JM03 - Red Cat by Peter Spiegelman Page B

said. He saw the look on my face. “No shit— I really don’t.” Ricky eyed my fifty. “So, how about it?”

    “Nearly there,” I said, and took my other hand from my other pocket. “Anybody here you recognize?”

    Ricky looked down at the photo and tapped a finger on the woman sitting at the edge of the group. “That’s her,” he said. “That’s Cassie.” I sighed. Holly. Wren. Cassandra Z. “Do I get the cash now?”

    “Sure,” I said, and the bill vanished from my hand.

    Ricky turned and headed toward Perry Street and I called to him. He turned around, impatient.

    “Now what?”

    “What are her videos like?”

    Ricky smirked and shook his head. “Cassie’s stuff? Like nothing else I’ve seen, Grumpy, and I’ve seen a lot.”

    10

    “I told him you were shopping,” Chaz Monroe said, “and that you had money to spend.” He smiled and groomed the small triangle of beard on his chin with the back of his hand. He looked like a pudgy cat doing it. “All of a sudden he was glad to help.”

    He slipped his cell phone into his jacket pocket and sat down across from me. He examined his wineglass and decided it was too close to empty. He lifted the bottle of Syrah and tilted it in my direction. I shook my head and he shrugged and filled his glass.

    “Todd’s always happy to serve the cause of art,” Monroe continued, “and especially if it improves the value of his own collection.” He drank some wine and heaved a satisfied sigh.

    “Did he say when?” I asked.

    “Tonight. He’ll call me back with the time.” Monroe bent again to what remained of the lunch I was buying. He speared the last of his cassoulet even as he scanned the dessert menu.

    Finding Chaz Monroe hadn’t been hard. I’d returned home on Sunday afternoon with Ricky’s words still playing in my head, and with my worry ticking louder. I thought about Holly’s videos and knew that if I wanted to understand what she was about— and maybe figure out what she wanted with my brother— I’d have to see them for myself.

    I returned to the Candy Foam blog and followed BeatTilStiff’s postings from there to another contemporary-art blog called ArtHaus Polizei. It turned out to be Beat’s home turf. Polizei was an edgier version of Candy Foam, and besides Beat’s musings on recent gallery shows, museum exhibitions, and auctions there were long riffs on anime, music videos, sneaker fashion, and tattooing. “Fucking” was apparently his adjective of choice.

    I’d clicked on a “Profile” link and learned that, besides being the proprietor of Polizei, Beat was “a New York–based freelance writer, art critic, and art acquisitions consultant.” I’d lingered over that description for a while and then clicked on the “Contact Me” link. I’d been vague in my e-mail about what kind of consultation I needed, but I was pretty clear about my ability to pay. I’d included my telephone number, too. The market for freelance writer–art critic–art acquisition consultants must’ve been a little thin, because I didn’t wait an hour for his call.

    I told him I was interested in Cassandra Z’s work, and that I was looking for help in seeing some of it. My problem didn’t surprise him.

    “I take it you spoke to Don Orlando?” Monroe asked. His voice was hoarse and ironic.

    “We didn’t exactly hit it off.”

    He snorted. “Which puts you in good company, my friend. O’s very control-freaky, and particularly when it comes to Cassie. I used to think it was a German thing, but now I think it was always fucking strategy. All that mystery and exclusivity has built a real buzz in certain circles, and done wonders for her prices.”

    “Wonders,” I said. “Can you arrange a viewing for me?”

    “A viewing with an eye toward acquisition?”

    “That’s the general idea.”

    We’d talked about his fee, but I hadn’t bargained hard. I wanted him motivated, and in any event it was David’s money I’d be