Bohemia by the Bay

By Chris Sands

Outbidding rivals for an obscure turn-of-the century painting, San Francisco art dealer and man-about-town Mal Gerard finds himself implicated in a string of art thefts and murders after a competitor is found dead in his favorite recliner. Now the lead suspect, Mal and hipster girlfriend Nina Farkis dodge cops and crooks to prove his innocence and stay alive in this modern noir mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Sands
• Release date: Sep 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476120201

Chris Sands

Author Chris Sands earned his B.A. in English and Creative Writing and M.A. in Humanities from San Francisco University. He is a freelance writer living in Cabo San Lucas, where he regularly contributes to the periodicals Cabo Social and Los Cabos Magazine, and the online travel guides 10Best, NileGuide, and Baja.com. Bohemia by the Bay is his first novel.

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Bohemia by the Bay

by

Chris Sands

Bohemia by the Bay

Published by Chris Sands at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Chris Sands

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

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I lived to learn that in the world of sport all men win alike, but lose differently; and so gamblers are rated, not by the way in which they win, but by the way in which they lose. Some men lose with a careless smile, recognizing that losing is part of the game; others curse their luck and rail at fortune; and others, still, lose sadly…Those in the first class are looked upon with admiration; those in the second class are merely commonplace; while those in the third are regarded with contempt. I believe these distinctions hold good in all the ventures of life.

—James Weldon Johnson

And cards once dealt, it boots not ask why so.

—Thomas Kyd

This book is dedicated to the memory of Dashiell Hammett

CONTENTS

THE DEAL

DAY ONE

DAY TWO

DAY THREE

DAY FOUR

BLUFFS AND RAISES

DAY FIVE

DAY SIX

DAY SEVEN

DAY EIGHT

DAY NINE

DAY TEN

CALL

DAY ELEVEN

DAY TWELVE

DAY THIRTEEN

DAY FOURTEEN

THE TAKE

AUTHOR BIO

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE DEAL

DAY ONE

The funny thing about waiting on a woman was that in retrospect there was plenty of time to run like hell. Of course, the waiting was part of the game. Waiting in bars or restaurants or lobbies, shooting a cuff for the offhand watch glance and staring out windows. For married men a daily routine. For single men like him an occupational hazard. Sometimes they were worth the wait. Mal Gerard was not immune to the impact of a lovely woman sweeping into a room, but thought the affectation akin to psychological warfare. It kept you off balance. And when you came right down to it, wasn’t that the point? You had a couple of drinks while you were waiting and your mind was weak and malleable.

Waiting, and from his vantage on a discarded couch outside Tony Nik’s, looking across Washington Square into the soft setting autumn sun, Gerard flashed on the advice of his one-time mentor Barry Steegle: Martinis are like tits, kid. One is not enough and three is too many. Like a lot of things in life, drinking was hard to get right. One moment your mind could be as clear as cool drinking water, your words resonant and sure. The next moment you could be baring your soul to strangers and trying not to upend the furniture. Gerard, well into his second martini, shrugged his shoulders, an involuntary jerk that rippled the lemon-oiled surface of his drink. He tried to clear his mind of a day spent shopping for overpriced wallpaper and focus instead on a potential client whose tastes fortunately ran counter to the postmodern paintings which he privately considered the splash and grab school (as in a splash of paint, a grab for money). It pained him to imagine what Canaletto or Bellotto, whose cityscapes encompassed such a wealth of detail, would have thought of a red slash on white canvas that took an hour to execute and sold for several thousand dollars.

His gaze floated over the park, the freshly mown grass glistening with the powder-green patina of freshly minted money. A teenager was bending over to pick up a red Frisbee, smiling at something the young girl some thirty yards beyond was saying. With crystal clarity, Gerard noted the way the boy’s t-shirt billowed slightly from his body, the flex of knee, the chestnut brown of the girl’s hair being blown forward by the wind, the way she pushed it behind her ears with a symmetrical gesture of index fingers, the pin-pricks of pink on her flawless skin. The picture of youth that could break the heart of a man cresting restlessly into his middle thirties. An elderly homeless man with brick red skin in a crusty custard-colored trench coat and navy blue watchman’s cap slanted towards the boy with all the subtlety of a rudderless battleship.

