An Artful Corpse Read online

  “How do you know that?” TJ blurted, rather rudely, but Ellen answered frankly. She realized she’d surprised him and didn’t want to rub his nose in his naiveté.

  “Well, I won’t kid you, I was interested in him,” she admitted. “He’s good-looking, fun to be around, and he seemed to like me a lot, so I hoped it might go somewhere. I don’t have a steady boyfriend, and I thought he might be a candidate. But he never took it any further than pals, so I began to get suspicious. A girl can tell when a guy’s not, how can I put it, not inclined. So I just up and asked him if he was queer, and he admitted it. We were both actually kind of relieved. He told me not to use the word queer, because it’s considered derogatory. He said, ‘I’m glad you know I’m gay, so you don’t think I was stringing you along.’ He was right. At that stage, it was just a crush, but if I’d fallen in love with him it would have been terrible.”

  Ellen’s revelations had stirred up a variety of feelings in TJ: annoyance with himself for failing to realize that Bill was gay, gratitude to Bill for convincing Ellen to take the life class, and relief that she wasn’t serious about anyone else. He was also feeling respect for her level-headed response to Bill’s admission. He wondered how he’d react if a girl he fancied turned out to be a lesbian.

  He wanted to tell her how well she’d handled it, but before he could come up with an appropriate way of phrasing it, the train squealed to a halt at the Union Square station.

  * * *

  As they emerged onto Fourteenth Street, they heard someone with a bullhorn addressing a crowd of about a hundred people massed under the equestrian statue of George Washington. The general’s right hand, raised in a farewell gesture that signaled the departure of the British from New York City at the end of the Revolutionary War, seemed to be a symbolic benediction to the group that had gathered to protest the military draft.

  Many held homemade placards with slogans like END THE WAR NOW and HELL, NO, WE WON’T GO.

  In front of a banner that read Vietnam Veterans Against the War, a man wearing army fatigues was ranting at the assembly.

  “I enlisted,” he shouted. “I went willingly on the scenic tour of tropical resorts and combat zones in Vietnam, all expenses paid. That was my choice. I’m not saying it was right or wrong, but I made the decision. I wanted to be a war hero, doing righteous battle against an evil enemy. Instead I saw villages in flames, rice paddies turned into graveyards, innocent people massacred, victims of American arrogance and stupidity.”

  The crowd answered with cries of “Right on, man!” “Fuckin’ A!” and “You tell it, brother!”

  The veteran continued, his voice rising even higher. “The same arrogance and stupidity are forcing a whole generation of young men to sacrifice themselves against their will! The war is wrong, and the draft is wrong! I’m calling on you to resist conscription! If you’re eligible, don’t register! If you have a draft card, burn it!”

  Someone had dragged a trash barrel to the center of the rally and set fire to it. A couple of long-haired youths approached it, each holding a Selective Service System Registration Certificate high above his head for all to see. Amid encouraging cheers and applause, they solemnly consigned their draft cards to the flames. Others stepped forward, and soon a dozen or more cards had been incinerated.

  On the periphery, as they walked north through the square, Ellen and TJ watched the spectacle with apprehension. Two years earlier, President Lyndon Johnson had signed legislation that made the burning of a draft card a federal crime punishable by up to five years in prison or a $10,000 fine. If the cops showed up, which they were likely to do given the size of the crowd, the noise, and the burning trash barrel—a misdemeanor in New York City—those protesters, who believed they were exercising their rights of free speech and public assembly, would wind up in jail.

  Union Square was the Thirteenth Precinct’s responsibility. “I’m glad this isn’t happening in my dad’s jurisdiction,” said TJ, “or my mom’s.”

  “How’s that?” asked Ellen, unaware that both his parents were police officers. He explained that his Irish American father was a deputy chief assigned to headquarters at 240 Centre Street, and his Cuban-American mother was a detective based at the Twenty-Third Precinct in Spanish Harlem.

  “Cops on both sides, you see. That’s why I’m going to John Jay. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t push me, not hard, anyway. I’d say they encouraged me, but they want me to make up my own mind.”

  “And have you?”

