I had met Viktor Raskolnikov, Veil's patron, art dealer, and friend, through Veil some years before and had eventually become friends myself with the burly, shrewd, gentle Russian. Viktor owned a gallery on Madison Avenue, on New York's Upper East Side. Despite the fact that I was beginning to feel very tired and sore, that's where I headed next, treating myself to a cab ride over a distance I would normally have walked with pleasure.
The Raskolnikov Gallery occupied a four-story building and more closely resembled a small art museum than a gallery. Viktor had made a fortune anticipating 'now' movements and 'hot' artists in New York's volatile art market. His specialty was the avant-garde, but he touched all the bases and his tastes were eclectic, ranging from antique Persian miniatures to performance art, allowing artists to stage and videotape their 'pieces' in a small basement theater.
Each floor of the gallery was divided into rooms of various sizes where 'compatible' pieces of artwork were displayed side by side. Viktor opened at noon, stayed open until midnight, and there were always crowds of people moving through the rooms, types ranging from ragtag, struggling artists eyeing the work of their more successful contemporaries, to oil sheikhs looking for good investments.
Veil had a medium-sized room all to himself. Although I happened to know that Viktor had, at any one time, dozens of the prolific Veil's paintings stored away in a humidity-controlled vault, he very shrewdly chose to display only a very few-sometimes only one-of the paintings at a time, and always out of sequence so that it was impossible to guess that they had been spawned from a much larger work. The effect of seeing one of Veil's paintings, surreal and eerie, floating in its own cubical, monochrome sea of space bathed in soft blue or white light was striking, always intriguing, and sometimes disorienting. Viewing it in this way, whether alone in the room or with others, one might have been a passenger on a spaceship looking out a porthole over the surface of an alien world.
'Mongo?'
At the sound of the familiar, rumbling voice I turned away from the painting and found myself looking up into the round, bearded face of Viktor Raskolnikov hovering like a grizzled moon over his huge belly. As always, the Russian was dressed in a finely tailored tuxedo. He was holding a glass of white wine in each hand, and his green eyes glowed with bemused curiosity as he stared down at me.
'Hi, Viktor,' I said, nodding my thanks as I took one of the glasses of wine.
'I thought it was you,' the gargantuan art dealer said. 'But what is with the dark glasses and big hat? I've never seen you wear a hat.'
'I'm traveling incognito.'
Viktor thought about it, then began to laugh. Viktor Raskolnikov laughing was truly a sight to hear and behold, and it served to stop traffic in the room and in the corridor outside. Viktor laughed with his whole body, which meant that his great belly heaved to and fro, and rolled, inside its vested confines, seemingly stretching the fabric to its breaking point. And he did it all without spilling a single drop of wine.
'Ah, that's a good one,' Viktor said when he had finally brought his laughter under control and was able to catch his breath. 'Dr. Robert Frederickson, of all people, trying to hide his identity under a big hat. Yes, that's very good. I've always loved your sense of humor.'
'Yeah. Ho-ho.'
Now Viktor frowned. 'But I see that you are walking with a limp and using a cane. Is this part of your disguise?'
'Unfortunately, no. Actually, I have two limps. I had a little accident; something bumped into me.'
'I am sorry, my friend,' Viktor said, laying a huge hand on my shoulder. 'I hope you are feeling better soon.'
'Thanks, Viktor.' I paused, trying to think of a way of sliding into asking the questions I wanted to ask without giving away too much information and putting the art dealer into any more jeopardy than I'd already placed him simply by walking into his gallery. 'You know,' I continued at last, 'every time I see Veil's work I'm struck by its originality and freshness.'
'Yes,' Viktor said simply, glancing up at the painting above my head. 'He's truly one of a kind.'
'At first, all of his pieces look the same. But then you gradually come to realize that they're not; each painting in a series has subtle differences that make it unique.'
Viktor nodded in agreement, sipped at his wine.
'And all landscapes,' I continued. 'No people-at least none that I've ever seen. Has he ever shown you any paintings with people in them?'
The gallery owner looked at me strangely. 'No. As far as I know. Veil has never done anything but landscapes, although his use of color has changed radically over the years. You can see it most dramatically when you compare slides of his earlier work with what he does now. That's curious.'
'What's curious? The change in his use of color?'
'No. It's curious that I was asked the same question just yesterday.'
'Really?' I could feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise.
'Yes. Two men came in the gallery yesterday afternoon and expressly asked to talk to me. They offered to pay for my time, and I should have accepted; I spent close to an hour with them, and they left without buying anything.'
'What did they want to know?' I asked in what I hoped was a very casual tone of voice.
'A curious pair, with none of the aura of warmth and excitement people in the arts usually project. They asked questions like the one you just asked, about Veil's present and earlier work. I had the suspicion they were dealers, and I made it clear to them that Veil has an exclusive contract with this gallery for the next fifteen years.'
They were dealers, all right, I thought, brokers of pain and death. The discovery that my torturers had paid Viktor a visit the day before served to magnify my own feelings of being a very dangerous pariah; everyone I talked to now became a potential target for the men who had tried to kill me. I was fairly certain I hadn't been followed, but couldn't be absolutely sure; my enemies might not even know I'd survived the fire, but I couldn't be absolutely sure of that, either. The gallery suddenly seemed very large and public, and I suddenly felt very vulnerable.
'Viktor,' I said, shifting my weight heavily onto my cane, 'I need a favor.'
'What can I do for you, my friend?'
'I have a friend in the art department at the university who's putting together a collection of promotional material that's been used by and for various artists. I told her I'd come by here and ask you for one of Veil's publicity photos.'
'Of course,' the Russian replied with an easy shrug. 'Let's go see what I have in my office.'
With Viktor setting a slow pace, I hobbled after him out of the room, down the hallway, and into his office at the end. Grateful for the opportunity to rest my burning, throbbing feet, I slumped down on a leather couch while Viktor looked through a filing cabinet. After a minute or two he found what he was looking for-a four-page brochure from a one-man show Viktor had mounted the year before with Veil's photograph prominently displayed on the cover. I took it from Viktor, had a second glass of wine, then thanked my friend and left the gallery, going down a back stairway leading to an exit door that opened into an alley.
Now thoroughly exhausted, I took a cab back to Garth's apartment. It took me a couple of minutes to go through the procedures for defusing the explosive devices with which Garth had booby-trapped the door. After resetting the devices, I took a couple of aspirin and soaked in a tepid tub for half an hour.
The phone started to ring just as I came out of the bathroom and was headed toward the wet bar. I debated letting it ring, but since this was Garth's apartment and the call was probably for him, I answered it. It was my brother.
'Hey, brother,' Garth said. 'I was just about to give up on you.
I've been trying to reach you all day. You can hardly walk, and you're supposed to be convalescing. Where the hell have you been?'
'Just taking care of some business. Among other things, I wanted to pick up a photograph of Veil.'
'You could have saved yourself the trouble. I have mug shots.'
'I didn't want mug shots. For one thing, they never look like the person.'
