A BUSY MORNING SCHEDULE
Charles did not sleep well. His room was next to a busy street and he had become accustomed to the sound of silence on the rez. No truck noises, just the occasional horny woodpecker. The city’s thriving life force was compounded by intense dreams of Willard’s voice calling to him from the grave, coyotes, and Willard’s swinging body making the dreaded STRUGGLE. Its image had been seared into Bloom’s mind from seeing it in person for the first time. The painting’s three dimensionality of colors mixed with Willard’s urine stains had distressed Bloom’s unconscious. The image woke him repeatedly whenever he slipped into a few minutes of sleep. In the morning it took 10 minutes to get out of bed knowing what he faced. He skipped eating as he had no appetite and drank a $7 cup of black coffee as breakfast instead; it was nowhere as tasty as Rachael’s cowboy-style brew. The aroma of the coffee brought Bloom’s mind back to Rachael. He missed her smile and wondered if today might be his last day to think of her. He checked the knife to make sure it was secured safely before leaving the hotel.
Deciding to walk to the gallery rather than give up his cherished parking spot gave Bloom time to ponder the situation and fully awake from his sleeping ordeal. It was 8 am back home and he would have been getting ready for his morning run.
With each step now, Bloom could feel the edge of the sharp flint blade barely touch his cold white skin. The stone’s pure nature made Bloom feel he could only say the truth when he confronted Bernard, and see where it took him. Maybe if Bernard were privy to Hastiin Sherman’s information, Bernard would respond to the truth, especially if the painting turned out to have occurred during some sort of murder. Bernard would ultimately be responsible for the Yellowhorse’s authenticity no matter when it was sold. Charles knew his logic was flawed, but he couldn’t come up with any other course of action. He was a ship without a rudder. He would have to let the currents of life take him down the road and hope Hastiin Sherman’s powers would guide him back home.
The smell of the gallery as Bloom entered was a mix of cigarettes and an odd antiseptic odor. Hospital-like, in a bad way. Not the typical gallery smells of paint and maybe a scented candle. The imagery of Marsh’s extreme paintings stunned Bloom in their detailed horror. The most prominent piece was a large painting of a black male, his intestines hanging by his sides, skin partially removed and eyes gouged out. The face was blank as if his soul was removed along with his eyes. As an art dealer it did evoke emotion, which is what one looks for, but it was not the emotion Bloom wanted to feel at that moment. Evil, was all Charles could perceive from the images and it caused him to break out in a cold sweat. He hoped Bernard wouldn’t notice.
“Charles, nice to see you.” Bernard’s fake smile belied the anger that was seething underneath his façade.
“Interesting gallery,” Charles commented, overcoming his anxiety and attempting to connect with Bernard as one gallery owner with another. Maybe they could join forces against Marsh. “You ever have an issue looking at those images of human suffering?” He wiped his sleeve across his brow as he turned away from Bernard to emphasize the paintings he had just walked by.
“There are days I wish Mr. Marsh would paint a flower or two, but he has tremendous original thought, something I look for in an artist as I’m sure you do too. Why don’t we go into my office? We can spend a couple of minutes discussing your concerns about STRUGGLE,” Bernard suggested.
As the pair headed to his office, Bernard did something that bothered Charles. “I’m going to put my `Gone to Lunchʹ sign out. I don’t want to be bothered. My secretary is coming in late today, no one to watch the front.” Bernard then briskly walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt and put out a little hand-stenciled sign that said, “Back Momentarily.” Charles’ instinct was to turn, dash past Bernard and push him out of the way, and run out that door to his freedom. Feeling his abdomen with his hand, touching the knife, gave him the strength not to follow what his inner voice was screaming. Charles had been in retail a long time and never once remembered locking his door when he was in the building. Maybe New York was different than Santa Fe, but Charles was sure it wasn’t. He steeled himself for coming confrontation.
