Declined

by Darryl Lauster

          

            As he slumped down in the bright red laminate booth of the Pollo Fiesta, Bradford nodded to Sacks, who was finishing his last taquito.

            Sacks slurped the salted grease from his fingertips.  He pursed his lips and drew a deep breath to cool his mouth.  “Good goddamn chicken today.”

            “I got the quesadilla,” Bradford replied.

            Outside the city sky was permeated with the same haze as the restaurant’s clouded unwashed windows.  The day seemed simultaneously bright and dim.

            “Its gonna hit a hundred today again.”

            Sacks took a long sip of iced tea.  “I just got an air conditioner for my studio.  Put it in yesterday.”

            “Nice,” Bradford exhaled.  “You going there after lunch?”

            “Yeah.  I’m going finish up some collages.”

            “All right, you want to go over it one more time?”

            Sacks leaned in.  “Yeah.  Just for fucking posterity.”

            Bradford bowed towards him.  “OK.  First, the who.”

            Sacks whispered.  “Marshall Blechter.  Independent curator.  Juror for the Tri-State Biennial.  Asshole”

            “Right.  When?”

            “Midnight.”

            “And where?”

            “117 River Oaks.”

            Just that moment Bradford heard his number called.  He rose and fist bumped Sacks.  “That’s my food.  Thanks, man.  I’ll see you tonight.”

             

           

*****

 

 

            Sacks was on his horse.  He had gotten himself worked up reading an issue of Artforum. “Seriously, when was the last time you went into a museum and were blown away by a group show of artists you never heard of?”

            Bradford was concentrating on the lock.  He was scratching the tumbler with his S rake. It was a decent deadbolt, not one of the shitty ones sold at the Home Depot. 

            “I don’t know,” he replied, “That show at the New Museum?”

            Racks was crouched beside him at the door.  “Ah fuck them. They shop for their shows at the Armory.”

            “I’m trying to concentrate here,” Bradford whispered. “Give me a minute.”  The bolt was too secure to scrub, so he reached down for the Gonzo pick.  He’d have to single out each pin.  It would take more time, but he appreciated the challenge.  It had been a while.

            As Bradford clicked through each of the six pins he felt Sacks growing impatient.  “Hey,” he whispered, “that show with the Eastern European Art? That was good.”

            Sacks scratched his two-day beard.  The night was humid, and sweating made his skin rash up.  “Yeah, you’re right.  That was good.”

            Bradford heard the dull collapse of the last pin in the tumbler.  With a twist of his wrist, the bolt receded back into its sleeve.  They both rose up and turned the knob of the painted wooden door to the apartment.  With two steps, they were in.

            Before Sacks extended the narrow stairway up the second floor.  A hallway to its right led to a rear kitchen and bathroom.  Lit by the ambient city incandescence, several abstract woodcuts decorated the interior façade. 

            Sacks climbed each step confidently as if he had been there before, followed by Bradford.  The top of the flight turned to the right where the bedrooms were located.  The master door, clearly at the end of the hall, was so dark it took a moment to see. 

            With a determined gait, Sacks approached the bedroom and shouldered his way in.  He moved swiftly to the man sleeping within a squeezed off two .38’s from his revolver, one in each lung before Bradford could even glimpse the body.

            “It’s him,” he said.

            Bradford turned the corpse’s head.  “Yep.”

            Sacks fired one more round through a pillow into the forehead.  “Let’s go.”

            As they descended the stairs Bradford noted a Warhol print to the left of the foyer.  He thought about grabbing it, but left it in the darkness.

            Outside the street was relatively quiet when they turned east into the alley.  Two blocks away, they split in different directions, as was their habit, in order to wash up and meet again in one hour.

 

 

*****

 

 

            With a cup of hot coffee in hand, Sacks began first. “You see, the curators man, they’re just lazy starfuckers.”

            Bradford was feeling good.  “Hey,” he joked, “How do you get a museum show?”

            “How?”

            “You have a museum show.”

            Sacks replied with a wry smile.  “More truth than fiction.”

Bradford noticed a small spray of blood on Sacks left elbow that he had missed.  “Mind your arm,” he offered, pointing to the spot.

            “Thanks.  OK, let’s check the calendar.  What do you have coming up?”

            “I applied to three shows last week.  It’ll be a month or so before I hear.  How about you?”

            Sacks tipped more sugar into his cup and stirred.  “I’ve got a fellowship out there and an RFQ for a public sculpture.  Oh, and one proposal for a solo show.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “D.C.”

            “What’s the timeline?”

            “Shit.  You know.  Three weeks, three months.  Who the fuck knows?”

            After taking the last bite of his kruller, Bradford leaned back.  “Well, it’s your turn next.  Let me know when and where.”

            Sacks crossed his arms over his chest.  “One day these bastards will learn not to fuck with us.”

            “Yeah.  One day we’ll be famous.”  Bradford answered, gazing out the window at the lightless night.