Buy: Amazon
Title: Still Life, Still Death
Author: Liam O'Connell
ISBN: 0966788362
Description:
In 1973, an urban underworld of stolen art and smuggled aliens is exposed by F. X. Quill, nightside reporter for The Sun, New York City's must-read tabloid, in the suspense thriller Still Life, Still Death. In this hardboiled thriller, Quill explores Chinatown and Queens to uncover the story of his new friends' murders and, in the process, learns the tragic truth behind an immigrant family's broken dreams.
The suspence thriller follows newsman F. X. Quill as he investigates Chinatown to get the story about why his new friends were murdered and learns the tragic truth behind an immigrant family's broken dreams. Quill tracks the theft of priceless art objects in Manhattan's posh East Side through an urban underworld of stolen art and smuggled aliens of Chinatown. Still Life, Still Death was written by Liam O'Connell, author of several books, an ex-newsman who covered Queens and Manhattan in New York City. With Still Life, Still Death, O'Connell uses his experience in Chinatown and with New York City's art world to weave a suspenseful tale about the efforts of a corrupt gang to exploit the growing détente between the US and China to cover their illegal smuggling scheme.
_________________________
Highlights:
Dangerous Ride
He was standing at the pole in the front of the car, swaying with the motion of the speeding train. He wasn't on the subway for a ride to the city. He was there for one thing. He was the spider with the fly. Billy Long's warning came to me like a shout from a nightmare.
When he saw I had recognized him, he started walking slowly through the passengers on the car toward me. I wasn't excited about what I knew he had in mind. A chill, as cold as a tombstone, shot up my spine. I decided to stay where I was. Having people around meant witnesses. Hold my ground, I thought, shaking though it was.
He walked slowly down the train. I could see his expression growing taught, serious, his long limbs getting tense like a hunter walking up to his prey. He was wearing a black leather coat that hugged him closely. His pants were cheap black cloth and looked like they had been put on with a can of spray paint.
When he got to me, his right hand wrapped around the pole, inches from my face. He had dirty fingernails. We stood eye to eye. His left hand was jammed inside the pocket of his coat and with a flick of my eyes I saw the hand move in the pocket as though he was grabbing something I was betting he didn't have a license for.
His mouth grew a thin smile, giving his oval face a malignant look.
"A coincidence, Mr. Quill," he said.
"I'll bet." He laughed and his breath blew into my face. It stunk. My mind raced. "What's on your mind?" I asked.
"I'm going to kill you," he said.
_________________________
Excerpt from Chapter 1:
I had spent the past forty-five minutes hard against a three-star deadline of 9 p.m., rewriting a legman in the Bronx who was covering a fire destroying the rectory of a church up there. He kept calling back with quotes, facts and that, while I was trying to write.
I was working hard. Molloy, the night city editor, my boss, wanted every bit possible in the piece. A fire in the Bronx isn't news, but a fire in the Bronx that destroys a church is.
Working a story on rewrite with a legman always calling means changing leads, inserting graphs and shouting to the copy desk to fix this and that. So, when I'd given the last take of the story to the copy boy for Molloy, lighted a cigarette and was starting to relax my neck muscles, I felt like a survivor of the Johnstown, PA flood hearing thunder when the call came in.
I took a breath, put my headset on and said something into the mouthpiece.
"Quill?" the voice asked. It was Foley. "I'm down at headquarters."
I knew that I wasn't going to hear about the Bronx fire. All Foley knows about the Bronx is that it's phone book is thin. He's a tipster who works for nobody in particular but every in general and is always at police headquarters downtown. Guys like Foley are called stringers. He gets tips about things, will call us and if we use what he gives, he gets some money.
"You doing something?" Foley was asking. A good stringer isn't about to waste a tip on somebody is busy.
Not now," I said. "Get to a brownstone at 432 E. 72nd, near York. See one Paolo Marcotti. He's a big time art dealer, see, a real wheeler-dealer type. Chic chic. Seems some boys stole some of his art. Paintings I hear. Worth a bundle of spendolas for sure..."
