Outcasts

Chapter 7 - Temperament

Traffic heading into Manhattan on the 59th Street Bridge was streaming past the aging Dodge pickup sauntering along in the right hand lane. Laid flat in the truck's open bed was Mavro's In Your Face painting on plywood. In the truck's cab, the owner and driver, Luis Aguado, had a question for Victor Sykes sitting in the passenger seat.

"How come he didn't want to come with us, the kid?"

Sykes had been watching the Roosevelt Island cable tram that ran alongside the bridge, the conveyance almost keeping pace with the lumbering truck. "I thought it best," he said, turning to Luis, "to let these people I'm seeing have a look at the painting first. Then, if they like it, go from there. What do you think?"

"About what?"

"The painting."

Luis shook his head. "You're asking the wrong guy."

"Why?"

"It's kinda like what I say about my girlfriend's cooking."

"Which is what?"

"It's interesting."

Sykes nodded. "Maybe it'll grow on you."

"Maybe." 

Taciturn Luis – driver, watchman, general handyman – had a worn, dark face that had done most of its living in Queens and Brooklyn, save for trips to visit family in Puerto Rico and a tour of infantry duty in Vietnam. He'd gotten his girlfriend's nephew to come over and take his place watching the gutted building while he drove Sykes to the city. Not that there was much of the building left to watch, but there were liability issues if somebody who didn't belong there got in and messed around and got themselves hurt. He looked at Sykes from the corner of his eye. "How's your nose doing?"

Sykes touched the bandage. "Okay." He didn't remember having said anything about it.

"I've gotten a few of those myself," Luis said. "It have anything to do with the kid?"

"No, but how do you know I didn't just fall on it?"

"You look more interesting than that."

Sykes accepted that as a compliment "Thank you."

~~~~~~

By the time Sykes had finished telling him a modified version of the story behind the patched-up nose, Luis had taken the FDR Drive uptown, crossed over to Fifth, and pulled into the parking garage of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He helped Sykes carry Mavro's plywood painting up to Philip Tierney's office with its world-class art and left Sykes to do his thing with the curator.

Sykes was watching Tierney frowning at the In Your Face painting, which was propped against the wall next to a Matisse.

"Well?"

"What do you want me to say?" Tierney said. "That we'll add it to the permanent collection?" He touched the edge of the plywood panel, pricked his finger and jerked it back. "Your materials are a little rustic."

"Exactly. The work comes from humble origins. The kid's got what, a leaky pot to piss in. But he makes compelling art."

"That's not a bad hook."

"It's the truth."

Another voice spoke up. "So get it out there."

Sykes and Tierney turned to Helen Carty, who was watching from across the room.

"The pot, the paintings," she said. "Let everybody see the whole shtick."

Sykes stared at her. He looked at Tierney. "You mind if I borrow your associate?"