The Crypt Artist

The Crypt Artist by Deborah O'Toole was released by Club Lighthouse Publishing in June 2020.

A near-starving artist finds himself inspired by a group of long-dead classic painters in a rundown loft in SoHo, New York.

From Chapter Six 

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN as many days, Luca cleaned himself up as best he could, on this occasion to present the paintings to his regular contacts in the art world.

After taking several pictures of the four paintings, Luca showered. He donned the same clothes he wore on his date with Izzy, blue jeans with a midnight blue turtleneck sweater. He carefully wrapped the works of art in paper from an old brown reel he'd kept for ages, and then slid the paintings into a soft leather carrying case. More of a satchel, Luca was able to sling the case over his shoulder like an overlarge bow and arrow bag with a long strap, which protected the portraits and made them easier to carry.

Luca's first stop was at Nest Seekers Realty on Kenmare Street, a few blocks from the Ramsey Building. His contact was Elias Goldman, a tall, wiry man who often took Luca's artwork on consignment for open houses, or sometimes bought it outright for staging future real estate prospects.

They met in a cramped office in the back of Nest Seekers, where Eli offered Luca a cup of coffee as thick as mud and just as bitter. Luca sipped the brew without really tasting it, more focused on Eli's perusal of the portraits, one by one.

Finally, Eli leaned back in his chair and regarded Luca. "This is some of your best work, in my opinion. You say they're reproductions?"

Luca nodded. "Yes." He was glad Eli liked the paintings, but somewhat guilt-ridden as he knew the artwork wasn't really his. Yet who would believe the real story behind it all?

"I like all four of them," Eli continued firmly. "We have a new open house for a brownstone on Spring Street this weekend. The stormy Maine shore piece would blend in perfectly with the current staging."

"Great," Luca enthused genuinely. "What about the others?"

"I'd like to use the Chanctonbury landscape right away as well," Eli replied. "As for the other two, maybe we can try consignment. They're both rather dark, aren't they? Death and Ichabod Crane. They would go well in a Gothic-themed flat we're trying to sell near the Dakota."

"Sounds reasonable," Luca agreed. "Do you think you can use more of the same portraits in the future, or will these do?"

"I'd definitely like a couple more each of the Maine scene, and maybe one of the Chanctonbury piece. How long do you think it will take you?"

"A week to ten days on the outside," Luca responded quickly. "If all goes well, less than that."

"Good." Eli reached across the desk to grab the company checkbook ledger. "What do I owe you for the first two?"

Luca couldn't believe his good fortune. His first stop on a short list of contacts enabled him to essentially unload all four portraits. His plan for the day had been to trudge by foot to Hester Street Realty, the Delancey Gallery, and two furniture stores on Bowry and Grand streets, but his day of calculated traipsing was over almost before it began.

Mistaking Luca's silence for reticence, Eli smiled affably. "How does one thousand per piece sound to you?"

Luca automatically summed the amount in his head. Because the Ramsey Building was a rent-controlled entity, the money might see him through two months if he lived frugally. It was more money than he had ever been offered before, even for his original artwork. The thought caused him a brief flash of disappointment before he decided to go with the flow.

"Why not $1,500 each?" Luca suggested boldly, relishing the idea of an extra thousand in his pocket.

"Okay," Eli agreed without quibbling, leading Luca to think he could have asked for even more and received it. But he was happy with the outcome. The extra money meant he could maybe take Izzy to Casa Bell again, hopefully sans the spilling of wine this time.

Thinking about Izzy made Luca smile, which didn't go unnoticed by Eli. He tore off a check from the ledger and handed it to Luca. "I'll see you soon," he said. "With more paintings, yes?"

"Definitely," Luca replied.

He deposited the check into his bank on the way home. On impulse, he stopped at the M&M Market Deli and bought a bouquet of yellow daisies. When he returned to the second floor of the Ramsey Building, he carefully set the flowers in front of Izzy's door.

Once inside his loft, Luca exhaled a sigh of relief. It was quickly replaced by a furrowing of his brow.

What had he done? He had just promised Eli Goldman more reproductions of the same paintings. How did he expect to do that without the help of Malachy O'Leary and his motley crew of artistic ghosts? What if he never saw or spoke with Malachy again?

"I'm screwed," Luca whispered in a panic. "I'm fucking screwed."

* * *

IZZY KNOCKED ON LUCA'S DOOR a few hours later. She was holding the bouquet of daisies he'd left for her, a smile on her face.

"These brightened my day considerably," she said before he could speak. "Thank you, Luca." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Her touch left behind a tingling sensation on his skin. He grinned. "Would you like to come in?"

"I can only stay a few minutes," she told him as he shut the door behind her. "My afternoon session starts shortly." She looked at him, noticing the sober freshness of his face. "How are you? Have you been able to get any work done?"

He regarded her, many of his worries temporarily fading into the back recesses of his mind just because of her mere presence.

Luca cleared his throat. "Actually, I sold two portraits today, and have two others on consignment."

Izzy's face lit with pleasure. "Really? The reproductions?"

He nodded, touched by her happiness for him. "Yes. And they want more."

"Congratulations," she beamed.

"Thank you. It's been a long dry spell without between sales, so I'm happy about it." He grinned again. "That being said, how would you like to go to dinner with me on Saturday night?"

"I'd love it, but only if you have time. Like I told you before, I don't want to interrupt your creative flow."

"It's a date, then. Do you want to go to Casa Bella again? I won't spill my wine this time, I promise."

"It sounds delightful."

They stared at each other for several seconds, wordless. Luca saw her holding the daisies, as if she treasured them, which gave him a great deal of pleasure.

She stepped closer, slowly leaning into him. They kissed, the daisy bouquet softly rustling between them. When they finally pulled apart, their eyes met again and held.