I was tapping all this on my typewriter. "Not on the wire yet?" I asked. After all, if the wire services had the information, Foley wasn't giving in anything exclusive and it meant less money for him and less interest for us.
"Nobody knows but you," he assured me.
He gave me a number of the squad in the 19th Precinct and said to ask for a certain pal of his if I wanted confirmation, which I did. Foley's facts will change on you from time to time. I hung up on him and called the number he gave me. It was the 19th Squad all right, and like Foley said, a pal of his game a one-word confirmation on the theft.
He wouldn't tell me his name though.
"How much was stolen?" I asked.
"Three vases," the cop said, "Oriental jobs. Very old, like before Jesus Christ."
See what I mean about Foley's facts, his stolen paintings.
"You know what they're worth?"
Foley's pal couldn't say. "There will be insurance companies involved, right pal?"
"You know where Marcotti is?" I asked.
"Not at home," Foley's pal said. "Just some Chinese house boy there now. He called the thing in."
Very good, I thought to myself as I slipped the headphones off. My newspaper, The Sun, is a morning tabloid. Stories about crime among the city's chic set are like fresh fish to a tom-cat.
I got myself to the top of the long oak table that is The Sun's city desk. There sat Molloy, ignoring most of the chatter on the police and fire radios and the racket of activity around him, reading the two-star edition.
We work on nightside, after the day boys go home. It's Molloy's job to know what is in the early edition, and to see what kind of damage the glory boys did to the newspaper. We clean up the day's mess at night so it reads right by the last edition.
"Molloy," I said to the top of his large bald head. "Got a tip on an art theft on the East Side."
He raised his large fact, red and fleshy. He gave a slight belch, probably from the milk he drinks because of that ulcer he won't tell anybody about. His expression, like always, said: continue.
"The victim is a hot shot art dealer, Paolo Marcotti. Three vases were lifted from his brownstone at York and 72nd," I continued.
Molloy's head bobbed. The wheels inside turned the story possibilities around. A light came to his eyes. He leafed through the one-star to the back of the edition, where the newspaper prints what little art and culture shorts we use. He smiled as he read what he was looking for. He reached to the pile of papers next to his typewriter and tossed me one.
"Page 83," he instructed. I did like he said and found among the paragraph briefs announcing doings about the art crowd, this item:
EXHIBIT SHOWS LAST WORK
OF THE LATE ROSS MARKLE
The long awaited showing of the last work of the late impressionist Ross Markle was held last night at the gallery of his confident Paolo Marcotti, the noted art dealer. The exhibit, held at Marcotti's Foxborough Gallery, 101 E. 57th St., included some 25 paintings completed in the 6-months prior to Markle's sudden death last year. More than 80 celebrities from the worlds of politics, show business and society were scheduled to attend.
Since the paper is printed for the morning buyers, the reference to "last night" meant it was going on now. As I was reading this, Molloy had asked his assistant to give him the stack of press releases used for the morning edition. When I looked up, Molloy was flipping through the stack of hand-outs. He found the one from Foxborough Gallery and read it.
"Straight rewrite," he murmured.
He handed it to me and the only thing I could tell after a glance was that the groups of actors, pols, blue-bloods and cafe-set types assembled at E. 57th St. was quite a cast. Molloy said to the photo assignment editor, "You got a man at the Markle thing?"
The photo man looked at his schedule, where he listed his dozen photographers' assignments. He ndded.
"Lots of glitter," the photo editor said.
Molloy looked at me. "Get over there."
Chapter II
I picked up a cab at 42nd St. and Third Ave. and rode up to 57th St. feeling like a confirmed drinker looking at a full bottle of whiskey. Molloy wanted the thing for all it was worth. I was to interview Marcotti, get the details about his collection at the brownstone, get color and call Lassister, the rewriteman, for the four star.
It was about 9:15 p.m. when the hack let me out at the corner of Park and 57th. There was no doubt that I had the right place. Foxborough Gallery, midway down the southside of 57th St., was busy. Parked and double-parked outfront were long, black limos. The uniformed chauffeurs talked and smoked together in a group nearby.
