Free Artist's Proof by Gordon Cotler Page B

She already had her eye on three or four promising artists (including her husband), and she found a space in SoHo far enough off West Broadway so that the rent didn’t hurt.
    The Leona Morgenstern Gallery lost money its first year but never again. Two years later she moved it to better quarters. She had more than a superb eye: She knew how to sell. If she had stayed in sleepwear she would have had the whole country in her pajamas. She found her way to the moneyed “collectors” the way a dowser finds his way to water, and they bought. I myself was a hard sell despite respectful, or better, notices from the critics, but they even bought me; not often enough, but Lonnie fetched me some handsome prices.
    She began to wear designer clothes, and why not? She was earning big bucks. Her dark hair no longer ringed her alabaster face in wild curls but was pulled back into a sleek French knot. We had an apartment in Manhattan now and a sleep-in Jamaican woman Lonnie referred to as “the nanny.” Okay.
    The collectors invited her to charity events and cocktail parties, and if I wasn’t working or painting I tagged along. Sometimes she had to remind me to change out of my cop shoes. A couple of times someone at these events asked what I did, and before I could answer Lonnie said, “Sid is with the city.” She said it as if I had the mayor’s ear.
    When I called her on that she said, “Sid, it isn’t easy to sell paintings by a cop at serious prices.” But I told her to cut it out. So the next time a collector asked what I did, Lonnie piped up, “Sid is in counseling.”
    When we were alone I said, “Counseling? What the hell did that mean?”
    â€œâ€˜Put down the gun.’ Isn’t that counseling? ‘You have the right to remain silent.’ That’s counseling.”
    The relationship wasn’t working on any level and all that kept us from a divorce at that point was my father’s death. And then, less than a year later, Lonnie called off her lawyer again when my mother died. So it took us three years to unwind from our marriage. By then we were more worn out than angry and we declared a civilized peace.
    I had moved back to Queens. That was that.
    *   *   *
    T HE LEONA MORGENSTERN Gallery was a spare, high-ceilinged space, cool in tone but not as cool as Jackie, who always reminded me of a vanilla frozen custard. She greeted me near the door with, “Officer Shale. Ms. Morgenstern is expecting you in the office.” Subtext: I can’t imagine why.
    I tried not to look at the walls as I made my way back through the gallery. They were hung with recent works by two of Lonnie’s favorite artists, neither of them half bad, and I didn’t need that. The office door was open and I went straight in. I said, “Officer Shale reporting for duty.”
    Lonnie took off her glasses—since when had she started wearing glasses?—and rose from behind the paperwork on her desk to come and greet me. She looked good; she usually looked good, even with that slicked-back hair.
    She said, “Is Jackie still calling you that? What can I do with her? Sid, you’re on time. How nice.”
    She had allowed some of the old smokiness to creep into her voice, and when she touched her cheek against mine it was smooth and warm, and her hair smelled bedroom-y. I felt the lick of desire that still brushed me once in a while when I was with her. This time I chalked it up to a record dry period; I had been up on that scaffold too long wrestling Large.
    Lonnie had stepped back to lamp my wardrobe; I could see an instructional lecture coming. I wasn’t going to let her go down that street, so I shortcut her with, “I don’t hear the jangle of spurs. Where’s your Texan?”
    â€œThey should be here any minute. They’re coming separately.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œA father and daughter. They’re darling.