SCALPEL FUN
Fredrick Marsh had never been to Bernard Phillips’ storage area, even though he had paid the bills for decades. Dealing with used crates, boxes, and miscellaneous files was an aspect of the art business too trivial for the true owner, Marsh. The dark and isolated building was located in the meat district. Unknown to Marsh, it had been used by Bernard for years for more than storing crates. It was a special place, as Fredrick and Charles both would soon find out. For Charles, the discovery would be enlightening. For Marsh, it would be crushing.
The old building was in a rough part of town. People dragging sacks with bodies probably happened here more often than anyone would like to know. Because it was in the meat district, a steady flow of blood seemed to have permanently stained the sidewalks a sienna color. Bloom was starting to stir just as the final heave-ho of the bag into the old freight elevator was completed. Bloom’s head struck the metal floor with an audible crack.
“Now that’s got to hurt,” Bernard said laughingly to Marsh, who just grunted in response.
“Why are we taking him here?” Fredrick complained. “You should have let me give him the whole bottle of chloroform and he would be toast. Then we could have just disposed of the body, or better yet let me have a crack at him with my surgery skills. You heard the man, I have a disturbed mind. You should have let me use it! Now we still have to kill him and dispose of his body. What’s up with that, Bernard?”
“You’ll see. We still need Mr. Bloom. And you can still have your scalpel fun, besides I’m going to like watching your mind work close-up,” Bernard grinned at Marsh.
The elevator stopped and the two men dragged the now slightly audible sack into a dark room.
“OK Fredrick, let’s have some fun with this piece-of-shit, low-life, so-called art dealer. What do you say there, my good man?” Bernard suggested.
“I’m up for it. I would love to get some new photos for my book. I could make a great painting from today’s work,” Frederick agreed.
“Easy there, big fellow, don’t want to start cutting too quickly. Savor the moment. I know I am,” Bernard cautioned.
The two men pulled Bloom out of the bag and set him up on an old metal chair. They tied his body to the rusting frame, his hands still bound.
As he came to, Bloom’s eyes began jutting back and forth, like a doll with glass eyes. Bloom was becoming aware of his perilous position as the chloroform quickly wore off. The gag and duct tape were removed and Bloom reflexively turned his head and threw up, the side effects of the toxic chloroform. Having skipped breakfast, his vomit was primarily dry heaves. It was too dim for him to see exactly what was in the damp storage room, but he noticed Bernard was wearing gloves.
Still gagging, Charles began speaking in little spurts of words, addressing himself to the more reasonable of his two abductors: “Phillips. You can’t do this. No one has been seriously hurt yet. Please come to your senses. Don’t let your deranged artist take you down. We can forget about the painting. I’ll just quietly disappear, call Sotheby’s and tell them I believe the piece is real and we don’t have any problem.”
“It’s too late now,” Bernard snapped back. “You and I both know you would never let the incident go away. You’re too ethical for that.”
“You can’t be seriously going to kill me,” Charles pleaded. “Won’t the authorities think it a bit strange that I complain about the supposed suicide, tell them the painting is a fake, and then I get knocked off?”
“Yes, that might be a problem,” Bernard allowed. “But I have it all worked out. You’ll see.”
Bernard turned to Fredrick: “Marsh, would you mind showing me your skill with that little scalpel you love so much, which you brought, I hope? I’m interested to see how much blood really comes out of, let’s say, a radial artery. I assume for an anatomy expert like you that would be a fairly simple procedure?”
“I’ve always wanted to sever that artery,” Fredrick quickly agreed. “I remember doing blood gases back in medical school. It was hard to hit with a needle and the patients always seemed to jump so. Must be a very sensitive area. You know I always have my best friend with me.”
As Bloom watched in horror, Marsh came over next to him and grabbed his still-bound hands. “Listen to me, Marsh, you don’t want this. It’s crazy. You will get caught. I’m not hurt yet. Let’s think about this. Once I’m seriously injured, it makes it a whole lot harder,” Bloom argued.
“Shut up,” Marsh commanded. “I’ll tell you when you can speak. This is an art piece in the making by a famous artisan. I will capture the moment in one of my great masterpieces, like your friend Yellowhorse. You will be long gone but your image will live on, you will be famous!” Marsh took his antique ivory-handled scalpel out of his specially made case which he had attached to his belt, and ever so slightly pressed the tip of the blade into the tender flesh of the right wrist on Bloom’s arm. The cold edge precisely severed the right radial artery, which began flowing blood in pulsating spurts from the underside of Bloom’s wrist.
“AAAHHH,” Bloom screamed involuntarily at the pain. “What, Marsh, you trying to fake my suicide like you did Willard’s? Is that it, your sick plan?”
