“Rivera,” I said. “Martinez. Delgado.”
“How about this?”
Sam tossed a bright folder on my desk.
“Read it!”
I read what I saw in big red letters.
“Siqueiros, sí, Orozco, olé.” I read further. “Gambit Gallery. Boyle Heights. They’re having an Orozco Siqueiros art show across the river?”
“Read the small print.” Sam tapped the brochure.
“A memorial exhibit of the fine work of Sebastian Rodriguez, heir to the throne of Siqueiros and Orozco.”
“I’m taking you,” Sam said. “Look at the date.”
“April twentieth. Hell, that’s today, two p.m. Hell, that’s in an hour! I can’t—”
“You can. You’re an art gallery expert, right? It’s not an opening, it’s a closing. A funeral.”
“Funeral?!”
“The artist, Sebastian Rodriguez, will attend, but dead.”
“You mean—?”
“It’s a wake. His mom and dad will be there. His brothers and sisters will come. Cardinal Mahoney will drop by.”
“Good Lord, the artist was that good? All those people!”
“It was supposed to be a party, but he died in a fall. So instead of canceling, they fetched the body. Now it’s a semi-mass, with candles and choirs in lace.”
“Jesus!” I said.
“You can say that again.”
“Jesus. A funeral mass for an unknown artist in a fourthrate gallery in Mexican-Hispanic-Jewish Boyle Heights?”
“Turn the pages. The ghosts of Orozco and Siqueiros are there.”
I turned the pages and gasped.
“Holy mackerel!”
“You can say that again,” said Sam.
ON THE FREEWAY heading to Jewish-Hispanic Boyle Heights I gibbered.
“This guy’s a genius! How did you find him?”
“The police,” said Sam, driving.
“The what?”
“Cops. He was a criminal. A few hours in jail.”
“Hours? What had he done?”