Unknown - The Genius

AS I LAY ON THE GALLERY FLOOR, contemplating the long, strange road I had taken, I felt at peace. Victor Cracke represented my first big-boy step as a dealer. With the exception of Kristjana, I inherited my entire client list from Leonora, and in the minds of many, the Muller Gallery had failed to distinguish itself from its predecessor. As much as I appreciated Leonora’s taste, I had long wanted to make my mark felt, to find an artist I loved and make him a star. Victor gave me that chance, and I had not let him down.

“Thank you,” I said to the drawings.

They waved like seaweed.

If I’d known what was about to happen, I would have got up and preemptively disconnected the phone. Or perhaps I would have leapt up to answer. That depends on whether you consider what followed good or bad.

Either way: the next part of the story begins with a ringing phone. This is a detective novel, remember?

THE MACHINE PICKED UP. A soft, tired voice, said,

“Mr. Muller, my name is Lee McGrath. I read the article and I’m interested in learning some more about the artist Victor Cracke. Would you mind please giving me a buzz?” He left a number with a 718 area code.

That night I went home without returning his call, and when I came in the next morning there was another message.

“Hi Mr. Muller, Lee McGrath. Sorry to bother you again. Please, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”

I dialed his number and introduced myself.

“Hi,” he said. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I was reading the paper and I came across the article about this person, Victor Cracke, the artist. Sounds like some story.”

“It is.”

“Yes, a really interesting story. Do you mind if I ask how you came across him and the drawings? Because I’d like to learn some more about him.”

Obviously, McGrath hadn’t read the article too carefully; the reporter had clearly stated that I’d never met Cracke. At the end of the piece they’d printed my phone number and a request for any further information.

I said as much to McGrath, who said, “Hm.”

At that point, a lot of people would have made an excuse to get off the phone. Many dealers decide within seconds of meeting you whether you’re worth a conversation. In my experience, though, restraint pays. I once had a dowdy-looking couple (Mervyns print pants, Hush Puppies) walk in, stroll around for ten minutes, ask a couple of benign questions, and walk out. Two weeks later they called me from Lincoln, Nebraska, and bought seven paintings at a hundred twenty thousand dollars apiece, followed by another half million dollars’ worth of sculpture.

So I try to be patient, even if it means answering redundant questions and waiting for an old man—I’d decided, for no particular reason, that McGrath was old—to formulate his thoughts. If he cared enough to call me about a photo in the paper, he might be the kind of person I could sell to in the future.

He said, “I understand that there were a lot of those drawings, not just the one they reprinted in the paper.”

Again, a detail the reporter had noted. “There are lots more.”

“How did they choose which one to reprint?”

I explained about the numbering system.

“Really,” he said. “That’s panel number one?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t say … I’d really like to see that one for myself. Is that possible?”

“You’re welcome to come down anytime you like. We’re open Tuesday through Saturday, ten to six. Where are you coming from?”

He chuckled, which turned into a cough. “I can’t drive anymore. I don’t leave the house too much. I was hoping I might be able to convince you to make a house call.”

“I’m very sorry, but I don’t think that’s possible. I can e-mail you pictures of the work. Although I should let you know that the piece you saw in the paper has been sold.”

“Well, geez. Too bad for me. If you don’t mind, though, I’d still like to find out about Mr. Cracke. Any chance you would like to come by for a bit, just to chat?”

I began to tap my fingers against the desk. “I wish I had more to tell you, but—”

“What about these, eh”—I heard the sound of a newspaper being lifted—”journals. The journals he kept. Are those sold, too?”

“Not yet. I’ve had several offers.” Not completely true. Some collectors had admired the journals, but nobody had put a price on them yet. People wanted objects readily displayed on a wall, not a dense, tedious text.

“Do you think I could see them?”

“If you come to the gallery, I’d be happy to show you,” I said. “Right now I’m afraid I can’t transport them anywhere. They’re falling apart as it is.”

“This isn’t my lucky day, huh.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I said. “Please let me know if there’s another way I can accommodate you.” Something about McGrath’s folksiness made me want to be as formal as possible. “Was there something else I could help you with?”

“Probably not, Mr. Muller. But I have to take a chance and ask you one more time if you’d consider taking a trip out to see me. It’d mean a lot to me. I’m close by.”

Without realizing what I was doing, I said, “Where.”

“Breezy Point. You know where that is?”

I didn’t.

“Rockaways. You take the Belt. You know how to get to the Belt?”

“Mr. McGrath. I didn’t agree to come.”

“Oh. I thought you had.”

“No, sir.”

“Oh. Well, okay then.”

There was a pause. I started to say, “Thanks for calling” but he said, “Don’t you want to know what this is about?”

I sighed. “Okay.”

“It’s about the picture in the paper. The one of the boy.”

I realized he meant the Cherub in the Times. “What about him.”

“I know him,” said McGrath. “I know who he is. I recognized him straightaway. His name was Eddie Cardinale. Forty years ago someone strangled him to death, but we never found out who.” He coughed. “Can I give you directions or do you know how to get to the Belt?”

6 Í7

AY lthough technically part of Queens, the long, flat Rockaway penin-U sula juts beneath Brooklyn’s potbelly, like the concealed feet of a perching waterfowl. To get there you drive through Jacob Riis Park, a marshy preserve more Chesapeake Bay than New York City. Turning northeast takes you to JFK and some of the most ghettoized areas in the Five Boroughs, neighborhoods you’d never think of as dangerous, simply because they abut the beach. How can the beach be dangerous? Go to the Rockaways and you’ll get your answer.

Breezy Point Cooperative sits at the other end of the peninsula, in every sense of the phrase. Nonwhite faces become less common as you head southwest, as does traffic, which thins out as you approach the parking lot. I pulled up in a cab around three. Just outside the entrance to the community was a pub that had drawn a decent crowd. The driver bobbed his head noncommittally when I asked him to wait, or to come back in an hour. As soon as I paid him, he sped away.

I entered a warren of low-slung bungalows and Cape Codders and right away felt the eponymous breeze: cool and briny, whipping up grit from the beach a hundred yards away. My loafers filled with sand as I walked the alleyways, past houses done up with nautical themes: lifesavers and signs carved from weather-beaten teak: JIM’S CLIPPER or THE GOOD SHIP HAL-LORAN. Irish tricolors abounded.

Later I learned that most of the homeowners are summerfolk who flee after Labor Day. But in mid-August they were still out in droves: out on their cramped porches or down by the boardwalk, sweating and crushing cans of Budweiser and watching towheaded skateboarders dive-bomb the pavement. Charcoal smoke turned the air heavy. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and nobody knew me. Kids playing basketball on a low hoop with a water-filled base stopped their game and gathered to stare at me, like I had a big scarlet letter on my chest. N, perhaps, for Not Local.