Marsh backed away after his wrist surgery, never saying a word, just grinning and licking his lips in a circular fashion as he stared at Charles.
Bernard had slipped behind the now profusely bleeding Bloom and answered from the darkness, “Actually, STRUGGLE was my handiwork. Can’t let you give credit where credit isn’t due. Marsh is the artist, but I’m the real mastermind.”
“You killed Willard? Why? He was making you a ton of money! I don’t understand, he was a great person,” Bloom gasped.
“Fredrick, I’m afraid, had a little problem with his celebrity status. When Mr. Yellowhorse told me he wanted to go back to his reservation, well that just wouldn’t do. He might screw up his own art market by selling to weak dealers like you. I knew if I didn’t take care of him in my own way, Marsh would anyway. Isn’t that correct, Fredrick?” Bernard explained, as he rustled around behind Charles.
“Yes, I would have skinned him alive for one of my projects, but instead Bernard here got one more nice work out of Willard. By the way, I heard you like my gravesite. Isn’t it beautiful? Yellowhorse should thank me for getting him to a place like Mount Auburn. He’s the first Indian to get that honor. It’s a great cemetery. Very expensive. If you’re lucky, once you bleed out maybe I’ll let what’s left of you lay next to your old friend,” Fredrick offered.
Still busying himself in the darkness, Bernard pointed out, “You see, Mr. Bloom, I decided if poor Willard had to go, I should at least get one more major painting out of him. What kind of a dealer would I be to pass up such a great opportunity? I didn’t get the same chance with Lendskip. A real shame, there. The truth is I never did get enough work by him. He was just too damn slow. I needed a few more years.” Bernard glared at Fredrick, his anger still apparent with regards to the premature death of Craig Lendskip and loss of a great moneymaking opportunity.
With each beat of Bloom’s heart, the radial artery squirted a little more of its life-giving blood onto the cold, concrete floor. It was already starting to pool in places, making an abstract-looking blob. Steam rose off the red pooling mass as the icy floor sapped the heat out of the now worthless blood.
Turning Charles’ chair around to face a dark drape, Bernard announced, “Now for the treat I’ve been waiting for. Fredrick, have you ever wondered how many paintings you’ve sold during your career?”
An odd question, Fredrick thought, at such a dramatic moment.
“Yes. 120 paintings, I remember each of my babies. Those lucky owners or their heirs will someday be very rich because of their great taste in art.”
“You are exactly right, 120. Do you know how I know your number is correct?” Bernard had been anticipating this moment for years.
“I can’t say, Bernard. I guess you are a very good dealer and you kept accurate records.” Fredrick was beginning to get nervous wondering what Bernard was getting at.
“No, Fredrick,” Bernard exploded. “I know because I bought each one of those fucking pieces of shit you call art over the last 20 years.” Then Bernard jerked down on a nondescript nylon cord, and two canvas drapes swung apart, revealing rows of painting racks filled with Marsh’s artworks.
Fredrick was stunned. He walked over and started to pull out paintings from his entire body of work, looking at each one as if it were the first time he had ever seen them. “What the hell is the meaning of this, Phillips? Why are all my gorgeous paintings in this shitty storage unit?”
“They’re here, Marsh, because they’re all worthless garbage and like garbage it doesn’t matter where you put it. If I didn’t buy them, you would have left my gallery and I needed your money. It was your only redeeming quality! I used your own capital to buy your paintings, money by the way I could have spent on good art. But I don’t need you any more. I’ve got STRUGGLE and it will allow me to retire. Your crappy, sick paintings which I own are going to be destroyed because the world has enough bad, sick art without the horror you have produced over your pathetic life. It will be the only really ethical thing I do!”
Ethical, thought Charles. Had Bernard really said ethical?
Bernard moved behind Bloom, still ranting, “Marsh, you are the only artist I’ve represented where my ̀Paint by Numbersʹ theory doesn’t apply. You are a true outlier. Your work is so twisted that the art world will be happy to be rid of you once and for all. All these stored paintings are only worth the value of the canvases on which they are painted. Your life’s work will soon end up in New York City’s finest dump, the only place worthy of your presence!” Bernard glowered with fierce intensity in his eyes as he demeaned the distraught Marsh, finally uncorking 25 years of repressed anger at his psychotic partner.
The fury in Fredrick’s dark eyes was equally palpable. He was on fire. His eyes’ pupils completely dilated wide. With a giant scream, Marsh lunged violently at the taller Bernard with his scalpel held like a dagger to destroy the man who had just ruined his life.
A huge BANG, BANG and Fredrick’s lifeless body hit the ground just in front of the still profusely bleeding Bloom.
