Unknown - The Genius

And then there was the art. So much of it, and so much of it bad. There was a Persian rug woven with images from Abu Ghraib. There were some photos of cups and saucers being shattered by bullets. There were sober paintings of Britney Spears and, courtesy of Damien Hirst, panels of laminated houseflies. In the center of the main tent was an installation by rory z called Jizz? or Salon Secrets Volumizing Conditioner with Hibiscus Extracts?, whose title pretty much says it all: a row of hinge-top cases, the lids of which showed a color photo of an object—a pencil, say, or a Tickle Me Elmo—spotted with nacreous liquid from either a bottle of the aforementioned product or rory z’s own reproductive glands. Viewers could study the photo and muster a best guess before opening the case to discover the truth inscribed on a little gold placard.

Another piece I took the time to look at was a video installation by Sergio Antonelli, who had filmed himself walking into a midtown Starbucks, ordering a triple-shot espresso, drinking it, getting back in line, ordering another, drinking it, getting back in line, and so forth. (He never seemed to have to pee, although I suppose that could have been edited out.) Eventually, he consumed enough caffeine that he had—or appeared to have—a myocardial infarction. It’s hard to overstate the comedy of him thrashing through the mid-morning crowd. One man actually stepped over him en route to the cream-and-sugar station. The final shot showed Antonelli in the emergency room, being revived by a doctor wearing a green apron. The piece was called Deathbucks.

But most of the time I wasn’t looking at art. For someone like me, part of the fun was that I got to catch up with colleagues I hadn’t seen since the last fair. Marilyn had been cranking the rumor mill, and our booth received a steady stream of gawkers who put their noses right up to the drawings, asking was it true, had he really. Word of the Hollister sale had gotten around— no doubt I had Marilyn to thank for that as well—and by week’s end I sold everything. Ruby began referring to our booth as the Cracke House and to us as the Cracke Whores. Guilty or not, Victor was a gold mine.

Nat calculated that were I to turn the whole collection around at the prices I’d been getting, I’d net close to $300 million. That would never happen, of course; I could ask as much as I did because most of the drawing still sat unassembled, in boxes. Since closing the show, I had moved the remaining material to a secure warehouse in the east twenties, and made plans to start assembling some new canvases—just a few, enough to moisten the market without flooding it.

Cracke’s success rubbed off on the rest of my artists, too. I sold some Ardath Kaplans, some Alyson Alvarezes, the remaining Jocko Steinberger; I had a request for first pick of the new Oshimas when they came in. I even got rid of an old piece by Kristjana, one that I’d begun to think of as a white elephant. I tried to let her know the good news, but she wouldn’t take my call.

I ARRIVED BACK IN NEW YORK exhausted and in desperate need of dry cleaning. I left the gallery closed for a day and lay around my apartment, letting my head clear. Then I called McGrath to see if anything had come up since our last meeting.

He didn’t answer, not then nor on the subsequent two days. By the time somebody picked up, on Wednesday afternoon, I’d begun to worry.

The voice that answered was a woman’s, unfamiliar.

“Who’s calling.”

“Ethan Muller.”

A hand muffled the receiver. I heard talking. The woman came back on. “Hold on.” A moment later another female voice came on, cracked and dry to the point that at first I didn’t recognize it as Samantha’s.

“He’s dead,” she said.

I told her I’d get in a taxi.

“Wait. Wait. Don’t come, please. The house—everything is crazy right now.” Someone said her name in the background. “One second,” she said. Then she said, “The funeral’s on Friday. I can’t talk right now, I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” I asked, but she had hung up.

11 Ť2

n retrospect, I’m glad she didn’t hear my question, which I asked re-flexively and which needed no answer. I didn’t need her to tell me what happened; I knew what had happened. I had been watching it happen for the last month and a half.

Since she hadn’t told me where the service would take place, I spent the rest of my day making awkward cold calls, inquiring after the McGrath funeral party. I found the right place, a church in Maspeth, and hired a car for Friday.

I’d always heard about police funerals being large, ceremonious affairs, but perhaps that’s true only when an officer goes down in the line of duty. At McGrath’s service there were a fair number of blue uniforms, but nobody that stood out as top brass, and definitely no representative from the mayor’s office.

Mass began. Prayers were offered, hymns sung. Not knowing what to do—the Mullers are not a pious bunch—I stood at the rear of the sanctuary with my hands knotted behind my back, trying to see all the way to the front, where Samantha rested her head on the shoulder of a woman I assumed was her mother.

The Word of the Lord Thanks be to God

McGrath’s brother delivered a eulogy, as did Samantha’s older sister, whose name I could not remember. Had McGrath told it to me? I didn’t know. Our time together had been spent under strangely intimate circumstances, but almost everything about him remained a mystery to me. I told myself I had an idea of who he was—a wry sense of humor, a lust for justice—but how much could I possibly know? I looked out at the sea of heads, trying to put names on people: his old partner? The famous Richard Soto? I did spot Annie Lundley, and, glad to find a familiar face, I almost waved.

“I doubt that anybody here can think of him as anything other than a police officer. And that’s what he was, that’s what he always was, and he was great at what he did. I remember when I was a little girl, and he would take me out for a drive. He’d switch on the sirens, just for a couple of seconds, and people would look at us as we passed. And I remembering thinking, That’s my dad. They’re looking at my dad.’ I was so proud of him. Daddy, I’m so proud of you. We all are, and we know how much you put into your life, how much you cared about the people you helped. You never stopped being the man I was proud of.”

The Eucharist; the wine, the wafer.

Into your hands, Father of mercies, we commend our brother Leland

Thomas McGrath.

Six brawny men shouldering the casket.

The processional was brief, five blocks. I walked along alone, keeping pace with the somber train of SUVs and Town Cars. The day was brisk, the light harsh, as though the sun had turned on its own headlamps in sympathy.

During the burial I kept my eye on Samantha. She stood apart, no longer leaning on her mother, who instead took the arm of a man with a walrus-like moustache. He wore a light blue blazer that stuck out against the predominant black, and I got very clear dislike vibes from Samantha regarding him. Her sister didn’t seem to bear him as much animosity, and at one point clasped his hand.

In my mind, I tested out several explanations, rejecting all but the most obvious: the man was the wife’s second husband. Evidently, the collapse of McGrath’s marriage had fallen harder on Samantha than on her sister. Maybe the sister had been out of the house already, leaving Samantha to watch her parents’ relationship in its dying throes.

Lord hear our prayer

The service concluded, and people broke off in twos and threes. I approached Samantha to offer my condolences but turned away when I saw her arguing quietly with her mother, their heads cocked forward and their hands fluttering. Mother and daughter shared the same slightly insolent mouth, the same jutting hips. The former Mrs. McGrath had an unhealthy tan, the work of someone who spends too much time on a UV bed; by comparison, Samantha’s pallor looked like the work of someone trying desperately not to look like her mother.