A bit further away, a crowd of elegantly dressed guests milled around, drinking from cocktail glasses and laughing. Through this scene I moved to the front door, a high-arched bronze frame job. Foxborough Gallery spelled itself out in foot-high gold letters above the door.
Through the lightly tinted picture windows on both sides of the door, I saw a large display room. Large brightly- colored paintings hung from cream-colored wall panels. They were illuminated by modern klieg lights suspended from the high ceiling. By the way people moved around toward the back, I could tell the main exhibit was upstairs and out of sight.
I stepped through the doorway and was confronted by a blue-uniformed guard with a square silver shield on his breast. I said something like "hiya bub." He said something like "who are you?"
"F. X. Quill," I answered, "reporter for The Sun. Came to see Paolo Marcotti."
All that did was make his eyebrows under his cap brim rise.
"Identification?"
I handed him my press card, the one issued by the NYPD. He held it like it was a used handkerchief. While he looked it over, I took out the press release Molloy gave me and read from the letterhead the name of the press contact: John Till.
"Jacky Till here?" I asked.
"One moment, please," he said.
He seemed glad to hand me back my press card. He picked up a telephone receiver from an intercom and said into it that a "reporter from one of the newspapers is here. Is Mr. Till available to come to the front entrance?"
When he put the receiver down we stood there silently watching each other. I smiled. He didn't. I guess he didn't like my cologne.
In less than a minute, a man, thin as a reed, wearing a maroon velvet tuxedo, skipped down the stairs at the rear of the display room. He made a few stops, to plant pecks on the cheeks of women in his path, and finally floated over to the front door where I had been watching his performance. He held out his left hand, palm down. I shot it best I could, and introduced myself.
"So exciting," he minced, "isn't it, Mr. Quill?"
"Yes, so." I answered. "What?"
"Why, the exhibit, naturally," he said, perplexed.
"Yes, the exhibit," I said, vaguely.
"You are, of course, familiar with your assignment tonight," he said, fearing that I, of course, was not.
I played along. "Perhaps you can fill me in."
He eyes went up. He gave me an affected sigh. "Oh, I had hoped your paper would send Blanche. You know her, of course."
I said yes. Blanch Regan is The Sun's art reviewer. She always impressed me as somewhat of an air head.
"Well, no matter," Till was continuing, "You're here and that's grand. Anyway, you have, of course, heard of Ross Markle? No? Well, never mind. I see I'll have to start at the beginning. Mr. Markle is, or was, that is, this country's most promising new painter..."
Till went on this way in many words to explain a simple thing: Markle was the hottest painter in town. And he was represented by Paolo Marcotti, the town's most noted, knowledgeable and successful art dealer. Markle was the pride of Marcotti's painters. Clients from all over the of Markle's paintings. I asked how this was so and after a few false starts it became clear. Markle had gone from being a relatively unknown though modestly successful artist a few years back to this envious position of prominence among the collectors, museums and chic set because of Marcotti's genius at recognizing talent and being able to manage the talent so that it was not wasted. Collectors were honored to be part of this artist's history by being allowed by Marcotti to buy his work.
All this was so much gas from the sewer; I didn't know about it and cared less. Yet, while Till told me this, I recalled who Markle was. Because this rising star, premier of Marcotti's painters, pet of the chic, six months back had drawn a hot bath, taken off his clothes, gotten into the water, taken out a .38 caliber revolver and rearranged the side of his skull. He was 44.
"Shocking," Till sighed. "No one has ever understood why he did such a thing."
I mumbled something about rising too high too fast, for such a thing can destroy eagles.
"Anyway," Till was continuing, "tonight's exhibit is the first showing of Markle's last work. Mr. Marcotti felt it decent to wait this time before exhibiting the collection in honor of the artist's memory. He invited some of Ross' close friends and admirers and, as you can see, they are here in abundance."
Till was right about that. During our chat, we had moved from the front door and were standing at the foot of the crowded stairway. The din from the room above spilled down on us like the roar of a waterfall.
"What's the exhibit for?" I asked.
Till looked at me queerly, so to speak, and shook his head. "My dear fellow," he sighed, "an exhibit is held to display work to prospective collectors."
