The Burglar in the Closet - By Lawrence Block Page 0,39
a name and a number?
Grabow, Grabow, Grabow. The listing for artists filled a couple of pages. No Grabow. I looked under art galleries to see if he happened to own his own gallery. If he did, he’d named it something other than Grabow.
I invested a dime and called Narrowback Gallery, on West Broadway in SoHo. A woman with a sort of scratchy voice answered the phone just when I was about to give up and try somebody else. I said, “Perhaps you’ll be able to help me. I saw a painting about a month ago and I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. The thing is, I don’t know anything about the artist.”
“I see. Let me light a cigarette. There. Now let’s see, you saw a painting here at our gallery?”
“No.”
“No? Where did you see it?”
Where indeed? “At an apartment. A friend of a friend, and it turns out they bought it at the Washington Square Outdoor Art Show a year ago, or maybe it was the year before. It’s all sort of vague.”
“I see.”
She did? Remarkable. “The only thing I know is the artist’s name,” I said. “Grabow.”
“Grabow?”
“Grabow,” I agreed, and spelled it.
“Is that a first name or a last name?”
“It’s what he signed on the bottom of the canvas,” I said. “For all I know it’s his cat’s name, but I suppose it’s his last name.”
“And you want to find him?”
“Right, I don’t know anything about art—”
“But I’ll bet you know what you like.”
“Sometimes. I don’t like that many paintings, but I liked this one, so much so that I can’t get it out of my mind. The owners say they don’t want to sell it, and then it occurred to me that I could find the artist and see what else he’s done, but how would I go about it? He’s not in the phone book, Grabow that is, and I don’t know how to get hold of him.”
“So you called us.”
“Right.”
“I wish you could have waited until late in the day. No, don’t apologize, I should be up by now anyway. Are you just going through the book and calling every gallery you can find? Because you must own stock in the phone company.”
“No, I—”
“Or maybe you’re rich. Are you rich?”
“Not particularly.”
“’Cause if you’re rich, or even semi-rich, I could show you no end of pretty pictures even if Mr. Grabow didn’t paint them. Or Ms. Grabow. Why don’t you come on down and see what we’ve got?”
“Er.”
“Because we haven’t got any Grabows in stock, I’m afraid. We’ve got a terrific selection of oils and acrylics by Denise Raphaelson. Some of her drawings as well. But you probably never heard of her.”
“Well, I—”
“However, you’re talking to her. Impressed?”
“Certainly.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why. I don’t think I ever heard of a painter named Grabow. Do you have any idea how many millions of artists there are in this city? Not literally millions, but tons of ’em. Are you calling all the galleries?”
“No,” I said, and when she failed to interrupt me I added, “You’re the first one I called, actually.”
“Honest? To what do I owe the honor?”
“I sort of liked the name. Narrowback Gallery.”
“I picked it because this loft has a weird shape to it. It skinnies down as you move toward the rear. I was beginning to regret not calling it the Denise Raphaelson Gallery, what the hell, free advertising and all, but calling it Narrowback finally paid off. I got myself a phone call. What kind of stuff does Grabow paint?”
How the hell did I know? “Sort of modern,” I said.
“That’s a surprise. I figured he was a sixteenth-century Flemish master.”
“Well, abstract,” I said. “Sort of geometric.”
“Hard-line stuff?”
What did that mean? “Right,” I said.
“Jesus, that’s what everybody’s doing. Don’t ask me why. You really like that stuff? I mean, once you get past the fact that it’s interesting shapes and colors, then what have you got? As far as I’m concerned it’s waiting-room art. You know what I mean by that?”
“No,” I said, mystified.
“I mean you can hang it in a waiting room or a lobby and it’s great, it won’t offend anybody, it goes nice with the décor and it makes everybody happy, but what is it? I don’t mean because it’s not representational, I mean artistically, what the fuck is it? I mean if you want to hang it in a dentist’s office that’s sensational, and maybe you’re a dentist and I just put my foot in my mouth.