JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“Why not?”

“Because she was too talented. What passes for art now is pure shit. Video-installations, ‘performances,’ crap put together with ‘found materials’—which is art-bullshit language for garbage-picking. Nowadays, if you staple a dildo to a pop bottle you’re Michelangelo. If you actually know how to draw, you’re disparaged. Add to that Julie’s absolute lack of business sense and . . .” Kipper’s shoulders sagged. His black suit didn’t pop a wrinkle.

“Not of this world,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Kipper. “She wasn’t keyed into her surroundings. Take the money thing, for example. I tried to get her to invest some of the alimony in low-risk bond funds. If she’d started investing back when I did, she’d have built up a nice little nest egg, could have plied her art in the way she wanted. Instead, she had to lower herself by doing commercial gigs.”

“She didn’t like commercial art.”

“She hated it,” said Kipper. “But she refused to take the steps that would’ve freed her. I won’t say she was masochistic, but Julie definitely had a thing for suffering. She was never really happy.”

“Chronically depressed?” I said.

“Except when she was painting.”

“Let’s go back for a moment,” said Milo, thumbing through his pad. “The New York gallery that took her on—the résumé on her brochure lists The Anthony Gallery—”

“That’s the one. Bloodsucking Lewis Anthony.”

“Not a nice man?”

“Few of them are,” said Kipper.

“Gallery owners.”

“Owners, agents, collectors.” Both of Kipper’s big hands had balled. “The so-called art world. We’re talking profoundly ungifted people—people so far from personal talent they wouldn’t recognize it if it chomped their gonads—living off the fruit of the gifted. Leeches on the body artistic. That’s what Julie and I called them. Talent’s a curse. Criminals get judged by their peers, but not artists.”

His smooth, round face was deeply flushed.

Milo said, “So Lewis Anthony pressured Julie to produce, and that kicked her coke problem up a notch.”

Kipper nodded. “She used coke and speed to keep herself working, booze and tranqs to bring herself down. Unless I forced her to eat and sleep, she didn’t. It was hellish. I started staying away. Which was easy because I had my new career. Working my way up the corporate ladder and all that.”

“Were you into drugs?”

Kipper hesitated. “I dabbled,” he said, finally. “Everyone did, back then. But I never got hooked. I’m not an addictive personality. That probably has something to do with the lack of talent—not enough intensity up here.” Touching his crew cut.

“The old genius-insanity link?” said Milo.

“Let me tell you, that’s true. Show me a brilliant artist, and I’ll show you one serious basket case. And yes, I’m including Julie in that. I loved her, she was a terrific person, but her resting state was turmoil.”

Milo tapped the pad. “Tell me more about Lewis Anthony.”

“What’s to tell? The bastard pressured Julie, Julie doped herself to the gills and produced three canvases. Anthony berated her, sold all three, remitted a pittance back to Julie and told her he couldn’t handle her unless she acquired a better work ethic. She came home, OD’d, and ended up in rehab.”

Kipper’s fingers opened and clawed black granite. “I’ve always felt guilty about that. Not being there when she needed me. When she came home with the check from Anthony, and I saw how puny it was, I went nuts—just lost it. Six months, watching her self-destruct—she lost twenty pounds preparing for that show—and all she had to show for it was two thousand bucks. I told her she was the chump of all chumps and went out to have a beer. When I came home, I found her stretched out in bed and couldn’t revive her. I thought she was dead. I called the paramedics, and they took her to Beth Israel. A few days later, she was transferred to the psych ward at Bellevue.”

“Involuntary commitment?” I said.

“For the first few days, whatever the law was. But she stayed there even after she could’ve left. Told me it was better being in the nut ward than living with someone who didn’t care. What could I say? I’d bailed on her. Bellevue cleaned her up and sent her home, and I tried to reconnect with her. It was like talking to a block of stone. She couldn’t work—no spark—and that freaked her out. She started doping again, we fought about it. Eventually, I moved out. I was the one who filed the divorce papers, but Julie didn’t fight it—didn’t do a damn thing to protect herself financially. I volunteered to give her half my income at the time as alimony, which was a thousand bucks a month. My attorney thought I was nuts.” Kipper ran his hand through his crew cut. “As things got better for me, I upped it.”

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