Bloom was in shock, both mentally and physically. His head and ears were ringing from the adjacent gunshots. He didn’t even realize when Phillips grabbed his own bleeding hand and stuck the butt of the still-smoking gun in it. Bernard manipulated Charles’ fingers into pulling the trigger once more, the bullet hitting its mark: the back of Marsh’s head. Marsh’s functionless blood now intermingled with Bloom’s in one last final collage of bodily fluids.
“There we go, my little meddler,” Bernard taunted Charles, taking the gun back into his own gloved hand. “Just wanted to make sure you have powder resin on your murdering hand when they do your autopsy.”
Bernard turned his attention solely to Charles now. “I think you will like my little story, much more plausible then your medicine man bullshit. It goes like this: the late Marsh here tied you up and was starting to dissect you when you were able to stop him. You luckily had a hidden gun and were able to kill Marsh before he finished his anatomy lab. Unfortunately though, you weren’t able to escape your bindings and you tragically bled to death. Very sad, I’m afraid. The police will find the scalpel in Marsh’s hand, see all these horrific images done by Marsh, and be convinced that anyone that twisted could easily be a killer.”
Bernard went on, “I’ll be back before I leave town to take care of any loose ends—make sure you’re good and dead, leave the gun, and pick up your body-carrying case. I will need it again to put my cash in. You see, I got a very nice million-dollar-plus advance on my little Yellowhorse, and I plan to get a lot more money after tonight’s sale.”
Encouragingly, Bernard suggested, “Look at the positives. You won’t have to be buried next to Mr. Death over there for eternity like your buddy, Yellowhorse. Goodbye Fredrick, finally you did a corpse piece I actually liked!” Saying the words tickled Bernard, who started laughing as he turned off the lights to exit the room.
“Nighty night, Mr. Bloom,” Bernard called out. “Nice doing business with you. Again!” He had an auction to get ready for.
Bloom’s mind was racing. He was in the dark and bleeding to death. The only sounds he could hear were his own heart, and his blood as it hit the floor. He tried to slow his breathing and think rationally. His hands were firmly bound. He was tied to a large but somewhat movable chair, and he was quickly losing his life force. As he thought of what his next move should be, his right wrist started to pulsate with pain. It was at that moment that the vision came to him. He closed his eyes to combat the fact he was in the dark and concentrated on living. His heart slowed and he remembered the old man’s words. “It will save you.”
With his chin and shoulder, Charles maneuvered the leather string that was around his neck holding the medicine pouch into his mouth. Using his teeth and tongue, he worked on opening the little deerskin bag. As he fought to extrude the bag’s contents and not choke to death, he simultaneously sent blood spurting in every direction with each beat of his heart, including on Marsh’s body. More evidence for the police that he was Marsh’s murderer.
Finally after a long minute the leather pouch neck was opened. Bloom pushed the contents out with his tongue as he forced them against his front teeth, shaking his head back and forth. The herbs’ gritty, bitter taste immediately irritated his mouth as some of the fine-crushed plant parts fell onto his blood-soaked lap. Charles took his injured wrist, felt for the plant parts, and then pressed the open cut hard into the Navajo medicine man’s herbs. The bleeding started to slow immediately, its medicinal properties plugging the deep gash. Feeling the blood flow retreat gave new hope to Charles Bloom, who didn’t know how much time he had before Phillips came back or he simply bled to death.
The flint knife was still taped to his abdomen. Charles wished he hadn’t put so much tape on. Freeing it from his taut abdominal muscles took what seemed forever, even though it was closer to 15 minutes. Once the blade was freed, Charles quickly used its sharp stone edges to saw through the duct tape. He was in such a hurry and still unable to see in the dark that he unintentionally cut the skin on the uninjured wrist, which started to ooze blood. Once his binds were cut, Bloom was able to use the leather string that held the now empty pouch, to wrap his right wrist tightly. He searched for and found the remnant duct tape, and this was wrapped around the string for good measure. A little of the remaining herbs was used on his self-induced sawing wound, stopping the bleeding instantaneously. Bloom’s tongue and the roof of his mouth were numb. He wondered if Hastiin’s medicine might kill him or send him into some hallucinogenic trance.
His head was throbbing intensely from both blood loss and chloroform exposure, but he managed to saw through the binds holding him to the chair. He was unsure if he could stand without passing out, but he was alive, more than he could say for Marsh—who lay face down in a pool of their comingled and congealing blood.
Bloom tried to focus, remembering what he had learned from his four days in seclusion in the old sheep hogan. The one thing that stuck in his mind was to slow down, breathe, and concentrate on the present situation. He found the lights, retrieved his wallet and iPhone, and took snapshots of the crime scene. He realized he would need these soon if he was going to stop Phillips.