“Well, thanks for clearing that up for me.”
“It’s not a technical term. It’s a eulogy.” Quinn only glanced in the general direction of a passing gallery boy, and two glasses of wine appeared in the next instant. He handed one to Mallory. “Actually, if Dean Starr hadn’t been such a fool, I might have given him credit for ingenious parody. Go to any Whitney Biennial and you’ll see scores of three-minute ideas executed by the untalented and curated by the blind. Starr just carried the premise a little further by not bothering to construct the idea. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that the idea for the tickets wasn’t even his.”
“Gregor Gilette said Koozeman used to be an artist.”
“Yes, he was. You know, the tickets could be Koozeman’s concept.”
“What are you doing here, Quinn? You said you didn’t review hack artists. And I had the feeling Koozeman didn’t expect you to show up tonight.”
“I’ve been planning a lengthy piece on Koozeman, not Starr. He really is quite the magician. I could hardly ignore a thing like this.”
“How will you write it up?”
“I intend to promote Koozeman as a genius of the new order. A genius of hype, and hype, don’t you know, is the art form of the era. He’s truly a man of his times. But it hardly merits writing. I can phone this one in.”
“Will anyone know you’re kidding?”
“No.”
“What did you think of Koozeman when he was a working artist?”
“I thought he was very good.”
“According to your brother-in-law, Sabra thought he was a genius.”
“She was probably right. Some of his work was brilliant, and now he promotes hacks. Every third person you meet in this town is a creative artist. If you have an old can of spray paint knocking around in the garage, Koozeman can make you a star.”
“Must be tough for the people with the real talent.”
“New York City,” said Quinn, as though the complete explanation could be offered in those three words. New York, he explained, was tough on every artist. In the beginning, New York doesn’t seem to notice them at all, or so they think. They believe the city doesn’t even know they’re alive. Then, one day an artist trips on the sidewalk and his hand hits the pavement and New York steps on it and breaks all his fingers. New York has noticed him. Then New York steps on his face and breaks that, too, and that’s just to say hello. “So, who could really blame Koozeman for opting to roll in cash instead of always chasing after the rent money.”
Now Koozeman joined them with fresh wine and a gallery boy at his side to take away their empty glasses.
“Quinn, you mustn’t monopolize my prize celebrity this way.” He made a small courtly bow to Mallory. “It was lovely the way you demolished the FBI. So these killer profiles of theirs are worthless?”
“No, not if they’re done right. My own profile tells me the killer is successful. He’s rich and getting richer. I smell money every time I think about the case. So I’m looking for someone with a soul that’s interchangeable with a cockroach or an advertising executive.”
Koozeman stared into his wineglass as he spoke to her. “And you think the killer of Dean Starr-”
“Oh sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of the wrong murder. Sometimes I get confused. I understand you were once an artist. Is that true?”
“It was a long time ago.” His words were halting.
“What kind of work did you do?”
“Nothing of any consequence.” Koozeman sipped his wine, eyes reevaluating her over the rim of his glass.
“But I heard different,” said Mallory. “ ‘Genius’ is the word I keep hearing. Now let me guess. You were a sculptor, right?”
A few drops of wine spilled from Koozeman’s glass.
Mallory didn’t wait for her answer. She abruptly dismissed him with the turn of her back and drifted off toward the wine table, leaving Quinn to wonder. He turned to Koozeman.
If a face could fall, Koozeman’s truly did. His mouth opened slightly as the jaw fell first, followed by the excess flesh of cheeks and jowls. And at last, his eyes dropped, staring at the floor now, as though it might be coming up to meet him at any moment.
Mallory was standing at the long table, looking from bottle to bottle.
“Can’t make up your mind?”
She looked up to see the smiling face of Kerry, the bartender from Godd’s.
“You know, what you drink at an art function is very important.” Kerry said this as much to the small crowd gathered at the table as to Mallory. “It shows your true political orientation.”
Heads turned. Kerry flourished a crisp white bar rag and continued. “A major gallery opening serves wine, champagne and sparkling water. Now, champagne,” he said, holding up a bottle as a visual aid, “given the state of the world, is in the worst possible taste. It says, ‘I realize that people in third-world nations are starving and politically oppressed, and I don’t care.”
Emma Sue Hollaran, wearing a knockoff silk blouse made by third-world child labor, sipped champagne and nodded reflexively before she could call the gesture back.
“White wine is middle of the road. It says, ‘I have no political convictions of my own, but I would be happy to embrace yours if you would only explain them to me.’ It’s the wine of wimps.”
The reporter from StreetLevel Weekly had been reaching for the white wine. He withdrew his hand as though it had been slapped.
“How about a nice glass of water?” another man suggested.
“Oh, worst possible choice,” said Kerry. “Water says, ‘I’m in complete sympathy with the plight of the homeless, and now I’m going to grind my heel into your face, you fascist pig.’ Water is much too politically volatile. They really shouldn’t serve water here.”
“What’s left?”
“My personal favorite.” He held up a dark bottle. “Red wine only says, ”I don’t care if I do spill this on my suit.“
The sour-looking young man from StreetLevel set his glass of sparkling water down on the bar and edged toward the red wine. Then, perhaps thinking of the cleaning bill for his only good suit, he retrieved his glass of water and went off in search of some rich and pretty socialite whom he might kill with words.
As Emma Sue Hollaran walked away from the table with her champagne, Kerry formed his hand into a gun and shot her with his middle finger, thus combining an obscene gesture with an imaginary kill.
Mallory took a glass of red. “You have a problem with her?”
“I have a problem with art critics in general. I make exceptions for the good ones, but there aren’t many like Quinn.”
“I thought Emma Sue Hollaran was on the Public Works Committee now.”
“She still turns in columns in the art magazines,” said Kerry. “She likes to keep her hand in with the thumbscrews. But she’ll get hers. I know where New York art critics go when they die, and it’s not pretty.”
“You mean fire and brimstone?”
“No, more like self-cannibalism. Critic’s Hell looks just like New York-but without any artists. The critics have to make their own art and criticize themselves. So they start chewing on their own tails, and being what they are, they can’t stop until they reach their necks, and…”
Everybody wants revenge.
While Kerry went on with the bitter details of the critic’s afterlife, Mallory was watching J. L. Quinn in conversation with Emma Sue Hollaran. Quinn’s polite mask was fracturing. He wore a nearly human expression of dismay. As Hollaran walked away, he emptied his glass in one swill-not his style. What had Hollaran said?
He turned to see Mallory watching him. He came toward her now, and set his empty glass on the table with a nod to Kerry.
“Take this.” Mallory handed him her own glass. “You look like your stock portfolio just died.”
“I’ve just been told the name of the artist who’s doing the work for Gregor’s plaza.”