“Is there a deal? Is he surrendering?”
“I am not at liberty to answer that. There are forces at work, and some of them would deem you unfit to retain custody of your son if you were to cosset a criminal and an enemy of America such as Brockton.”
“He’s a patriot. If you believe he is an enemy, then you are the enemy.”
“Miss Savant, as you said of yourself, do not presume to know me.”
“So fill me in, then. You a Fed? CIA?” That face, which looked like a drunken sculptor had pasted it together from used coffee grounds, didn’t reveal a damn thing.
“Let’s assume I work for the government. Our country is one in which people are free to disagree as long as they do not break the law by distributing illegal substances or acting in a violent manner to destabilize the constitutionally established order.”
“Nathaniel never dealt a drug in his life. And he does not advocate violent revolution.”
“That will be decided by the justice system.”
“Fucking bullshit. You and Billy Jr. with your illegal spy games, threats, and self-righteous attitude. Since you are so concerned with protecting Greta—”
“Miss Savant, we are here to speak about Nathaniel Brockton. I may be able to ask William to work with you regarding other matters, but first you have to work with me.” Obviously, Papa Bicks was playing some version of puppet master.
“Depends on what you mean by other matters. You tell me who my father is and then maybe we can ‘work’ with each other about Nathaniel.”
The phone rang. Junior must’ve picked it up in another room. A minute later the doors burst open and he came charging at us. “The bastard disappeared.” Billy Jr. turned to me. “Did you talk to Brockton last night after you got my note?”
“Bill, shut up. Just shut up.” The galoot curled his upper lip and sniffed through his large nostrils in absolute disdain. “Goddamn incompetent. Sh-eet. Miss Savant, I must go. For your own sake and for the sake of your child, please stay away from Brockton if he contacts you. We will talk again.” The two of them left the apartment.
Lorraine and Marcella the maid brought Alchemy to me. Oblivious (willful or not) of the atrocious machinations of her husband, Lorraine complimented Alchemy. “Your son was playing our piano. He plays splendidly. He’s quite precocious.”
“Thank you, Lorraine.” I wasn’t sure if there was another implication beyond his musical ability. “What’s the name of Bill’s friend?”
“Oh, that’s Laban Lively. He’s more of a business associate than a friend.”
“Of course,” is what I said, thinking, How lucky you are to live in Blissland! We got the hell out of out there right then and took the bus crosstown. At 68th Street, we took the 6 train down to Spring Street. I checked Fanneli’s. Maybe he’d left a note. No. So we walked over to the gallery. I asked one of the gallery assistants to take Alchemy back to the Chelsea before I strutted outside. If they were watching me, I didn’t want to appear afraid. I hailed a cab, and some Russian coot picked me up. I told him to keep driving around SoHo.
Nathaniel never showed up.
I’d never felt so lonely or helpless. I’d had plenty of men come and go — a few meant more than others — but they never reached inside my soulsmell. Nathaniel certainly wasn’t the best looking or even the best lover, though he became more skillful under my tutelage. But he could be silly and smart, and unlike so many others who went on a charm offensive until they got sex and just became offensive, Nathaniel accepted me for me and remained true to himself. Sitting in a room while he read and I sketched, or in an abandoned room in the Christodora — those times with him and only him, I felt safe from myself and the forces of the dark matter. Even as he grew despondent by political defeats and frustrated by his inability to end my “episodes,” he was always the kindest man, in all respects to all people. He didn’t parade around like some famous do-gooder in public life and become a double-dealing whoremonger in private. In the end it was a stroke that killed him. But Gravity Disease corroded his cells.
Xtine was too smart to offer superficial salves for my oozing sore-of-a-self. She took special care of Alchemy. I spent a lot of time at the gallery hanging and rehanging the show, hoping Nathaniel would reappear. I heard nothing from him or the Bickleys.
The night of my opening, I forced myself to don my party mask, wearing a black cocktail dress and a jacket I pastiched out of an American flag, cut from the bastard cloth of Abbie Hoffman and Jasper Johns. Xtine was Alchemy’s “date” for the night, and he’d be sticking by her side at the gallery, so I felt safe in disobeying my usual preopening injunction — no drugs, no drink until the after-party — and snorted a couple of speedballs Holencraft had brought to the gallery. I had no idea what to expect.
“Decorative.” “Soft.” “A total regression.” Those were the rehearsed phrases lip-synched by the pandering class. Myron Horrwich sniggered with his new student appendage by his side. Les Tallent’s remarks emasculated me like no one else’s: “Retinal painting is dead and you will not be the one to resurrect it.”
Andy, who would’ve been perfectly cast as Tinker Bell, looked mortified and slinked away. It wasn’t the real Andy. My theory is that after he was shot in ’68, there was no “real” Andy Warhol, just five skinny guys with bad skin wearing silver wigs who showed up everywhere. The real Andy had moved back to Pittsburgh and skulked around, hardly leaving his room with five TVs playing twenty-four hours a day.
After Andy II or III sylphed away, Leslie tapped his foot, until I finally answered. “I thought you were more sophisticated than your average critic!” The art world is as provincial and cliquish and mean-spirited as the corporate world so many artists despise. Which is pretty damn funny.
Ezekiel Panti, a critic and cohort of Leslie’s, joined the flogging fray. “Salome, I admit that these are beautiful, but my question is, So what? Beauty without meaning is meaningless, and for art to matter in this age, it must have meaning.” He stroked his goatee with his pig-in-a-blanket fingers and positioned his weight forward as if he was about to make some grand pronouncement. “I’m a Duchampian, you know …”
“I was one, once. Now I’m just a simple beautician.”
Panti didn’t crack a smile. Maybe he’d heard I’d nicknamed him Smarty Panti. He was oh-so-proud of his PhD in philosophy from Brown, and he panted after girls like a neutered dog.
We were in a stare-down when Xtine, without Alchemy, her mouth and eyes wide open, came rushing through the crowd and whispered in my ear, “There’s some Southern-baked golem in a brown suit in the office who says he has to talk to you. Now.”
I understood immediately. Lively.
I shoved Leslie and Panti out of the way and hurried to the office, Xtine trailing closely behind. Alchemy was playing his harmonica for him. Lively did a rather disgusted double take when he saw my flag jacket but held his tongue on that subject.
“Miss Savant, I won’t dilly-dally. We’ve arrested Brockton in Michigan. He was fleeing toward Canada. I want you to hear this from me because I’d much appreciate your cooperation. It would benefit us both. You know there are some people who believe you aided Brockton’s escape.”
Alchemy sensed my depleted hope and sudden heartbreak. He got up and bit Lively on the leg. In the midst of my pain, I laughed. Lively, incomprehensibly, seemed paralyzed, almost intimidated by Alchemy. I pulled him away and he clutched the bottom of my dress. “Please don’t cry, Mommy. I’ll play you a song. Please.”