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.”
10
“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.”
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?”
