The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [14]
“Are there more corporate giants wanting to film their obscenities in front of my art?” Crowe asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then you could at least offer me an espresso.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Crowe signaled the waitress, who headed straight for the espresso machine. Crowe was obviously no stranger to cadging drinks at La Figaro.
“How’s the life of a starving artist?” Neal asked when the coffee had been served.
“Fat,” Crowe answered. He swirled half the espresso around in his mouth, then jerked his head back suddenly and swallowed. He savored the aftertaste, then jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at a skyscraper down in the Financial District. “They wanted a sculpture for their lobby. They commissioned Crowe, who charged them an unconscionable fee, which they foolishly paid. Crowe bought his apartment.”
“You bought an apartment?”
“It was a very large sculpture,” he explained. He tilted the cup into his mouth again and knocked the coffee back. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed, and he looked like a turkey swallowing raindrops. “It occupies a prominent place in a traffic pattern trod by the sensually enslaved but socially ambitious, some of whom have decided to attempt their climb up the social ladder clutching their very own Crowe. The monetary expression of their undying gratitude allows Crowe to live in the manner to which he has become accustomed.”
“Sun room? View of the bay?”
“In short, I am in, and therefore in the money. Buy me another espresso.” His long fingers whipped a card from his pocket.
“C’mon, Crowe! Business cards?”
“You know a lot of corporate types, don’t you?”
“I guess the Sixties are really over.”
Crowe raised an eyebrow at the waitress, who quickly came over with two espressos. Crowe leaned over his cup and looked sadly at Neal. He dropped the artsy pose and said, “My three-piece-suit clients are always asking me to get them acid. Acid! I haven’t done acid since the first Monterey Festival.”
“So you’re off the bus?”
“And on the gravy train. The Sixties are over, the Seventies are on the downslide, and the Eighties are almost upon us. You want to be carrying some money into the Eighties. Remember that, young Neal. It’s about making money now.”
Neal took the card. “My clients don’t usually come to me looking for art, but …”
“Networking, you know? Networking gets the right people together with the right people.”
“The ‘right people,’ Crowe? You joining the country club next? You were a communist, for crying out loud!”
“I turned in my card. I’m thirty-eight years old, young Neal. I can’t work for rice and beans and dope anymore. One day I looked in the mirror and saw my happy hippie face differently. It looked pathetic. I was a tourist attraction, local color for the tourists who hadn’t figured out the hippie thing was already dead.
“So I quit doing art for art’s sake and started doing it for A. Brian Crowe’s sake. I learned some interesting things, like the fact that a corporation won’t even look at a piece that costs a thousand bucks, but will fight over the same piece when it costs ten thousand bucks. I just started adding zeros to my price tags. I got myself an agent and started going to parties and sipping white wine with the right people. You can call it selling out…. I call it selling.”
Neal avoided his gaze. Crowe looked older. The fire in his eyes had become embers.
“It’s okay with me, Crowe.”
The artist snapped back into his role. He stood up, whirled his cape around his shoulders, and said, “Crowe’s address and phone number are on the card. Give Crowe a call. We’ll do dinner.”
Neal watched him stride out the door. A. Brian Crowe, flamboyant artist, counterculture hero, Gold Card member.
That’s all right, Neal thought. Every one of us is at least two people.
3
Neal got back to the Hopkins, found Blue Line Transportation in the Yellow Pages, dialed the