Bernard’s back office was a showplace for the people he had met. Photographs of important artists were lined up: Warhol, Basquiat, Lendskip, and of course, Yellowhorse. Each image had Bernard next to the artist with a smile. There were snapshots of openings and articles that had been written about The Cutting Edge Gallery. All were now yellow after years of sun exposure. No current images of success were anywhere to be seen. The walls were architectural white. One Geronimo Artist Proof in a burnt orange hue hung over Bernard’s desk, along with a couple of unknown artists working in an abstract expressionistic style. A built-in easel was against one wall, arranged to show special paintings when it came to closing sales. Two old bomber chairs from France with dark brown patina and cracking leather were next to a clean, modern desk. The floor was scored, colored concrete with a pink cast. Luckily none of Marsh’s paintings were in eyesight.
“Please, Charles, have a seat,” Phillips invited, pointing to one of the comfortable vintage 1920 leather chairs. Phillips chose the other chair instead of sitting behind the desk. He plopped down next to Bloom. “So what can I offer you and the Yellowhorse family so as to not make a big scene with regards to STRUGGLE?”
Charles knew this was a nice way of saying, “How much is it going to take to make you go away?”
“Bernard,” Charles replied carefully, “I’m afraid it’s not a money issue, it’s an ethical one. No amount of money will help. The family doesn’t believe this painting was done volitionally. It’s not Willard’s true work.”
“I can understand the piece is probably bringing up old feelings. But it is clearly Yellowhorse’s piece and everyone can use money. There’s no doubt he produced the note found underneath the canvas. The red paint can had only his handprints. It was a suicide and he obviously wanted his life to make some kind of important statement. Surely you are not denying that Yellowhorse made this painting?” Bernard countered.
Charles could tell this was going nowhere. Hoping to appeal to Bernard’s artistic sensibilities, he asked, “Did Willard ever tell you about his grandfather’s vision of the STRUGGLE design?” Bernard’s shrugging shoulder demonstrated his indifference.
Then Charles asked a question that surprised Bernard: “What about Marsh? Could he have had a role in Willard’s death? From what I’ve heard, he is quite odd. I know he buried Willard at Mount Ashton Cemetery in Boston. I saw the grave myself. In fact, Marsh’s own future grave marker is nearby. Lendskip also appears to be buried there. You of all people must find these images Marsh produces to be coming from a disturbed mind?”
Bernard made his decision right then and there. Charles was a problem and needed to go. There was no way Bernard could explain about the graves. Charles was too close to discovering the truth. Bernard rose, and stepped towards the closet.
At about the same time, Charles realized every artist Bernard had so proudly hung on his office walls—Warhol, Basquiat, Lendskip, and Yellowhorse—had all died suddenly by accident or suicide. It was at that moment that Charles panicked. But it was too late.
Charles didn’t see Marsh slip out from the closet. The chloroform-soaked cloth was pressed hard against Bloom’s mouth and nose, the same way as it had been with Willard Yellowhorse. Charles tried in vain to break free of Marsh’s grip. The noxious smell was the one he had sniffed when he first entered the gallery. Within a minute and half, Bloom was out cold.
Marsh and Bernard had to act fast. The effects of Marsh’s dad’s aging bottle of chloroform analgesic might not last more than 30 minutes. Bloom’s motionless body was roughly dragged into a large plastic bag that was used to cover heavy sculptures. Bloom’s mouth was gagged, and his hands and feet bound with duct tape. His pockets were searched, but nothing was found other than a near-empty wallet and iPhone; these were tossed in the bag with Bloom. The unconscious body was then zipped up as if it were some large bronze and hoisted onto a floor roller, then moved to the back of a rented truck waiting outside. Using a mechanical lift, the still-unconscious Bloom was pushed roughly into the back of the cold steel interior and the floor roller was thrown in the back with him. The Santa Fe art dealer with the screw-loose vision quest was soon to be no longer a problem, except for the coroner.