Chapter 65 – Red Toreador- Part II

The day had come at last. Just after 12 o’clock noon, I dressed warmly while rolling my carry-on valise with the painting securely locked away, I headed west on 75th and turned left on Columbus and walked the nine short blocks to number 1 67^th Street and there it was. The Hotel des Artistes was a glorious old building built in 1917, with a Gothic-style facade featuring charming gargoyles of painters, sculptors and writers. Designed by the architect George Mort Pollard, the building has been home to many of the famed and illustrious, including Noel Coward, Isadora Duncan, writer Fannie Hurst, New York City Mayor John V. Lindsay, Alexander Woollcott, and Norman Rockwell not to mention LeRoy Neiman.

As I stood in the balustrade, thoughts that maybe I should run as fast as I could ran through my head. I noticed, as a peered through the pebbled glass door that the concierge had spotted me so I opened the heavy door and walked into the lobby.

“Can I help you, sir?” The portly man in the red uniform with gold buttons as big as eggs said.

“Yes, I have an appointment with LeRoy Neiman.”

He smiled at me, but his eyes were not matching his painted on grin. “Name sir?”

“James Haymer.”

“I’ll be with you directly sir.”

He waddled over to the phone behind an ancient desk. I heard him say, “yes ma’am” and saw him nodding his head. It looked like I was going to be admitted.

“Mr. Haymer, Mr. Neiman’s personal assistant will be down momentarily. She will take you up to the third floor.”

Not more than a minute after he had uttered those words, I saw the elevator open and a tall, slender woman in her mid to late forties approached. She extended her hand and I shook it lightly.

“Mr. Haymer, if you would follow me.”

I got into the old fashioned elevator and watched her shut the iron gates. It seemed like the elevator was standing still but a minute later it had stopped, so I guessed that it had to be moving. After she reopened the iron gates, I followed her out. Walking down the exquisite hallway with hardwood oak or walnut floors, we came to room #307. She opened the door with a key and I followed her in. It seemed to be an office of some kind. There were art supplies, copy machines, paper cutters, and a large table in the center of the room with piles and piles of neatly stacked papers and pallets of some unknown material.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“The painting. Is it in there?” She said, pointing to my carry-on.

“Yes, yes,” I said nervously.

I propped the case on the corner of the table, opened it and brought out the white gift box. After carefully unwrapping the box I showed her the Red Toreador.

“Ah yes, this is something, I’m not sure what, however. Mrs. Neiman will be down in a minute to evaluate the artwork. Please have a seat.”

“Uh, thanks.”

I didn’t sit since I was too nervous. Instead, I perused the artifacts in the room. I wondered how many people had had the pleasure of being in the position I was in. How many other artists, actors, musicians, sports figures had graced this room and the room next door which, after peeking my head through the cracked doorway, I could see was the studio; the place where all the magic happened.

About ten minutes later, an attractive elderly woman, thin but not frail, walked briskly up to me with the Red Toreador in her hands.

“I’m Janet Neiman, and you must be Mr. Haymer.”

“Yes.” I took her hand and once again shook it. I was surprised at her handshake. It was firm and self-assured.

“I am sorry to put you through all this trouble, Mr. Haymer, but we have had many people come to us claiming to have original paintings by my husband and only a rare few were authenticated. But, I must say, I think this is one of his. There was a series of painting LeRoy did in the late fifties and they were featured in Playboy magazine. This seems to be one of them. How did you acquire it?”

I explained to Mrs. Neiman the story of how my mom and dad met LeRoy at a party in Manhattan back when I was a toddler and I could see she was amused.

“I see. Come let’s have a better look, shall we?”

She walked over to the table and turned the painted over. “Yes, I can see by the cut of the board, it’s definitely one of LeRoy’s. He used to be so impatient when he cut them, there was always a splinter or a rough edge to it. See?”
She showed me the right edge of the painting, how it looked a bit jagged.

“I see. So you’re saying it’s real?”