The running of the bums, he mumbled as he returned to his barstool inside Nik’s.

Just like Pamplona, huh? Louis Bynum, a grizzled, white-haired old man two stools down from Gerard, leaned over and drew signs in the air with his hi-ball glass. Another year, we won’t even be able to call them homeless. They’ll be location challenged, or residence otherly-abled, some such shit. I tell you, I’m glad to know my tax money is keeping them in booze and cigarettes, he said, waving for another drink.

I earn my drinks, Bynum said to the bartender. Gerard tuned him out, adjusting the aural equivalent of a dimmer switch as he thought of ways to frame the scene in the park.

He wished that he still painted.

Mr. Gerard?

Swiveling on his stool, he saw a very attractive woman of about forty, auburn hair pulled back in a chignon, green gold flecked eyes, an unlined freckle dusted face, little makeup and no apparent jewelry. Gerard stood and they exchanged the amenities: Monica Blake. Sorry I’m late. Yes, nice to meet you. Would you like a cocktail? That would be lovely. A Manhattan. I’ll be in the booth over there.

He watched her move towards the booth, admired her tailored blue pantsuit, the way she wore her white silk scarf, like an early aviatrix. To the bartender he said, A manhattan and another martini, Janine.

Janine, a plump rather pretty woman with lustrous black hair, used plastic lavender-colored spray bottles of vermouth, misting the air with a reflection of light playing in the back-bar mirror. She swept the glasses through the mist for the perfect coating, then gave a generous inverted free-hand pour into chilled shakers before straining.

He carried the drinks to their table.

Janine is my favorite local artist. A very deft way with the shaker, this woman.

Mmmm, said Monica, sipping her drink. I like your office.

Hope you don’t mind the informality. I’ve never seen any reason why you can’t combine business with pleasure, he said. Of course, I’ve yet to discover the meaning of the words profit margin.

There are ways to combine business and pleasure and make money, she said, her words precise and slightly clipped. But I think they’re all illegal.

New York?

From birth. I’ve reinforced concrete in my heart and asphalt running through my veins.

And a weekend house in Connecticut, I’ll bet.

She made a wry face over her glass. Heavens, no. Too many tree-shaded driveways and smelly dogs and nasty little insects that attack you when the sun goes down. Central Park is as close to nature as I like to get, and I prefer it from a distant balcony.

Then I won’t recommend any hikes through the redwoods, Gerard said, admiring the gloss of her fingernail polish.

After this exhaustion of small talk, Monica got down to business. Jeannie Bart tells me you’re something of an art dealer. Is that right?

Something of one, yes. I do the occasional presentation at the Sutro Gallery downtown, but what I mainly do is consultations. Recommend to clients the right things to buy.

Or, as he had explained the previous day to Mrs. Franklin Jost, the doyenne whose home on upper Broadway he was now commissioned to supply with a half-dozen objets d’art, there were a number of options he could pursue. I can find you quality pieces, either bargains or at fair market price. I can focus on pieces that complement your décor. I can have my associate Ms. Farkis photograph the rooms in your home and I will endeavor in so far as is possible to acquire pieces of the size and form that best complement these rooms. I can look for period pieces that reflect your interests or complement an existing collection. I can focus on pieces that have the best chance of appreciating in value. Depending on your budget, I can accomplish a number of these objectives.

Monica Blake said, So you sell your taste to the tasteless rich, is that right?

I wouldn’t say that. I might occasionally think it, but I never say it. He took a sip of his martini. "I sell my knowledge, the same as a doctor or lawyer. Most of what I recommend are name paintings of a certain age. They’re good investments, nearly always appreciate in value. What I don’t do is interior decoration, providing carefully faded editions of Dombey and Son or The Collected Poems of Robert Browning. My training was as a painter, not an art historian, so there are plenty of things I know nothing about."

And plenty you do, I would imagine. Tell me, do you prefer dealing to painting?

It pays better, although I’ve relinquished my right to throw public fits, chalk them up to creative temperament. He paused. Are you a collector?

May we discuss it over dinner? I’m ravenous.

They walked down Columbus through the heart of Little Italy, the early evening air redolent with the strange commingling of garlic and exhaust fumes. Over pasta and house red at the Gold Spike, an ancient eatery with Dean Martin and Patsy Cline on the jukebox, she pulled a 4 x 6 print from a creamy leather handbag. What do you make of this?