  “No, not really. It’s too early to say. I’m only a sophomore. I’m thinking of majoring in forensic psychology. Professor Morales got me interested in it. He used to be my mother’s boss at the Twenty-Third. He was her mentor, really believed in her and helped her get promotions, which isn’t easy for a female cop. When I was little I called him Tío Hector—that’s Spanish for uncle. He’s retired now, and he teaches at John Jay. Anyway, as far as a law enforcement career goes, I haven’t decided. Ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to be an artist. That’s why I started taking class at the League.”

  “Far out,” said Ellen as they reached the door of her building. “Where did you get that idea? Not from your folks, I bet.”

  TJ looked at his watch. “I’d better explain another time. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and I have an early class tomorrow. And you have work.” Not that he was eager to say good night, but a postponement gave him the opportunity to make a date.

  She beat him to it. “How about tomorrow? I get off at five thirty. Meet me here at six and I’ll show you the Up ’n’ Down. Then maybe we can catch a movie at Cinema Village.”

  A big smile lit up TJ’s face. “It’s a deal,” he agreed.

  Six

  Friday, September 29

  The building at 332 East Fifteenth Street was every bit as shabby as Ellen had described. The stoop steps were worn and cracked, paint peeled off the outside door, and several tiles were missing from the vestibule floor.

  “This is just the beginning,” advised Ellen as she unlocked the inside door. In the dimly lit hall they were greeted by the promised fragrance of uncollected garbage.

  “Wait ’til you see the staircase. We’re on the fourth floor, so you’ll have plenty of time to appreciate it. Just don’t lean on the banister,” she cautioned. The groaning treads slanted off at an alarming angle, suggesting structural as well as aesthetic deficiency. TJ was relieved when they reached Ellen’s door safely.

  She unlocked it and called out, “Anybody home?”

  “Only me” was the answer from her roommate, who popped her head out the bedroom door. A thick mop of unruly strawberry-blond curls fell over her face as she darted back into the room. “Here and gone,” she announced from inside. “Gotta run. I’m late for work.” Out she came, and TJ did a gaping double take.

  To say that Michele Kendall was imposing would be an understatement. Even without her high-heeled boots she was six feet tall, with a build somewhere between a Valkyrie and a linebacker. She towered over the five-foot-three Ellen, and, counting the boots, had at least four inches on TJ. Her wayward hair billowed around a pretty, heart-shaped face that seemed out of place on such a formidable body, made all the more impressive by a black leather miniskirt and a V-neck floral blouse that showed off her ample cleavage.

  “I see you didn’t warn him,” said Michele to her roommate, and to TJ, “Don’t worry, I only bite people I don’t like, and I think I like you already.” Before he could apologize, she grabbed her jacket and shoulder bag and was through the door, treating them to a hearty laugh followed by “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Trying hard to suppress her own laughter, Ellen gave TJ a few minutes to process Michele. She took his coat, removed her own, and hung them both on hooks behind the door.

  “She is pretty amazing, isn’t she? I’ve known her since we were both this high, though it’s hard to imagine her ever being li
ttle. She certainly has, ah, blossomed.”

  “You’re not kidding. What does she do that she’s off to work at this hour?”

  “She’s a waitress at The Bitter End, that’s a folk club on Bleecker Street,” said Ellen. She moved into the tiny kitchen, and TJ followed. She opened the icebox and asked, “You want a beer, or would you rather have a Coke?”

  He saw a couple of bottles of Knickerbocker on the shelf. The New York beer had always been his parents’ drink of choice, but the brewery had gone out of business two years ago. He asked where she’d got the Knicks and was told that they were in the icebox when she and Michele moved in last March.

  “There used to be six,” she said, “but we opened two to toast our arrival and drank two on Michele’s birthday in August. Let’s kill the last two while you tell me about your artistic ambitions.”

  She took the bottles, a church key, and a couple of glasses into the sparsely furnished living room that doubled as a dining area. No sofa, no television set, just a couple of well-worn armchairs with a coffee table between them, a round dining table with two mismatched chairs, a bricks-and-boards bookshelf, and a small cabinet with a portable record player on top. In one corner were a couple of guitar cases and a music stand, which attracted TJ’s attention.