“Yes. And the signature is most definitely his. Lynn will be bringing my husband down in a minute. Now I have to warn you, Leroy has been very ill and very rarely if at all receives visitors. But, after I told him you had come all the way from Nashville, Tennessee to meet him he became excited. He loves Nashville and had always planned on painting the skyline and some country stars, but never got around to it. You will have to speak very loudly, though. He has one of those amplifier things, but hates to use it. But I always insist that he does around people. If you like you can wait in the studio.”

“Thanks, that would be great.”

I opened my carry-on and bought out one of my CD’s and some pictures of my mom and dad from the fifties. I thought maybe, if he wasn’t too far gone, he might remember them. The room was beyond belief. The floors were splattered with paint with every color imaginable. I was thinking that the floor could be sold a s a work of art for millions of dollars. There were some original paintings on the wall. One with Mohammed Ali, one with a gangster I thought could be Al Capone. On the other wall was a painting of various jazz musicians, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane to name a few. Under that painting were his art supplies and brushes. God, I felt honored and lucky to be there.

While I was staring at the jazz painting, I heard the sound of wheels rolling and then I saw him. LeRoy was in a wheelchair and I could see his right leg had been amputated at the knee. I tried not to focus on it, though.

“Mr. Haymer, this is my husband, Le Roy. LeRoy, this is Mr. James Haymer. He has come all the way from Nashville to meet you and he brought the Red Toreador.”

LeRoy had a perpetual grin on his face and I wasn’t sure if he was getting any of it. I figured he had some kind of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

Even though I tried not to look at the leg, Janet Neiman picked upon it immediately. She was a sharp as a tack, that woman. I realized how difficult that was for her, being 87 and having all of her faculties, while her husband, once so vital, was wasting away.

“LeRoy had a nasty infection in his leg and the doctors felt it was going to kill him if, you know, so he had it removed. I’m sorry if it comes to a shock to you.”

“No, no. I understand.”

“Hello, Mr. Neiman.” I pointed to the Al Capone painting. “I really love that painting. Is it Al Capone?”

“I love gangsters,” he said in a creaky voice.

“Me too,” I said with a smile I couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to hide.

I opened my folder with some pictures of my mom and dad and showed them to him thinking maybe it might spark some kind of memory. He stared at the one of my father for a bit and then said, “I see him around sometimes. I see my brother, too.”

Janet Neiman whispered in my ear, “His brother has been dead for twenty years.”

 I nodded my head knowingly. Then I brought out one of my CDs and gave it to him. He looked genuinely pleased.

“Would you like an autograph, Mr. Haymer?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

She walked over to the shelf and brought down a six by nine inch cardboard flyer announcing an art showing at the Franklin Bowles Galleries, one in San Francisco on May 12^th and the other here in New York on May 19^th. I was hoping he would still be alive to attend. On the front of the flyer was a photo of LeRoy from the sixties or seventies wearing a navy blue Pea coat and a gray scarf with his trademark cigar in his right hand. I was sure he didn’t smoke anymore. His wife gave him a pen and he signed the card, but he left off the “an” in Neiman.

“LeRoy, you didn’t finish the signature.”

“Huh?”

“The signature, LeRoy.” She then held his hand and guided the final two letters of his last name which almost matched but was slightly tilting downwards. It would have to do.

“I’m afraid my husband has had enough excitement for one day. Now if you will excuse us.I must get him back to his room. It was a pleasure meeting you. By the way, are you planning on selling the painting?”

“I’m not sure . . . maybe.”

“Well if you are, there is a gallery in the Village that handles all of LeRoy’s art. The name is on the back of that card. If you like I could put a callin and they might be able to see you while you are in town.”

“That would be great, thanks, Mrs. Neiman.”

“Oh, please call me Janet,”

“Thank you, Janet.”

A minute later Lynn was wheeling LeRoy out of the room and I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him again. What a rare and glorious honor it was. Truly blessed.