He gave a quick look to both sides. Then he leaned over and put his mouth just a little too close to my right ear. "Minimum for one piece of work, my dear, is $40,000," he whispered.
I pulled my head back and stepped away a respectable distance. He gave me the willies. But I was thinking about what he said. I have never known how to react to such extravagance. Suffice it to say that there is no piece of canvas with paint on it in the universe that is worth two years salary to me.
When we got to the top of the stairs, I saw the glitter the photo editor was interested in. The women looked like they were dressed for the display windows of Bloomingdale's most chic shops. Men were dressed in less gaudy but equally expensive clothing. A few tuxedoes, but mostly the velvet and frills Till was sporting. Many of the faces were familiar. I recognized some Broadway actors, a few faces from the late movies on television, a few theater angles. There was Monty Jefferson, the talk show host on public television, sipping cocktails with Wayne Claton and Neal Franks, whose film was going to be released a month from now they said in the trades. There was Jane Smithfield, the local television anchor who was getting more money a year than the network bigs. She was talking to a clothing designer, a guy whose three initials on a tie increase its cost three times. Bunches of women buzzed around waiting for a chance to talk with him. They reminded me of fruit flies.
There were maybe 150 guests. The room was large, similar to a reception room at a hotel. It had a parquet floor, and pastel colored walls. There was an open champagne bar at the far end. A few black guys with white porter tunics walked around taking orders and bringing them back from a bar on the side. I walked around with Till. In the midst of several large men, I saw a million dollar a picture actress hold up a miniature golden spoon and snort white powder into her nose.
"Nice crowd," I said to Till, who saw what I saw.
His eyes went up. "Yes, people do have their habits, don't they?"
He waved his arms, unconcerned, and continued along. Yes, I thought, this Marcotti did the decent thing. He waited six months so that Markles' admirers could drink, laugh and snort cocaine in his memory while his surviving dealer showed off his work for $40,000 a pop.
"When's Marcotti getting here?" I asked Till.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Quite soon, I'm sure," he said. Then his eyes lighted up. "There Mr. Brockton. Come along, he is a man you should meet."
I was only 9:22 p.m. and I was going to be waiting so I played along with him. Till led me midway through the room where he stopped behind a gray-haired man in his early 60's. He gently patted the man's shoulder.
"Mr. Brockton?" Till greeted.
The man turned around. "John," he said, in a nasal, somewhat accented tone. "Good to see you again."
That was what he said, but I wouldn't take money on whether he meant it. Till didn't look like the kind of guy that Mr. Brockton there would be inviting to his place in the Hamptons. Till didn't have the sense to recognize this and went right ahead with the introductions.
"As you know, Mr. Brockton," Till kept on after we had exchanged names, "in my capacity as consultant to Mr. Marcotti, I have tried to kindle interest in the popular press of..."
"Yes, yes, Till," Brockton interrupted. "Good of you to come, Mr. Quill." I said thanks. Then it came to me. William Brockton, sure, one-time Secretary of Commerce. A bit older than the face I remembered, but it was the guy. He had the look of an aging English squire. His thick gray hair was neatly parted and brushed down nearly flat against his long thin head. Around the ears, shining curls defied the oil he'd used to keep the hair in place. He nose was straight and long, his cheeks ruddy and clean shaven. He looked like he could get a million-dollar loan just by saying the alphabet.
"Mr. Brockton is a trustee of New York Museum," Till was saying.
"Yes, that's right," Brockton said vaguely. He was more interested in my dark green corduroy suit. It obviously wasn't being worn by The Sun's arts and culture editor. "But Mr. Quill, I'm curious. What brings you here tonight?"
"To see Paolo Marcotti," I said, evenly. I let it go at that.
"Well," Brockton replied, picking up the beat, "I'm sure he will be here shortly." He raised his eyebrows at Till who said that yes Mr. Marcotti would be here in no time, etc.
"While we wait," Brockton said, "why don't I show you the exhibit. Quite exciting, I think."