  “Do you play?” he asked. “Or are they Michele’s?”

  “We both do,” she answered. “We took lessons together when we were in high school. In fact, we have a regular gig at The Bitter End’s Tuesday night hootenanny. That’s how she got her job there. We went to the audition and the manager not only put us on the bill, he said they were looking for a part-time waitress to work Friday through Sunday and asked if she would be interested. She goes to Hunter during the week, so it worked out really well for her.”

  Ellen opened the beers and poured them. “Why don’t you come down and catch our act next Tuesday night?” she suggested.

  “Sure,” said TJ, “I’ve never been to The Bitter End. Sounds like fun.” What a hypocrite I am, he thought. He was not a folk music fan—like Laning, he considered it old hat, not to mention patronizing when sung and played by city slickers who knew nothing of its cultural roots. But, as with Ellen’s awkward drawing, it didn’t matter to him whether he liked it or not, as long as he would be there as her date.

  “Let’s get back to your story,” prompted Ellen as she sipped her Knick. “I want to know why you’re so keen to be an artist.”

  He told her about his youthful adventures in East Hampton and his friendship with Ossorio and Dragon. “Remember what Mr. Laning said about Thomas Hart Benton’s student, Jackson Pollock? Well, Alfonso and Ted were close friends of his. We visit them every summer. They have Pollock’s paintings hanging in their house. I even have one of his prints. I won it in a raffle our first summer out there, when I was eight. That’s when Pollock was killed in a car crash, and my folks and I were there when it happened. His car almost hit us before it veered off. We saw it run into the woods and flip over. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t see it. I was asleep on the back seat and woke up when my dad hit the brakes.”

  “Gosh,” said Ellen, “that must have been scary.”

  “It was a shock, all right. But there was a lot more to it. I’ll tell you the whole story some time. Point is, my folks helped with the investigation, and that’s how we met Alfonso and Ted. Alfonso taught me to interpret Pollock’s work, and his own paintings, too.”

  He leaned forward earnestly. “It’s fascinating, Ellen, the way artists can communicate without words. And I don’t mean by illustration, like storytelling with pictures. I mean something deeper, on an emotional level, the way Pollock and Alfonso and other abstract painters can. I want to do that, too. Of course I know I have to learn the basics first, like Mr. Laning says, just like Pollock learned the basics from Benton. If I can’t do that I’ll give it up, but I have to try.”

  Ellen reached across the table and put her hand over his. Her warm touch made his heart jump, but he kept his composure. Her eyes met his. She smiled her endearing smile and spoke softly, reassuringly.

  “We have an agreement, remember? We shook on it. We’re both going to work harder. After all, we’ve only been at it for two weeks, and then only one night a week. We can’t expect miracles.”

  Oh, yes we can, thought TJ. One just happened.

  Seven

  Tuesday, October 3

  Since it opened in 1961, The Bitter End, at 147 Bleecker Street, had been one of Greenwich Village’s most popular music clubs. It was a coffeehouse, with no liquor license—that thirst could be quenched next door at the Dugout. The owner, Fred Weintraub, had stripped one wall down to the bare brick and enhanced the bohemian flavor by papering the other walls with enlarged reproductions of Surrealist collages from Max Ernst’s 1934 graphic novel, Une Semaine de Bonté.

  The stage was a low platform in front of the brick wall, with a few lights slung from a ceiling rack. No wings or backstage area, and a minuscule dressing room. The sound system was rudimentary, but amplification wasn’t really a problem in the intimate 150-seat club. There were a couple of booths, but the main seating consisted of recycled church pews. The place had a funky, makeshift vibe that meshed perfectly with the entertainment: classic folk singers like Pete Seeger, Odetta, and Josh White, and younger singer-songwriters carrying on the troubadour tradition, as well as stand-up comedy from newcomers Woody Allen, Richard Pryor, and Bill Cosby.

