Free Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney Page B

was fluid. ‘And you? How’s your partner?’
    â€˜Fine. We’re working together.’
    Nadia smiled. ‘You come to terms about how you feel about him?’
    Carly shrugged. ‘We’re working together. I think that’s a wise way to keep things.’
    â€˜What are you working on?’
    Carly explained. Nadia was fascinated, as Carly knew she would be, with William Blake. Why not? The good looks, the notoriety, the secrecy.
    â€˜And he’s disappeared?’ Nadia asked.
    â€˜For the moment.’
    â€˜And came to you because? You have such a reputation on the street? Because of your extraordinary beauty?’
    â€˜You might remember Anselmo Ruiz.’
    â€˜Yes, the old pervert.’
    â€˜I was at his studio picking out a painting for my office . . .’
    â€˜You went to him? You know I have access to some of the finest emerging artists anywhere. You could have a great bargain with all sorts of investment opportunities. Anselmo, bless his obese heart, is where he’s going to be.’
    â€˜I like his work. I like him. And it reminds me of another time, with my parents, those days.’
    â€˜Sentiment. You’re getting soft in your . . .’
    â€˜Old age?’
    â€˜. . . post adolescence, I was going to say.’
    â€˜I got it, Nadia. The cheap sentiment of an old woman.’
    Nadia nodded. ‘If you like.’ She smiled as she shook her head. ‘Yes. OK.’
    â€˜So I have a list of folks to find out about, some of them artists. Can you fill me in?’ Carly asked about Hawkes and Sumaoang even though they were on Lang’s list. And about Lili D. Young and Frank Wiley.
    Nadia did. Lili Young was a huge black woman who did watercolors of flowers. They were wonderful and in demand internationally. Her clients, Nadia explained with a touch of disdain, were interior designers not gallery owners. But she did well. She had no idea what Warfield might have had on her.
    â€˜I hear she is a tough, passionate woman,’ Nadia said. ‘She scares some folks.’
    â€˜OK, Richard Sumaoang,’ Carly said.
    â€˜No, can’t picture him. There are many folks out there putting oil on a canvas and hanging on.’
    â€˜Marshall Hawkes.’
    Nadia raised her eyebrows. She grinned, then took a sip of the Multipulciano.
    â€˜A hateful little man,’ Nadia said. ‘But he is one of the most respected artists on the West Coast. His work isn’t in the hundred thousand dollar bracket, but it’s getting there. He is respected. Worshipped by those who favor his approach and his paintings are in all the right collections.’
    â€˜His secret?’
    â€˜He’s a flaming queen,’ Nadia said.
    â€˜Come on. That’s nothing anymore. Certainly not in this town and I can’t imagine it making any difference at all in the art world.’
    â€˜Exactly. But he tries to convince people he’s straight and he’s sued at least two publications for suggesting otherwise.’
    â€˜I don’t get it,’ Carly said.
    â€˜Neither does anyone else.’
    â€˜Why would Warfield dislike him?’
    â€˜I didn’t follow Warfield. I mean, I knew he was some sort of legend in his own mind, but his life didn’t in any way intersect mine.’
    â€˜OK, last one. Frank Wiley.’
    She nodded. ‘Now we’re notching back down again. I only know about him because he belongs to some photographers’ group. His work is, as far as I’m concerned, archival. Not that it’s bad. He’s very, very competent. But aside from a few portraits that found their way into Time and Newsweek back when North Beach was the center of the universe, he’s pretty much of a nobody.’
    Nadia continued to talk about other San Francisco artists, not realizing Carly had drifted off a bit.
    â€˜Are you seeing anyone?’ Carly asked to change the