The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(101)

Tischler ran his hand over the middle of the slab. “Doubt it. A vault door would have a central wheel in the middle, don’t look like anything’s been patched or painted over. But it could be a security door leading to the vault…serious security hinges. This much steel, probably weighs a ton and a half minimum.”

Milo said, “You have what you need to pop it?”

“What do you think?” said Tischler. “These locks are newer, look like…twenty years ago and nothing special.”

He got down on a knee. “Two Yales, one Schlage, here comes Poppa!”

The drill did its job. Tischler reached for the handle but Milo got there first, turned hard, and stepped into darkness.

Reed and I filed past Tischler.

He muttered, “Someone’s in a hurry,” and brought up the rear.



* * *



—

Milo’s Maglite located the light switch. One flick and everything turned bright.

We’d entered ten square feet of windowless space with walls covered by intricately patterned green, white, and red tiles. The floors were white subway tiles feeding to an ornate steel staircase.

Flight and a half, the steps granite, the railing adorned by vines and flowers and newel posts shaped like snarling lion’s heads.

A curious, yeasty smell.

Milo held us back and began climbing.

Twenty footfalls later: “Clear.”



* * *



—

At the top of the stairs was brick-walled loft space, sixty or seventy feet long and half as wide, backed by a partition on the north end that failed to reach the ceiling and gapped six feet on either side.

Towering ceiling, at least thirty feet, stripped to raw boards, the ducts naked. Double-stacked windows had provided the illusion of a three-story.

Lighting, harsh, ashy, pervasive, suffused with dust, came from four tracks that paralleled the ceiling’s center beam. The floors were wide-plank pine, pitted and scarred and burnished by decades of foot traffic.

The yeast stronger, here.

Paper.

Half the loft was filled with ten-foot stacks of posters grouped by the hundred or so, piles of mailing tubes bound together by metal strips, and heaps of flat brown cardboard, the makings of shipping cartons.

The top poster, a low-res copy of Irises. A label on the back was printed in Chinese characters. One bit of translation:


Van Goe



A second stack featured a soup can.


Warhol



Tischler said, “Their spelling improved. So what, these were junk art dealers?”

Reed said, “Something like that.”

“Hate that, ruining art. I paint. Used to make a living at it in Chile. Commercial. You respect art, you don’t tacky it up.”

Milo said, “Hold that thought.” He walked through the opening on the left side of the partition.

No Clear call for what seemed like a long time.

Guillermo Tischler said, “You okay?”

Milo reappeared. “You can go now, my friend. Thanks.”

“I don’t get to hear the punch line?”

“Thanks for your time. A man of your skills, I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“Really?” said Tischler. Sighing, he picked up his toolbox and left.

When the sounds of his footsteps died, Milo turned to Reed, Coolidge, and me. “I won’t say ready because you can’t be.”





CHAPTER


    55


Equally cavernous space on the other side of the partition.

This lighting different, miserly, courtesy of a single track running down the center.

Warmer bulbs, though. Calculated focus.

The objects of illumination: two easels. Heavy-duty, solid oak professional artist models, both positioned along the room’s central spine, separated by twenty feet of open flooring.

The word “curation” has become a well-abused cliché. But it applied here.

An exhibit.

Perched on the nearer easel was a painting cased in glimmering gold leaf.

Hand-carved frame festooned with miniature gargoyle heads.

I knew the dimensions. But still, The Museum of Desire was surprisingly small.

Vivid colors unsuggested by Suzanne Hirto’s muddy file photo spoke to recent restoration.

Beautifully, horribly done.

The painting the product of a gifted hand but failing to rise above cartoon.

Because the intention had been nothing but shock value.

The four of us stared, stunned into silence. I was still staring as Milo and Reed and Coolidge moved on to the second easel.

Coolidge gasped. Reed’s hand shot to his mouth.

Milo stood there. I caught up.

An even smaller painting, maybe ten inches square.

Similar hues, similar style.

A tag affixed to the easel. Loopy handwriting in fountain pen.

Fate of a Harlot

Antonio Domenico Carascelli

c. 1512



Cherry-sized lumps began coursing up and down Milo’s jawline. The muscular tic that afflicts him when he fights internal combustion.

I braced myself and looked at the painting.

Black background, chiaroscuro lighting directing the eyes toward a triad of images.