The Exquisite Corpse, a deadly tale of Art

New York, 9 AM, April 4

Bertram waited outside his building for Wilson, who had to return to their apartment to retrieve his phone. He looked at the skyline around Central Park and took a deep breath of the cool Spring air. He loved this city, everything about it, good and bad. To him it was the only true city in the world. London was okay, Paris was amusing, Rome was entertaining, but only New York was...well, New York.

He shifted his gaze to the doorman, Glen Riley, who was opening a cab door for another of the building's residents. He had been the doorman for as long as Bertram could remember, dressed in that outlandish uniform that made him look like the gatekeeper of Oz. Glen was a fine example of a New York Irishman, fair-skinned and freckled, with a shock of red hair protruding from under his cap. He was stocky, but not fat, and had an infectious smile with a seemingly bottomless well of cheer. Bertram wondered if he remained cheerful when he left his job, or if he became suddenly dour and unhappy. Upon reflection he decided that it did not matter, the only Irishman that the Upper West Side could tolerate was the one in service to their patrons.

Bertram became a little fidgety, glancing at his wristwatch again and again. He did not want Wilson to miss his plane at LaGuardia Airport. He had found out that Siegfried Jager was displaying two of his pieces in an exhibit at the Nasher in Durham, North Carolina and the show opening was the ideal place for Wilson to offer his services as artistic representative. It also gave them a chance to change their selection, if upon meeting him, he proved to be a racist, drooling idiot, or socially inept misanthrope. To Bertram's relief, Wilson exited the building.

"It took you long enough Willy," he motioned Glen to signal a cab, then turned back, "let's have a quick review before we go. Do you remember what we talked about last night?"

Wilson laughed and slapped Bertram on the back, "Of course I remember, it was last night."

"And?"

"And when I meet Jager, I don't mention you or Devon..."

"And?"

"And I especially don't mention the bet. I know, I know, believe it or not Bertie, but I actually graduated college. Now calm down, it'll be fine." He gestured over Bertram's shoulder, "My cab is here." He began to walk to the curb, but Bertram put his arm on Wilson's shoulder.

"There's one more thing I'd like you to do for me. I'd like you to ask our artist if he has done any portraits."

"Portraits? It's a strange medium for portraits."

"It is," Bertram agreed, "and I can't imagine what a box-portrait would look like, but it would make getting a private commission for him easier. Find out, and if he doesn't have any, convince him to give it a try. If it comes out interesting, it adds a tool to our toolbox"

Wilson laughed, "You've never touched a tool in you life, sweetie. Now give me a kiss and wish me luck."

The cabbie honked his horn. Bertram kissed Wilson goodbye and waved at him as the cab pulled out.

"Good luck!"

Elaine DuChamp had more than impeccable taste, she had extraordinary instincts. Her gallery was like a child to her and she protected it with a mother's passion. When the forged abstract-expressions masterpieces were offered to her before the ill-fated Knoedler Gallery, she passed. Something felt wrong to her even though the paintings looked right. She also passed on a red hot exhibit of Egon Schiele paintings, an incredibly popular artist. They turned out to be Nazi War loot and the gallery that exhibited them not only lost the paintings, but their reputation as well. Reputation was everything. Elaine was the Iron Lady of art and no one was more highly regarded.

She sat in her office at the gallery, a spartan, white space with fifteen foot ceilings, a rosewood desk, a couch, chairs, and a bleached elm table. Behind her desk, the wall was covered in a very long and brilliantly colored Japanese screen depicting the Heiji Rebellion. The other three walls each exhibited two paintings from her renowned collection. A Basquiat and a Haring graced the far wall, a Banksy and a Franz Kline on the center wall, and a pair of  Miró lithographs hung nearest the door. She enjoyed showing her wealth. After all, if you couldn't show it off, what was the point?

Elaine's personal assistant, Rose, entered the office without knocking and flopped onto the couch. She was an attractive young black woman with short hair and an honest smile. She scrunched her face into an exaggerated expression of disgust and addressed Elaine, "If I have to deal with another handsy client my head will explode. It takes all my will power not to deck them."

Elaine raised her head out of curiosity, "Who?"

"He's got to be seventy, for christsake."

"Mr. Holland?" Elaine broke out in laughter, "You poor girl, he fancies himself a rake. Don't worry, I'll scold him for his behavior."

Rose reconsidered her position, "He is harmless enough and a really good client...and very rich. Perhaps scolding him is a bit risky."

Elaine laughed again, "I'll have you know, Rose, that wrinkled little pervert loves being scolded. He'll buy a piece out of guilt and leave you alone from now on."

"Shit, this is a fucked up business." Rose chuckled.

Elaine smiled broadly, "You said it, sister!"

Rose winced noticeably at having Elaine call her 'sister', but knew she was trying to be casual. She smiled and pulled out her phone, checking the calendar. "Do you want to go over your day?"

Elaine harrumphed and then motioned to Rose, "Sure, what have we got?"

"Eleven AM...you have a meeting with marketing to okay the catalogues for the May and June exhibitions. Twelve fifteen, Bornan is coming in to clear his tab, he insists on writing you the check directly..."

Elaine interrupted, "Yeah, he wants to have me watch him write that six figure check, it makes him feel important."

Rose continued, "Lunch at Bella Russa at one. Then at two-thirty to three-forty five you have meetings with Mandy Clark and Jessie Wright, the artists, to look at their portfolios. Finally at four o'clock you have a meeting with your architect to talk about redesigning the south gallery and entry."

Elaine thought for a moment. "Call Bella Russa and change my reservation to a table for three. Have the artists meet me there at one to show their portfolios over lunch. I never met an artist who turned down a free meal. Re-schedule my Architect for two thirty. "

"Then what?"

"Then I go home early," Elaine chuckled, "anything else?"

"You did get an odd message from Bertram Windsor."

"What  message is that?"

"He said something about sending his Pygmalion down to North Carolina to meet his Galatea. I have no idea what this means."

Elaine let out a snort, "It means, Rose dear, that, in the words of Sherlock Holmes, the games afoot."