A nocturne of Mission Dolores. Must be Charles Rollo Peters.

That’s very good, she said, looking suitably impressed.

Well, Peters is a very distinctive painter, important locally. Whistler claimed he was the only other painter who did justice to the nocturne, he said, chasing his bolognese with a fine barbera.

"The actual title is Midnight at Mission Dolores, probably painted in the spring of 1898. It’s coming up…Would you care for another drink?"

He stared at the empty wine bottle accusingly, as if it had betrayed him.

Sure, Gerard said, thinking: this woman has the most wonderful diction I have ever heard in my life and I’m about to start slurring my words.

It’s coming up for bid at an auction Friday, the day after tomorrow, at Sotheby's. I wonder if you might act as my agent?

I’d be glad to, but why?

I’m spending a few days up in the wine country with old friends, so I can’t attend the auction. But I simply must have that Peters. Would ten percent of the purchase price be sufficient for your services?

Very generous. How high are you willing to go?

As high as it takes, she said.

Gerard laughed. Monica, that kind of attitude might be good for my commission, but in good conscience I must advise you to set a limit. The painting will appreciate over time, of course, but if the bidding surpasses fair market price, I suggest you empower me to find a better bargain.

I’ve got my heart set on the Peters, and I can certainly afford to pay for it, whatever the price.

Okay, he said as they were walking along the sidewalk at the juncture of Columbus and Broadway, bathed in the neon light from the strip clubs that fell down towards the bay, the barkers out front spieling the collegiate young men clotting the sidewalks. I’m your man.

She stopped and took hold of his wrist.

That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. I’ll send a letter of credit around to your gallery tomorrow morning. As for tonight, any particular sights I should see?

She let the sentence lapse, tapped a manicured fingernail on the inner cleft of his left elbow.

Gerard tried on an earnest smile, mentally cursed the Farkis.

Beach Blanket Babylon is a must for anyone visiting. I'd offer to accompany you, give you the city tour afterwards, but my fiancé is forcing me to have dinner with her parents.

It sounds as if you aren't quite looking forward to it?

Noblesse oblige, and all that.

They had crossed over into Chinatown, shops hawking luggage and postcards, Buddha figures and Alcatraz sweatshirts.

He smiled ruefully and stepped off the curb to hail her a cab, handing her into the backseat after the driver scissored neatly into the loading zone in front of Li Po's. As he was shutting the door, she said, Friday at two. Don’t let me down.

*

Back in his apartment on lower Lombard, he hung up his suit and padded to the kitchen in oxblood silk boxer shorts (a gift from Nina Farkis, who had also given him a pair of matching pajamas that he adored, but wouldn’t be caught dead wearing). He took a chicken breast from the freezer to thaw and uncapped a bottle of Lagunitas (their fine IPA) and retired to his recliner with said beer and a biography of Louis Armstrong (An Extravagant Life).

Gerard had a rather ambivalent relationship with biographies. He liked period pieces and celebrity breakfast habits, but had yet to encounter one of these books that came anywhere close to capturing the divine spark that made the subject’s predilection for sausage links interesting in the first place. His interest generally petered out by about page fifty-seven, which is why he found the public library such a valuable civic institution. It was like a dating service for commitment-phobes.

He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to do anything as well as Armstrong had played trumpet, as Leonardo had painted portraits or Shakespeare written plays; to create sounds, images, representations that shook like a pendulum vibrating seconds, or a gong smacked with a sixteen pound sledge.

Maybe it was, like everything else, a mixed blessing (the optimist’s word for curse, he thought, wondering if he were plagiarizing Bierce).

He was on page fifty-six when the phone rang.

Mal, this is Nina.

Who?

Whom, dear boy.

Forgive me, darling. Would you believe an hour ago I was telling a woman that we were engaged?

You’re planting seeds, she warned.

Nina, you know how I feel about marriage.

As if reading from an index card, she said, It is an antiquated institution that ought be abolished, and anyone dumb enough to practice it deserves what they get.

Good girl.

