here,” Matteo said, glancing at the handwritten note he’d scribbled down before we left the Blend.
I scanned the dingy storefronts and found the Belleau Gallery, Shaw’s Antiques, Velma’s Vintage Clothing, Waxman’s Antique Stoves and Fireplaces, but no sign of Death Row Gallery.
Matt touched my shoulder. “There it is.”
The exterior of the exclusive art gallery that had employed Sahara McNeil did not look anything like I had expected. Instead of a trendy storefront, Matteo directed my attention to an anonymous three-story building with a dingy antique shop on the first floor. Next to the antique shop entrance there was a flight of concrete steps leading down, below the level of the street to a basement door. Above that door, painted in five-inch stenciled letters were the words DEATH ROW.
Negotiating the irregularly constructed stairs, we stood before a barred steel door—not an aluminum security gate so familiar to New Yorkers but a real cast-iron door taken off a nineteenth century prison cell. The door was locked. A black iron doorbell fixture in the shape of a skull hung next to the entrance.
Matteo pressed the bell, and I heard a funereal gong sound deep inside the building. I almost expected Lurch from the Addams Family to appear—instead it was a clone of Uncle Fester who buzzed us in.
The man stood at the end of a long hallway lined with framed art. Inside, the air was warm and close, and the lighting had a subtle scarlet tinge I found unsettling.
“Welcome. The gallery is this way,” the fat man said jovially, waving us toward him.
The walls of the nondescript hallway were insulated brick painted institutional green. The floor was covered with cheap green tile as well. Though dismal and ugly, the hall was hung with expensively framed art prints and original theater posters. I didn’t recognize any of the artists and the plays were mostly unknown to me.
I spied a poster for an Off-Broadway musical called The Jack the Ripper Revue: A Tale of Saucy Jack. There was also a marquee for a Broadway version of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein which opened and closed sometime in the 1980s, and another Broadway poster for a musical version of Stephen King’s Carrie. It was the King poster that jogged my memory.
“I understand the décor of this hallway,” I whispered to my ex. “It’s from the Stephen King story ‘The Green Mile.’ The long green hall of the prison the condemned walked to the place of execution.”
“Well, this is supposed to be Death Row.”
“And so it is,” said the big man, standing in front of us. Though portly, he was clad from head to toe in black Armani—slacks, shirt, and jacket. He held his hands behind his back so his bald, pink, oversized head was the only splash of color in a shadowy silhouette. As was the fashion of late, the bald man’s shirt was buttoned tightly around his neck, and he wore no tie.
When we reached him, the man thrust out a puffy hand for Matteo to shake. I noticed pink flesh bulging over the tight collar under the man’s cherubic face, which was free of all facial hair, including eyebrows. As he motioned us through a narrow door, I noted that his shoes appeared to be Bruno Magli, his watch a Rolex.
“Welcome to Death Row. My name is Torquemada.”
I glanced at Matteo. “Torquemada?” I murmured. For some reason, I associated the name with some heinous historical atrocity.
Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
The suffocating hallway suddenly opened into a massive, bright art gallery that dominated the entire basement. Though this interior gallery had no windows, strategically placed mirrors, a high white ceiling packed with ductwork, and a polished hardwood floor increased the illusion of brightness and space. The lighting was subtle but intense enough to highlight the work displayed, and the whole space was well appointed and tastefully done—which was more than I could say about the art.
I noticed several other people in the gallery. A young, trendy-looking couple seemed to be browsing, and two middle-aged Japanese men were locked in conversation with a tall, well-proportioned young woman who looked like Prada’s version of Elvira. Matteo’s eyes were immediately drawn to her.
“An amazing space,” Matteo told Torquemada. “I never would have imagined such a splendid gallery could be found at this address.”
Torquemada lowered his eyes and his lips turned up slightly at the compliment.
“Are you looking for anyone’s work in particular?”
At that moment, my eyes locked on a grisly painting depicting a scene of brutal