Authors: G. Norman Lippert
The Riverhouse (15 page)
“See that skinny old cuss over there by the kitchen doors?” Earl said, gesturing. Shane saw him. A very old man was bent almost double in his wheelchair, his hands hanging loosely over the armrests, fingers thin and bony. To Shane, they looked like the legs of giant albino spiders. A male nurse sat next to him, spooning something white and dribbling into his slack mouth, wiping his lips with a napkin after each spoonful.
“That there’s Stambaugh,” Earl went on. “He hasn’t said a meaningful word in ten years. Before he floated away, though, we used to talk about the old place. Oh yes.
He
had some stories. He was the last person to know the Missus, of course. He watched what she did to the house during those last years. Hell, he even helped her with some of it, when she asked him to. It was the job, and like I said, it paid well, at least by our standards.”
Shane felt uncomfortable watching the old man being fed. It was like catching someone in the middle of some embarrassing but necessary act, something that should be done in private, not in front of a crowded cafeteria. No one else seemed to notice, though. Maybe his presence was even vaguely comforting to the rest of the residents. After all, compared to Stambaugh, Earl himself looked spry enough to break into a jig.
“I’m keeping you from your lunch,” Shane said, extracting his elbow from the old man’s grip. “Thanks for your time.”
“Look,” Earl said a little gruffly. “I don’t mean to be stand-offish, all right? It’s not your fault. There’s still a little bad blood between the folks around here and that old property. The less you know about it, the better. Either way, it’s in the past now, specially now that the house’s been torn down. The cottage is all right, though. It was part of the property back in the day, but hardly anybody even remembers that.”
“What
was
the cottage?” Shane asked, hoping to leave with at least one question answered. “Was it a guest house or something?”
Earl blinked at Shane, a little incredulous. “You really don’t know?”
“Earl, before a few days ago, that cottage was just the place my wife and I spent a week or two every summer for the last seven years. I didn’t even remember the name of the original owners until I looked it up online a few days ago. I came to talk to you just because I was a little curious, that’s all. So no, I don’t know what the cottage was originally used for. I was just wondering.”
Earl grinned, showing a set of big, yellow dentures. “Why, it was Mr. Wilhelm’s studio,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s where he did all his painting, and what you might call his…
entertaining
. He and his models worked right there, in the upstairs, in the space between the windows, where the light was best. Nobody else was allowed in there. Not even Mrs. Wilhelm. That’s what I mean about the place needing a woman’s touch. Every home needs that, don’t you think, Mr. Bellamy? But some need it more than others. Oh
yes
.”
Shane stared at Earl, speechless, but Earl just cackled again, a little softer this time, and turned to limp into the cafeteria, dismissing him.
Greenfeld was driving a slate gray Audi when he arrived, the next day. He steered the car with almost prissy deliberation, babying it along the rutted path and into the gravel turn-off. Shane sat on the porch, watching, a book of Sudoku puzzles on his lap. Greenfeld parked, killed the ignition, and climbed out into the sunlight. He peered over the roof of the car toward the cottage, spied Shane, and called, “You aren’t out here seeing how long you can grow your fingernails and collecting jars of your own urine, are you?”
“I can’t afford to be that eccentric,” Shane called back, smiling. “The best I can hope for is unique. Come on up. It’s mostly safe.”
“Keep your pants on, I gotta get my shit together,” Greenfeld replied, thumbing a button on his key fob. The trunk of the Audi popped open.
Shane got up and ambled out to the car, joining Greenfeld as he produced a large manila portfolio from the depths of the trunk. Greenfeld was short, built like a jockey, with a wiry handshake and immaculate style. Today, he wore a white button-down shirt under a navy blazer, tieless. His short black hair was combed forward from his temples, and Shane thought he looked a little like a diminutive modern-day Caesar. Greenfeld pushed the portfolio toward Shane and reached for his attaché. Shane saw his own reflection in the mirrored shades clipped to Greenfeld’s glasses.
“Let’s get inside and have a look, whaddaya say?” Greenfeld said, grinning. “I’ve got to say, Shane, your name on my client list has opened up an interesting new branch of work for me. Let’s just hope you can keep that savvy New York artist aura going out here in the sticks.”
Shane shrugged as they entered the cottage. “I don’t think I ever really had that savvy New York artist thing down, even when I
was
one.”
“Well, perception counts for a lot,” Greenfeld replied, crossing to the sofa. “At least we have that working for us. Here. Just got that portfolio from the agency down in Tampa. I’ve looked at it already and given them a tentative thumbs-up. Frankly, based on your previous work, I think you can do this in your sleep, but go ahead and take a look.”
Shane sat down, opened the flap of the portfolio and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper. Some of the sheets were poster-sized, printed on heavy matte paper, showing enlargements of classic postcard art: grinning, bikini-clad women on the beach, a woody station wagon with a surfboard on top, a giddily colorful Florida sunset over the ocean with waving palm trees in the foreground. The original artwork was grainy, resplendent with day-glo colors, printed with poorly aligned processing so that the red of the woman’s lips didn’t quite match the black outline of her smile.
