“That’s a funny idea.”
“That’s the kind of painter Mr. Sharpe is. If someone criticizes the work, then they just don’t have the artistic taste or mental capacity to appreciate it, and he raises the price.”
“He actually gets galleries to show this stuff?”
“No. When everybody turned him down, he hired a publicist to plant stories in the papers about him and then started selling out of his studio. He gets a prospective buyer down there, and he’s quite a good salesman, spewing gobbledygook about passion and genius, and people fall for it.”
Their dinner arrived, and Stone tasted the wine.
“Tell me about the drug rumors,” Stone said. “I suppose that’s what they are-rumors.”
“Well, yes, but not entirely. I know someone who bought half a kilo of marijuana from him, and I’ve heard secondhand stories about his dealing in coke: not little bags, nothing smaller than an ounce, but as much as a kilo.”
“Why has no one put the police onto him?”
“The buyers are not going to turn him in-he’s their connection-and the nonbuyers don’t know about it, I guess.”
Stone found Sharpe’s card in his pocket and looked at it. “That’s a pretty expensive part of SoHo these days, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Since I’ve been aware of him, he’s moved twice, both times to a bigger and better place. He bought the building he’s in now; he has a garage on the ground floor, his studio on the second, and his apartment on the third. He rents out the two floors above him.”
“How did Hildy become involved with him?”
“I’m not sure, but she probably met him at an opening much like tonight’s. That’s the sort of event where he does his trolling.”
“What can you tell me about Hildy’s relationship with her father?”
Rita sighed. “I love Philip, and I wish I could say that he’s the sweet, adoring, indulgent father and that Hildy is an ungrateful little shit, but it’s not really like that. Philip is an enclosed man, and he doesn’t let much into his life that isn’t art or people associated with it.”
“He told me that he thought he had left too much of her upbringing to help,” Stone said.
“That’s an understatement. After his wife died, he hardly saw Hildy. I doubt they had a meal together when she was between the ages of six and sixteen. Her grandmother hired the governesses, chose the schools, and complained about his parenting or lack thereof, but she never hauled him into court and tried to take Hildy. I don’t know why. By the time Hildy started fucking her teacher it was too late, I guess. She was acting out big-time to get back at Philip for his neglect, and I think she still is, with Sharpe.”
“And he has a low opinion of Sharpe?”
“It wouldn’t work for Hildy if he didn’t. She got him to look at some slides of Sharpe’s work once, and he reduced it to the visual drivel it is in a few pointed sentences. Then he pissed off Hildy by refusing to go down to Sharpe’s studio and look at his stuff.”
“The relationships are circular,” Stone said. “Hildy hates her father for ignoring her, so she chooses a man like Sharpe to annoy him, then Philip hates the guy’s work to belittle him, and that reinforces Hildy’s opinion of her father.”
“Neat, isn’t it?”
“Yes, except for the drug sales and the fortune at risk. If Sharpe got busted while Hildy was there, she could be charged as an accessory. I mean, she must know what he’s doing.”
“I don’t see how she couldn’t, but who knows?”
“Then there’s her trust. I suppose Hildy has no regard for money.”
“About the same regard as most young people who’ve never had to give money a thought, because it was readily supplied by parents who used it to keep them from underfoot.”
“And Hildy knows about his background, the name change and the four marriages?”
“Oh, yes. Did Philip tell you that Sharpe was trailer trash?”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t even know what that means. He says it only because he knows it’s contemptuous. Actually, Sharpe’s father made a fortune in the scrap metal business, and they lived in a nouveau riche house in one of San Antonio ’s better neighborhoods. Sharpe’s mother, who knew nothing about art, imbued him with artistic pretensions, even though he exhibited no discernible talent. I hear he can’t even draw.”
Stone thought about it all for a minute while he finished his steak. “God, what a mess,” he said finally.
“I take it Woodman & Weld sent you around to fix it,” Rita said.
“Something like that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s much point in having an avuncular chat with Hildy-older man/young girl.”
“Not really. Her only use for older men is to fuck them. Of course, it’s a bonus if they annoy Philip.”
“What sort of father did you have?” Stone asked.
Rita chuckled. “My father, bless his heart, is everything Philip should have been but isn’t.”
“Sweet, adoring, and indulgent?”
“Pretty much, and my mother supports him in all those things. They’re peaches, both of them.”
“You’re a lucky woman.”
“I am, indeed.
“Dessert?”
“Not on my diet, thanks.”
Stone signaled for the check. “Where do you live?” he asked Rita.
“Park and Seventy-first,” she said.
Stone signed the credit card slip. “Come on. I’ll drop you.”
“It’s early,” she said. “Where are you off to?”
The waiter pulled out the table and freed them. “I’m going to see a man who might be able to do something about Derek Sharpe,” Stone replied.
16
STONE GOT TO ELAINE’S by ten o’clock and found Dino having dinner with cop about their age, Brian Doyle, who had served with them in the 19th Precinct detective squad years before. Stone shook his hand and sat down. A waiter appeared with a Knob Creek and a menu.
“I’m not dining,” Stone said and then turned to Doyle. “You’re looking pretty good for an old fart,” he said.
“And you’re looking as slick as an otter,” Brian replied. “I hear you’re making more money than Donald Trump.”
“I heard Trump was broke,” Stone said.
“Not anymore; he found some more hot air to inflate the balloon,” Brian said, laughing.
After Dino and Brian finished their dinner, they ordered brandies. Then the three old buddies sat back and began telling each other stories they’d all heard before, until, finally, Stone got to the point. “I’ve got a heads-up for you,” he said, handing Derek Sharpe’s card to Brian.
“I’ve read about this guy somewhere,” Brian said. “I know a lot of what’s called art ought to be illegal, but I don’t think the city council has gotten around to passing the law yet.”
“This guy churns out the kind of art that ought to be illegal and sells it briskly to the artistically clueless.”
“I guess you can make a living doing that,” Brian said.
“From what I hear, that’s not how he makes his living,” Stone replied. “If he had to rely on his art for money, he’d be living in a garret in the East Village instead of owning a five-story building downtown and living in three floors of it. He rents the top two.”
“So what’s his dodge?” Brian asked.
“Pretty simple: He’s moving quantities of drugs from his space.”
“What kind of quantities are we talking about?” Brian asked.
“I don’t know that he’s wholesaling, though I’ve heard he’s sold up to a kilo of coke, but it’s more likely he’s moving larger than usual quantities to individuals for personal use.”
“Sounds boring,” Brian said. “Can’t you give me something sexier?”
“Brian,” Stone said, “when this hits the Post and the News it’s going to be sexy enough to knock your eye out. This guy is plugged into the art scene from one end of this town to the other. He’s very well-known, and the press is going to love it, if he gets busted.”