I thought, what the hell? I gave a nod and the former Secretary of Commerce led the way to a side door. Till and I followed him into an area much like the display room downstairs, except more complicated. It was a maze of partitioned areas. The partitions were only seven feet high and didn't reach the ceiling. Lights suspended from the ceiling pointed in all directions. Brockton walked into the first area. Till then started the first of his noises: ooo's, aaa's, and like that.
The area had three walls. They were very white. On each hung a different painting. They were very colorful, I'll give them that.
No picture, to speak of, just lines and reds, purples, yellows, blacks, greens in a kind of angular anarchy. As we went through the other areas, with Brockton explaining what it all meant, Till was having a ball commenting on the revolution Markle created.
"Yes," Brockton was saying, "he did have a unique vision."
That, I was thinking, was true. What I was seeing, though, missed me. I got through maybe 25 paintings. Each was like the other. There wasn't a distinguishable picture in the lot. They were colorful, sure, but so what? So is the slipcover on my bed at home. So much for my appreciation of high art. It took maybe 10 minutes for us to get through the exhibit area. I felt like a foreigner. What Brockton said as simple enough: Markle had captured the confusion of the world, used color and abstract shapes to create a new way of seeing that world. It wasn't my world. I doubted it was Brockton's either.
"Thanks," I said, when we returned to the main reception area. It was my only response and we stood together now at the door wondering what more to say.
I was getting anxious to see Marcotti. The minute hand on my watch had moved more than I'd liked. Just then, a voice called from behind me: "William!"
Brockton's eyes looked to the voice and smiled, like a banker who smiles at the guy who owns the bank. I turned and recognized Brockton's pal as Charles Osgood, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, a mouthful to mean he was the chief fed prosecutor in town. I'd covered him plenty.
"And Mr. F. X. Quill as well," he said when he saw me. He said he was surprised to see me at this affair.
"Me, too," I said, thinking the same thing about him. I didn't tell him my excuse. As for him, he's been busy doing other things than attending chic parties. Since his appointment two years back, Osgood had done more than most to crack the narcotics, gambling and prostitution rackets. The indictments, dealing with interstate commerce statutes, had been coming down for the past eight or nine months. During that time, I'd talked to him. Though I'd seen him in federal court, mostly I'd dealt with him at night by phone to his house in Westchester County. We were always cleaning up day side mistakes on nightside to get the paper right. For a fed, he was open enough, which was natural. He was ambitious.
He was about 46, a multi-millionaire son of a plastic bag manufacturer, and a bankroller to the local political party in Bronxville. He'd run for office himself, in a losing race or two, one of them for U. S. Congress. Made him lots of points with the local pols. He was a partner in a Wall Street law firm when the President was elected. Osgood made use of the points earned and got himself appointed U. S. Attorney.
He stood in a plain tux about five feet eight, weighed 180 or so. His face was round, fleshy and tanned, like a guy who likes tennis in the good weather and sat under sun lamps in the bad.
"So why are you here?" I was asking.
"I'm an old patron of the arts," he said. He made himself as clear as a glass of smoked whiskey.
Brockton and Osgood exchanged some light talk and then I asked the fed what he had coming up. He looked at me like a pointer looks at a quail from a distance of one foot. His head didn't move at all when he asked: "What have you heard."
I shrugged my shoulders. The fact that I'd heard nothing and was just asking a blind question because I didn't know what else to do, was beside the point. I was being nosey. I'd gotten a rise, as though I had in my possession a stolen state secret, so I just kept staring at him.
"As you know, Mr. Quill," he was saying, still looking like a bird dog, "it is against the policy of my office to discuss pending investigations. I..."
"Take it easy, Prosecutor," I interrupted. "Just making conversation."
I had no idea why he was so sensitive. I didn't care. I could wait until whoever knew what was on Osgood's mind told me. I was getting anxious to talk to this guy, Marcotti. I was thinking I had made a mistake coming here. I considered calling Molloy and saying so. It was 9:50 p.m. and I could get to Marcotti's brownstone and probably get inside to talk with the cops or whatever, maybe talk with some neighbors about what they saw or heard, and call all that in by 11 p.m. for the four star. Waiting around at this party was becoming a waste of time.
