The Newell Murder serialization begins again 3
Lauren wondered who the visiting
chick could be. Al’s fiancée? (Did he have one?) His sister? (Definitely not)
Someone important to him? (Definitely)
“So who’s this girl who’s got you
all flustered? She must be hot, right?”
A smile lit up Al’s face. “She
is, mate. She is.”
“So where’s she coming from?”
“New Jersey.”
Lauren whistled. “That’s a long
ways.”
“Sure. Sure. So what do you say?”
They caught a red light and he
rested the engine. “I don’t mind to lend you my car, Al, but you got yours
obviously.”
“I know, but I actually need
yours ’cause I really got to impress her and my own car ain’t half as quaint as
this one.”
The green came on and Lauren put
the car back in motion. “OK. It’s yours. What about yours? Will it be alright
by then?”
“Yes,” Al replied prickly. “Or
did you think I would want to borrow yours if I couldn’t give you mine?”
Lauren didn’t respond. He wheeled
the car into Sunset Boulevard, drove it up to the gallery and halted it at the
curb with the engine still running. “Here we are. Service with a smile.”
Al got down and, leaning back in
through the open window, said, “Thanks for the ride, bud. Really ’ppreciate
it.”
Lauren’s foot was still on the
brake. “No problem, pal. See ya.”
Though Al could see Lauren was
itching to move the car, he didn’t go away. “Say, Dave, you never been to this
Bolognese Gallery, right?”
“I haven’t had the time,” Lauren
admitted. “What about it?”
“Well, why not pop in now to have
just a look around. You’ll see some damn good paintings and other art stuff and
you’ll certainly see something you want to buy, though you might not be able
to, cos they cost quite a lot of bread.”
Lauren contemplated for a moment,
then decided to go, just to humour Al. He killed the purring engine, rolled up
the open windows and removed the key from the ignition.
“OK, I’ll have a quick look-see.”
Joining Al on the sidewalk, they
strode together to the gallery. “Maybe I’ll catch a van Gogh.”
He knew all the big names like
Picasso, Whistler, Matisse, Rembrandt, but van Gogh was the first artist that
always came to his mind. Gogh it was that he ever first read about as a kid and
since then he had some sort of attachment to him.
Al looked at him, disbelief on
his face, and thought to himself, didn’t Lauren know what he was saying?
Everyone, but everyone, knew that van
Goghs could only be seen in exhibitions, museums, national galleries, auctions
or if one of those stinkingly rich collectors allowed one to see the one, or ones, in his collection.
He agreed all the same. “Maybe.”
Over the entrance was a big,
fancy neon sign which had the gallery’s name boldly proclaimed on it. Lauren
glanced up at it as they went past the doorman, who greeted them “Good morning,
good sirs,” into the entry hall and then the waiting lounge where Al pulled to
a stop.
The lounge was nicely decorated
with expensive sofas, bowls and vases of exotic flowers, appropriate artwork, a
centre table which was burdened with a mass of current magazines and copies of New Criterion and Kulturchronik. An imported English Stoddard Templeton
fusion-bonded wall-to-wall carpet was on the floor and the air smelt of
something nice.
“Gotta go catch my story, Dave.
See ya.”
“OK, hotshot. Later.”
He watched Al make off toward a
door, then he entered the main gallery hall, a long, vast, high-ceilinged,
oak-paneled room. A blonde girl, one of the staff, came over to him with her
welcome pitch that would make him spend his hard-earned money.
She even wanted to follow him
around but he dissuaded her and she said he should feel free to consult her for
any enquiries.
A fair number of people,
including two celebrities, Wesley Snipes and Denzel Washington, were there,
studying the artwork, knowing their artists and when they were done.
He was surveying some paintings
at the far end when he saw the one he simply knew he had to absolutely have. It
was a water colour and depicted a woman dressed in a yellow frock standing in a
beautiful garden. It was 24 by 36 inches and aptly named Woman In A Yellow Frock.
Its painter was a H Rungs.
Lauren knew he had to have it
because the woman in it was a carbon copy of his mother, at least in the face
which stood out in clear contrast to the body and had all the features and
likeness of his mom’s face that he would never forget as long as he lived.
Note: This is the second page of the Oseyiza Oogbodo book, The Newell Murder. More excerpts to
follow on this blog. Its weekly serialization began some weeks ago but began
again due to some hitches. It's also available on Amazon and many other stores
through the links below. Other Oogbodo books available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble,
Dang Dang and other stores are Short
Story Galore, and The Good Life,
with Dedication To The Ugly to be
available soon.
www.amazon.com/dp/B07DMNYVS8
www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07DMNYVS8
www.amazon.de/dp/B07DMNYVS8
www.amazon.fr/dp/B07DMNYVS8
www.amazon.es/dp/B07DMNYVS8
www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B07DMNYVS8
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