’t do them justice- but I will give you my opinion, which is that they’re fucking brilliant. Weird shit, definitely, strange enough to give a sick kind of thrill, but fucking brilliant. You’ll see.”

Monroe’s flan came and he was halfway through it when his cell phone burred. He raised his eyebrows and excused himself to the bar again. He wore a satisfied smile when he returned.

“Nine o’clock,” he said, “at Todd’s place.”

Which left me five hours to kill when I said goodbye to Monroe. I disposed of one of them with a cold, stiff-legged run along the Hudson, up into the twenties and down to TriBeCa. The phone was ringing as I came through the door. It was Clare.

“I was wondering if you wanted your key back,” she said. I heard street noise in the background.

“I was a little surprised you didn’t leave it behind on Saturday.”

“I thought about it. I thought about throwing it at you too. Do you want it back or not?”

“Not,” I said. “Where are you?”

She was quiet for a moment. “In the neighborhood,” she said eventually.

“You want to stop by?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and hung up. But she was there when I got out of the shower. She was perched in the sofa with her coat still on and blue dusk falling around her. She turned the key over in her hand.

“Still thinking about throwing it?” I asked. I belted my robe and sat at the table.

Clare’s gray eyes were clouded and her voice was low. “It’s too light,” she said. “It wouldn’t do any damage.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry about Saturday.”

“Sorry about what part?”

“About prying.”

“Was that prying? I’m sort of amazed you never asked before. Anyway, it wasn’t that.”

“Then what was it?”

She sighed massively and stood and paced slowly along my bookshelves. Her hair was white in the twilight and she swept it off her shoulders. “Timing. Your timing sucks.”

I nodded. “Then I’m sorry about the timing, and about being insensitive.”

Clare’s laugh was short and bitter. “Insensitive? A few years of therapy, some medication maybe- and maybe you can work your way up to insensitive.” She leaned against a cast-iron column and folded her arms across her chest. “Besides, ‘insensitive’ is boyfriend talk. Is that what you think you are?”

“A friend, anyway.”

Another small laugh. “A friend with privileges? A fuck buddy?”

“What do you call it, if not a friend?”

She said something I couldn’t make out and I crossed the room and stood in front of her. Her head was bent and her shoulders quivered in the shadows.

“What do you call it?” I asked again. My throat was tight and my voice sounded far away.

Clare leaned forward and rested her forehead on my shoulder. She tapped me lightly in the chest with my house key. “Hell if I know,” she murmured. “You’re the fucking detective, you figure it out.” Then she put the key in her pocket and turned her face up and kissed me.

Clare was sleeping when I got into the shower and gone when I got out. I dressed quickly in gray flannels and a black turtleneck and headed for the subway and Brooklyn.

Chaz Monroe was waiting on the corner of President and Hicks streets, smoking a cigarette, talking on his cell, and stamping his feet in the cold. The collar was up on his camel hair coat and his dark eyes glittered in the streetlight. He said his goodbyes and snapped his phone shut.