The rest of the prints, however, showed updated versions of the classic style, created for other state boards of tourism. One version showed a starburst of happy family travelers enjoying the Grand Canyon, complete with an image of a grinning, pipe-smoking dad planning the family’s vacation on his laptop. It was fairly typical stuff, kitschy and edgy, marrying the halcyon sense of the classic with modern ideals of convenience and hipness. Shane had, indeed, done stuff like it many times before. He said as much to Greenfeld.
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Greenfeld nodded. “The question isn’t whether you can do it. The question is whether you can do it in
time
. The muckety-mucks at the agency handling this account want to see final shipment by the middle of November. They’re planning on rolling out this campaign by late January, in time for the spring vacation push.”
Shane put down the last of the posters and leaned back on the couch. “How many do they want?”
“Six versions, one for each market. Keys, coast, family, diving, historic and water sports. Each one will include five to seven scenes and the word ‘Florida’ in those big, three-dimensional block letters. You don’t do any computer generated stuff, do you? Photoshop, that kind of thing?”
Shane shook his head. “Sorry, I’m pretty old school. We had a whole department for that kind of thing at T and C. None of those guys could paint, and I couldn’t draw with a mouse. Call it job security. Why?”
“No point in painting the Florida hero word six times, that’s all,” Greenfeld replied, taking off his glasses and sticking them in the inner pocket of his blazer. “Paint it once, we can get a scan of it and place it in the other scenes, maybe alter the color digitally to keep them all distinct. Don’t worry about it. I have a guy that can manage that angle on the cheap. It’ll save you some monkey work, painting the same thing over and over. You can just leave a space in the middle. Make sense?”
Shane nodded. It would indeed save him a lot of time. “What about reference material for the scenes? Do they know what they want to show? Or is that up to me?”
Greenfeld swept an arm over the scattered images. “Keep it market specific, but other than that, anything you see here you can use in the final. If you get any bright ideas, feel free to block them in. We can start with basic mock-ups, small scale, and get them approved. After that, no client contact until final proof. So what do you say?”
“I can do it,” Shane said carefully. “But what’s the budget?”
“This is a government contract,” Greenfeld replied. “It’s coming to us through an agency in Tampa called Bullseye. I’ve worked with them before, but never on anything like this. They bid the job for fifty thousand. After all the pie gets cut up, that means five thousand a shot for you. I know that’s not New York walking around money, but it’s a start. You nail this one, there’ll be more to come.”
Shane was actually very pleased with the amount. His living expenses had dropped to almost nil, now that he’d off-loaded the Saab and moved into the cottage. If he was careful, he could even live off the income from the Florida gig for a couple of months. He’d almost forgotten what it was like in the feast-and-famine world of contract work, but he thought he could pick it up again, if he was disciplined about it. He told Greenfeld he could do it.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Greenfeld announced. “You know, I wasn’t kidding about you being a bit of a curious commodity around here. People are watching to see how this pans out. You’ll never get the kind of big-money contracts you used to get at Tristan and Crane, but the economy is different here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If we dance the dance, you can do all right.”
“I’ll let you dance,” Shane said, standing. “I can’t even do the funky chicken. Last time I tried, I almost knocked myself out. Come on, you want a beer?”
“Twist my arm, why don’t you. Don’t forget you were going to show me your studio, too.”
Shane produced two bottles of St. Pauli Girl and tossed the caps in the kitchen trash. A minute later, he led Greenfeld up to the studio. The window over the stairs had been pushed open, letting in the cool autumn air, freshening and brightening the small space.
Along the canted right wall, Shane’s collection of works leaned in the sunlight. Most of his artworks were sold in their original form, usually leaving him with nothing more than printed copies, but he did retain almost all of his mockups, sketches and several final works that had been done on spec. One of them, the first one in the line, was a large painting of a girl running through a golden wheat field, her blonde hair streaming, one hand flung out behind her in the rapture of the moment, white in the sunlight. It had been painted for a book cover, but the publisher had eventually gone with something edgier, with a slightly older, sexier woman in a white dress. Greenfeld hunkered in front of it, nodding.
“Nice,” he said. “It’s a different thing to see the original, that’s for sure. Still, even up close, I can barely see the brush strokes. Good, tight work here.”
“Thanks, sensei,” Shane said, looking around the room. He was somewhat anxious to get back to work. Not on the Florida mockups, though. That could wait a day or two. He had another idea in mind. It had occurred to him the night before, when he’d gotten back from his bike ride. He glanced aside, to the blank canvas on the big easel.
“This the original sketch for the matte painting?” Greenfeld asked, gesturing at a large drawing taped to a piece of white cardboard.
“Yeah. You want it?”
“You bet,” Greenfeld nodded. “This kind of stuff is great for hanging in the office. I’ve got too many calligraphy verses and greeting card scenes as it is. You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. Take it.”