Listen, Mal. I’m at an emergency dance party in the Mission. Me and a bunch of hipsters and stoners, a couple of rockabilly lesbians and a Venezuelan who keeps talking about busts. I’m hoping he’s a sculptor, but just the same I wish you would come… She had started to say save me, but decided it was too early in the conversation to play the distress card.

Instead she said: …join me.

Am I qualified?

I’ll say.

You’re sweet to say so. Tell me more?

I’m lusting for your older, only slightly diminished virility. And there’s vodka.

I’m not susceptible to vodka bribes, Nina. A man of steel in that category as well.

Like hell.

What is an emergency dance party? He had to ask.

It’s a pressure drop.

Of course it is, he said. How silly of me.

He told her to circle the wagons around the problematic Venezuelan. The seventh cavalry was on the way, albeit a little low in the saddle.

After he hung up, Gerard put the chicken breast back in the freezer and took a shower, Dippermouth Blues playing on the stereo as he soaped himself. It marked his return to primary source materials.

*

When he arrived at the converted warehouse on Treat Street, after stopping for a burrito at a taqueria on Valencia, the situation had apparently been downgraded to mild hip shaking. The lights had been brought up and the deejay had left his station to chat up a lovely young black woman in a thigh-high skirt. The forty or so people still assembled were huddled in small groups drinking beer and wine out of nine ounce plastic cups, punctuating conversational points by slopping liquids on the concrete floor. Nina was standing in front of the makeshift cash bar talking to a chunky girl with a Louise Brooks haircut and the outfit of a fifties carhop.

Ah, sweet youth culture, he thought.

Nina gave Gerard a hug and stood still for alternate cheek kisses, public propriety.

This is Prudence, she said. She thinks Peter Lawford killed Marilyn on orders from Momo.

The chimp?

The gangster, Prudence corrected. Sam Giancana.

Sorry. I’ve had monkeys on my mind.

He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at the display bottle of Red Nectar.

I think you may be right, he said to Prudence, reaching behind her for his mini-cup of beer, and segued into a story he had heard about Monroe and Joe Dimaggio. The one where Monroe after a USO tour in Korea says, You’ve never heard such cheers. And Dimaggio says, Yes…I have.

When Prudence drifted off to find her friends, Gerard put his free arm around Nina and gave her a squeeze.

She better be careful with that conspiracy talk. The walls have ears. He waved his arms at the crowd. How the hell did you hear about this party?

You swear too much. There was a guy passing out flyers at the Rainbow grocery. It seemed a lark, she said, finishing his beer. Although I have to say, the party was better as a theoretical concept.

They usually are. Everyone's charming, nobody's drunk.

I know. It's such a shame things never live up to how you imagined them.

Some things do, he said softly.

C'mon, Nina said, giving him a sweet smile. There’s somebody here I think you’ll actually want to meet.

You lied about the vodka.

She pulled an airplane bottle of Kettle One from her purse and handed it to him. Look, it’s still cold. Come meet Tony.

They walked over to shaggy-haired baggy-jeaned young man of about twenty who was sitting on milk crate with a sketch pad. Gerard admired his ability to look isolated amidst a group of people. It was an affectation he had been trying to master for years.

Tony Brancuso, this is Mal Gerard. He works at a gallery on Geary.

What’s up, Mal?

Tony does Barbary Coast drawings, Nina said. Show Mal the one I saw earlier.

He flipped back a few pages and produced a finely detailed charcoal sketch of two elaborately dressed hoodlums beating a sailor with brass knuckles in an alley in back of what looked to be a whorehouse. Two feminine faces peeked out from behind a wooden door. They looked simultaneously horrified and excited.

This is pretty good, Gerard said. Is the dress accurate?

It’s all accurate, dude. The local history section at the main library has all kinds of old newspaper accounts and cartoons and shit. That scene is from Pacific and Sullivan Alley, Brancuso said, pulling a small pipe from his Giants warm-up jacket and packing it with marijuana.

Have you done many of these?

Yeah, I’ve got like fifty or sixty drawings from that period.

He offered the pipe to Gerard, who declined, and Nina, who accepted.

Jesus, you’re prolific. You do other periods as well?

I’ve done a few of North Beach from when the beats were there. He hit the pipe, said while holding his breath: Jazz clubs and stuff. Do you think I could sell them?