  By 1967 the club had changed with the times. Straight folk music was on the wane. As the manager, Paul Colby, put it dryly, “How many times can Michael row his fucking boat ashore?” Amid great controversy, Bob Dylan had transitioned from acoustic guitar to electric, from folk to folk-rock, and taken a generation with him, so The Bitter End was now booking more rockers than folkies. But the Tuesday night hootenanny continued as a showcase for new talent that sometimes hit the big time. Agents and managers would drop in to scout the acts. Artists like Simon and Garfunkel, Carly Simon, Richie Havens, and many others were “discovered” at the Bitter End hoots.

  On this particular Tuesday night, as TJ, Ellen, and Michele settled into one of the pews, Ellen explained the setup.

  “The hamburgers are pretty good, and they have coffee, soft drinks, and soda fountain specialties like the Frosty Freud, that’s coffee with an ice cream float.” She signaled the waitress, and they ordered Cokes. The girls didn’t want to eat until after their performance, so TJ said he’d wait, too.

  “Michele and I will probably go on early,” Ellen said. “Unknowns like us usually do the warm-up spot. Or we might go on late, after the main acts. It depends on who shows up. Ed or Oscar will let us know.”

  “Who are they?” asked TJ.

  “Ed McCurdy is the emcee, and he lines up the acts. Oscar Brand is a sort of folk-music impresario. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s had a radio show on WNYC for years. It’s called ‘Folksong Festival,’ and a lot of the singers he has on the show also perform here.” TJ had neglected to tell her that he was not a folk music fan. His favorite deejay was Cousin Brucie on WABC, New York City’s premier rock station.

  She pointed to a group in one of the booths. “That’s Brand in the black turtleneck. McCurdy is the guy with the goatee. We call him Dirty McCurdy because he loves to sing songs with off-color lyrics. The guys on the other side of the booth are Paul Colby, the club manager, and Theodore Bikel, the actor, the one with the full beard. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, he’s on Broadway right now in Fiddler on the Roof. He’s also a terrific folk singer. He and Oscar started the Newport Folk Festival. Looks like they’re working out the lineup now.”

  “That’s funny,” said Michele, “Theo shouldn’t be here now. He only comes in after the theater. I see him late on Saturday nights. Must be some reason why he took off from Fiddler tonight.”

  As if that were his cue, McCurdy detached himself from the booth and headed toward t
hem. Instead of his usual warm smile, his face wore a troubled look. Ignoring TJ, he bent low to speak to Ellen and Michele in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Listen, girls, there’s been a change of program. Woody Guthrie died this afternoon, so we’re going to devote the whole evening to a memorial tribute. A lot of his old friends will be dropping in, so I don’t know whether I can put you on.”

  Their disappointment took a back seat to their sorrow. Michele reached out and took McCurdy’s hand.

  “Jeez, Ed, that’s terrible news. I guess it wasn’t unexpected, he’s been sick for so long, but it’s still a blow. It’s okay if you can’t use us tonight. We understand.” Ellen nodded in agreement.

  “I knew you’d say that,” McCurdy replied, “but hang around just the same. It’ll be a night to remember, and I’ll call on you if I can. I know you have some of Woody’s songs in your repertoire.” He squeezed Michele’s hand, managed a meager smile, and returned to the booth.

  In spite of his lack of interest in folk music, TJ had heard of Woody Guthrie. Bob Dylan had revived some of his protest songs, anthems of the Great Depression, and his son, Arlo Guthrie, was active in the anti-war movement.

  “Oh, wow,” said Ellen, turning to look at two young men carrying guitar cases who had just entered the club. “It’s Arlo. And that’s Dylan with him.” The crowd, unaware that the elder Guthrie had just died, greeted them with shouted hellos, waves, and victory signs. They politely waved back and made their way to a table at the rear, off to the side of the stage, reserved for musicians. Once they were seated, McCurdy signaled for the house lights to go down and walked onstage to the single microphone.

  “Today,” he began, “America lost the voice of its conscience when Woodrow Wilson Guthrie passed away after a long battle with Huntington’s chorea.” There were gasps and groans from the audience, and someone cried out “No!”

  McCurdy waited for the hubbub to die down. “Woody never stood on this stage,” he continued, “but his music has often filled this room. And it will again tonight! His son Arlo is with us to pay tribute to his dad in the best way, the only way that makes sense.”