"See you Saturday?" she whispered.

"Saturday," he replied hoarsely.

With a quick smile, she turned and let herself out, the door closing quietly behind her.

Luca stood there, his throat dry. "I'm falling in love with her," he said aloud. "No - I am in love with her." He groaned. "Oh, what the hell am I doing? I'm not a fit partner for man nor beast, and especially not for someone as wonderful as Izzy Richards."

"Don't sell yourself short, boyo." It was Malachy, his whisper barely discernible but nonetheless clear to Luca's ears.

"I need more help," Luca said bluntly.

"I know. Not to worry - it will be taken care of."

Luca sighed with relief. "Malachy?"

There was no answer.

"Malachy, please."

Still no answer.

Luca shrugged. Whether Malachy answered him or not, his initial reassuring whispers set Luca's mind at ease. However bizarre the situation and eerie the ghostly visits to his loft were, he had a strong feeling Malachy would never lie to him.

* * *

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" HOWARD ROARED IN Malachy's face. "I'm not doing God knows how many repeats for that drunken little bastard. We are through." He shouted louder for emphasis. "Through, I tell you."

Loft 2E was dimly illuminated by the resident gas lamp just past midnight as five ghosts - four disgruntled, one desperately pleading - sat, stood or glided in their usual places. Hissy watched it all with mildly detached interest.

"Speak for yourself," Jeanne murmured from her place by the window. "I like Luca. He has great potential." Her dark eyes narrowed. "You sit on the sidelines if you want, Monsieur Butler, but I have no intentions of doing so." She threw her hands into the air. "What else do we have to occupy ourselves with in this decaying crypt?"

"Maintain my self-respect for starters," Howard barked at her.

"And then what?" Jeanne expelled her breath, gesturing toward him. "Sit there, groan and moan, and lose the opportunity to help someone in the land of the living? Shame on you. Honte à vous."

Howard glared at  her. "Fine. I'll do as the little paddy asks of me. For now, that is. However, there has to be a limit to all of this foolishness. I have no desire to help a man who obviously has no wish to help himself. We simply cannot carry him forever."

"Agreed," Malachy spoke up, visibly relieved. "You'll give Luca another chance, then?"

Howard nodded curtly.

Malachy glanced to Jeanne, but she seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. Her back was to the group again, her gaze focused out the window, rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her usual slight moan began in earnest, but ever so softly this time. Malachy was hardly surprised. She had spoken more tonight than in the entire time he had known her. She was probably exhausted, poor dear. Hissy went to her, sensing her distress, and began rubbing against her leg. In her agitation, Jeanne ignored the cat.

Malachy looked to John. "And you? What about you?"

John Quidor waved Malachy away, his eyes on Jeanne at the window. "Whatever twinkles your toes, Irishman."

Philip was not as agreeable as Jeanne and John. With a sour look on his face, he spoke grudgingly. "I'll do it, but I want it known I'm doing it under protest."

"So noted," Malachy responded with glee.

Philip sighed. "Besides, what else are we to do with this infernal, endless time we find ourselves saddled with?"

"I can think of plenty," Howard muttered darkly.

Malachy ignored him. "We're on, then." He looked at Jeanne, who returned his glance instinctively. "Are you ready to go front and center?"

She nodded, smiling softly. "Oui, Monsieur O'Leary." Happier now, she reached down and scratched the top of Hissy's head. The cat began to purr loudly, drawing a glare from Howard.

John shook his head, frowning at the Irish ghost. "I give up. How do you know what the drunkard plans to work on first? How do you know he'll choose Jeanne's work before ours?"

Malachy sighed. "I told you before, Johnny. I'm Irish - we have ways and means into the souls of others."

John snorted. "Yes, whatever you say, little man."

"That's more like it," Malachy beamed. "Our time here will go much smoother - and faster - if you remember it."

* * *

JEANNE PAINTED TWO REPRODUCTIONS OF her portrait "Death" in under two hours while Luca snored drunkenly from his bed. She glanced at his prone form frequently as she worked, admiring his disheveled good looks that had not yet been ruined by drink. Her strong draw to him was triggered by a combination of his looks, and a heartfelt pity that he could not seem to pull himself together.

The biggest magnet for her, however, was that Luca reminded her of her own beloved Amedeo Modigliani. Not in physical appearance, but rather in his personality, gestures and mannerisms. Amedeo had also had an issue with the bottle as well as drugs, not coming home for days on end when he went on a binge. Yet Jeanne still loved him passionately, adoring him until her own dying day. Her love for Amedeo was so all-consuming, encompassing every aspect of her life, that she could not endure existing without him.

Her only regret was taking the life of her unborn child when she threw herself from the fifth floor window of her parents' home in Bagneux, Hauts-de-Seine in Paris in 1920. She'd left behind her firstborn child by Amedeo, a daughter also named Jeanne, who was then raised by Amedeo's sister in Florence, Italy, later dying at the age of sixty-six.

Jeanne sighed quietly as she finished the second portrait, the first painting still leaning against the wall to dry. Even in death, Jeanne was denied the comfort of Amedeo's arms. Since her own demise, she had not seen or heard from her beloved. Was he in hell, or was she?

Jeanne wafted over to Luca's bed, staring down on him with sad eyes. Maybe Amedeo had come back to her in the form of Luca Wolfe, a wine-soaked artist with armloads of potential talent. She had to help him, it was beyond her control. She was unable to stop herself. Perhaps if she did her very best and then some by Luca, she would be awarded with the enthralling presence of Amedeo.

She reached down and gave a feathery touch to Luca's brow. He moaned and moved his head, much like Amedeo used to do when she did the same thing to him in the past.

"Sleep well, my love," Jeanne whispered as her appearance began to fade. "I will see you soon. Je t'aime."