This was all going through my head when I saw Leah, who is, shall I say, a good friend. She was across the room smiling at me. I guess she'd been watching me with Till, Brockton and Osgood. It amused her. I excused myself from the trio and walked through the glittering crowd to her the way a man dying of thirst moves toward a pool of water.
Leah is a commercial designer, just starting her own business. To make ends meet, she works nights at The Sun as a switchboard operator in the city room. It was her night off and I had no idea she was going to be at the party. She had on a black chiffon dress that hung on her shoulders and over her body like a breeze. Her auburn hair fell over his neck and back in waves.
"Hey, babe," I said, when I reached her. I did what I usually do when I see her someplace other than the 7th floor city room. "Glad you're here."
She returned my kiss. "Back at you, Fran." Leah is a clean, no nonsense woman, one that can take care of herself. She is lean, firm, whole and, to me, warm. "And what are you doing here? Molloy tired of looking at you?"
I said probably. But that wasn't why I was here. I told her.
"Not surprised," she commented. She shook her head making those auburn waves shake like fall-colored leaves in an afternoon breeze. "Happening to a lot of collectors."
"You've heard of others?"
"A few. Maybe four or five is as many months. Just rumors, so we haven't had it in the paper. The collectors don't tell the police anything. Bad form, you know."
I said I'll bet. "How do you know about it?"
"It's my business to know what happens in this racket I'm in. Remember?" Leah playfully adopted a mock confidence. "You may not know it, Mr. Quill, but I am not just a switchboard operator in the city room who likes what you look like when you walk around."
I played along. "No?"
We laughed a little. Then we talked about each other a bit and decided a split of champagne would be a good idea. While sipping the tart bubbles, I asked what she was doing here.
"It was a must," she answered. "Too many potential clients here for me not to show. My design business won't last until I break into the clique that hands out he jobs. So I go where the clique is."
I nodded. Her reasoning was as sound as the American flag. "But how do you stand it?" I asked, glancing at the collection of whacks and coke-heads around us.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Goes with the job. "I was getting antsy again. "You know Marcotti?"
She was saying yes when I realized we were almost shouting at each other to make ourselves heard. I took her by the arm and walked over to the entrance way at the top of the stairs where the racket accompanying the memorial exhibit to the late Ross Markle seemed less enthusiastic.
"He came from Hong Kong to the city maybe four years ago," Leah began again. "He must have had a substantial business there because when he opened this gallery he had an impression list of clients in no time."
She explained that collectors, in effect, were like schools of fish. A new dealer opening a shop is like a fisherman throwing a net into the water. The collectors are spooked and swim away. But when Marcotti opened up, the collectors swam right to him.
"Somebody leading the way?" I asked.
"Had to be," she answered. "But you'd never know who. Many collectors are anonymous. But their purchases are known anyway. The trade magazines say this painting was sold quietly for this price by Foxborough Gallery, word of mouth and, of course, there's always the gossip columns."
"Like Bess Johnson," I suggested. She had a gossip column in The Sun, a press agent's dream. Bess writes six days a week, putting the celebs' names in bold face type in chatty copy detailing that whoever is rumored to be sleeping with so and so, up for this or that part in such and such moving or Broadway production of the stunning whatever. Also, who was eating what with whom at which post bistro and what whoever said about whatever made such an impression on you know who, that you know who is considering pushing whoever' nose around. I mean, let me tell you, my, my. Priceless stuff, bt readers, bless them, lap it up like a sponge.
"Her and others," Leah was saying.
It never occurred to me that an art dealer would use a gossip column to create interest in a piece of canvas. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. "Then this exhibit is for the same thing?"
"Sure."
"And the price goes up, then, too?"
"Like a rocket," she said, "and its all a deduction too."
"Then, if this is so important where the hell is this guy," I mumbled. It was 9:55 p.m. now and the four star deadline was creeping up like a hangover before dawn. Time to get it or forget it.
"There," Leah said, pointing down the stairway and to the front door, where the square silver shield was holding the door open for a man and his lady guest. "That's him."