Shane wandered over to the stool in front of the easel and sat down, suddenly feeling impatient. He wanted to paint. Coming up to the studio had apparently awakened the muse, and she didn’t care that Greenfeld was there. She just wanted to create.
“Good stuff,” Greenfeld said, straightening up. “But where’s
your
work?”
Shane furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? This is all my work.”
“No, no, I mean
your
work. Chris told me that you do your own painting, too; said you showed it to her when she came to pick up the matte painting. Real artsy stuff. She said I should be sure to get a look at it.”
“Oh,” Shane said, frowning. “That. Yeah.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly all secretive and shy about your own work. I mean, I understand completely if it’s the kind of thing you pull out to impress the pretty girls, but come on. It’s me.”
Shane smiled at Greenfeld’s wounded expression. He shook his head and stood up. “It’s no problem. I just wasn’t finished with it, then. I wasn’t
showing
it to her, exactly. It just happened to be out. It’s right over here now.”
The house portrait was sitting on the smaller easel, where Shane had initially begun to paint it. Now that it was completely dry, he had covered it with a piece of muslin. He carefully lifted the fabric away and tossed it onto the nearby stool. Greenfeld joined him in front of the painting, and then leaned in, squinting a little, his hands on his knees. There was a very long moment of pregnant silence, and Shane felt himself growing uncomfortable. Finally, Greenfeld straightened again. He backed up, not taking his eyes from the painting. Shane backed away as well, moving toward the stairs. When he got there, he turned back, and saw Greenfeld looking at him over his shoulder. He gestured at the painting with one manicured hand.
“The hell is this?” he said, almost as if he was offended.
“What do you mean?”
Greenfeld dropped his hand and looked back at the painting, shaking his head. “You have any more paintings like this?”
“No. Frankly, I’ve never painted anything like it before.”
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question, so Shane didn’t respond. Greenfeld went on, “I know this is the sort of thing you creative types really hate, but I have to ask, Shane: where’d this come from?”
Shane didn’t really hate the question. He’d heard variations of it before, and it had usually been pretty easy to answer. Then again, his artworks were usually inspired by nothing more than a creative director’s sketch, or a block from a storyboard, or a collage of images printed from the Internet. He realized it was a harder question to answer when the picture had been dictated by the muse. He shrugged and frowned. “It just came into my head. I was on a bike ride.”
Greenfeld glanced aside at Shane again, one eyebrow cocked. “You know what this is?”
Shane half nodded, half shrugged again. Greenfeld answered for him, returning his gaze to the painting once more. “This is art, Shane. The real deal. I’m not prepared to call it
great
art, you understand. True art isn’t really my bread and butter. I’m just a working stiff, helping push the product out the door. That’s one of the things I like about you. You understand that philosophy. But this is different… this is the real thing. I may not deal in it, but I know it when I see it.”
“Don’t tell me you want to hang
that
in your office,” Shane said, smiling as if it were a joke. To his surprise, Greenfeld looked up at him again, his face serious.
“Would you let me?” He stopped himself and shook his head. “No, no. Never mind. That’s not the venue for it. You’re right. It’d scare the shawls off the ladies from Homespun Greetings. Hell, it’d probably put a shiver down the spine of the guy from Swank Pictures. Not the biggest clients, but long term folks, from back when I was getting started. No, no, not the office…” Greenfeld covered his mouth with his hand, thinking hard. He shifted his eyes to Shane again and spoke through his fingers. “Did you know Chris and I are putting on a gallery show at the art museum downtown?”
Shane shook his head, not liking where Greenfeld was going. Greenfeld didn’t notice. “It’s really Chris’ show. She’s trying to break into the world of art herself. She wants to run a gallery, help undiscovered talent get their big break, that kind of thing.
Real
art. Problem is, she doesn’t have the capital or the reputation to get started yet. I’m helping her get the second half of that equation. I pulled some strings to help get her into the main floor of the art museum. Even called in a favor with some people from the
Post Dispatch
. They’re sending over one of their Lifestyle writers to review the show. Even if it sucks, it’s good press. Whaddaya say?”
“What do I say about what?”
“Whaddaya say about displaying this piece of yours in the show?”
Shane furrowed his brow. “Seriously? I mean, I’ve never had anything shown in a gallery before. I’m just… you know, not
that
kind of artist.”
“And that’s supposed to be a deterrent?” Greenfeld asked, finally abandoning the painting and joining Shane at the stairs. “Who wants to look at any more self-righteous emo crap produced by all those guys convinced that they’re the next Jackson Pollack? Guys who paint with pigeon guano and rivet doorknobs to overcoats and hang them from actual human skeletons and give their works names like ‘Pathos Princess Number Sixteen”? Believe it or not, the art world is getting a little sick of those guys. At least the art world around St. Louis. I can’t speak for New York. The fact that you don’t think your crazy haunted house picture belongs in a gallery showing is exactly why people will be curious about it. It’s not intentional. It isn’t so deliberate that it’s a caricature of itself. Like I said, Shane, it’s the real deal.”