“Hole-in-the-wall” is such a versatile term, one that can encompass anything from a bookstore, to a restaurant, to a candy store. As adaptable as this phrase can be, it often doesn’t represent highbrow interests, even in hipster-infested areas. Theaters, music halls, museums—the kinds of places wealthy people meet to drink overpriced champagne and eat fish eggs aren’t often dubbed “holes-in-the-wall”.
Belly of the Beast Art Gallery and Parlor was a hole-in-the-wall.
Located in between a small beer garden and an antique store, the gallery looked like nothing more than another shop on Waterfront Drive. Open its glass doors on any given Friday evening, however, and you would find yourself toe-to-toe with men in tuxedos and women in sparkly dresses. The bubbly would be flowing, the caviar would be fishy, and some new, unknown artist’s work would be displayed on the walls and shelves. Skulking among the winers and diners, the rich, and the not very discerning clientele, was the Belly of the Beast’s owner, Raymond Calitri.
On this particular Friday night, Calitri was engaged with a nice enough looking couple who were interested in the art dealer’s newest protégé, Amos Reynard.
"Just take a look at this piece here,” Calitri said, showcasing one of the many sculptures erect around the gallery, this one depicting an almost human-like shadow with its head thrown back and arms cast out wide. “Notice how jarring the juxtaposition of the savior-like pose and rough wrought iron is. Reynard is truly a genius.”
Calitri smiled as he talked up the piece, the grin pulling his already gaunt face taut. It was an oily smile, one more akin to a scheming politician’s than a used car salesman’s, one that promised lies and half-truths, one that shouldn’t under any circumstance be trusted. Coupled with his pencil mustache and slicked back hair, the smile only made Calitri appear as a disingenuous skeleton, conniving and cunning. It was a persona he had crafted well, striking an eerie balance between pretension, mystery, and ass-kissing sycophantism. Either the couple didn’t notice or just didn’t care. Probably the latter, since this wasn’t their first time in Belly of the Beast.
They had bought a painting from Calitri just a month ago, from an equally unknown rising star, Esther Ravencroft.
“It is a beautiful sculpture, blurring the line between form and focus,” the man replied, inspecting the piece from every conceivable angle, using terms he had picked up from an undergrad art appreciation course. “But it isn’t quite what we are looking for.”
“We’re still trying to cover the blank canvases of our walls. Do you have any more paintings from that young woman . . . oh, what was her name?” the woman joined in, explaining what her husband actually meant.
“Esther,” Calitri answered, the corners of his mouth drooping and his voice taking a somber edge. “Esther Ravencroft. Yes, I still have a few of her pieces.”
“Could we take a look?” the couple inquired in tandem.
“Right this way.”
Calitri walked them through the gallery, dodging cocktail waitresses, wannabe art critics, and statues of varying size. He led them through a door, down a dark hallway, and finally into the storage space where pieces not purchased went to die. There were four Ravencroft paintings just inside.
“These were the last she painted, sadly.”
“Her last?” the woman asked, staring down at the first painting. It was a watercolor portrait of an angel, the being holding its hands palm-up to show the slash marks on its wrists and flowing red blood. Most of the color was muted, except for the blood; the crimson stains bringing the nearly grayscale piece to life.
“Ms. Ravencroft took her own life, unfortunately,” Calitri explained. “Slashing her wrists. Life often imitates art, you know.”
Maybe they were sad to hear of the young girl’s self-inflicted demise; perhaps they were just upset that aside from these four, there were no more of the unique and macabre paintings. Whatever the reason, the couple missed the slight uptick in Calitri’s inflection. They looked at the four remaining paintings in silence, deciding they would purchase the lot of them.
“Because these are the last of Ms. Ravencroft’s paintings, I will have to charge you more than I did for the one you already own.”
“Price isn’t an issue,” the man said, pulling his checkbook from his jacket pocket.
The couple bought all four paintings for $15,000 apiece.
Because it was such a small gallery, cleaning up Belly of the Beast was not a long task after a showing. The wait staff was sent home around one in the morning, shortly after the last guest had left. Only Calitri remained.
Locking the front doors, the art dealer walked among the sculptures one last time before heading back to the storage space. Reynard’s wrought iron monstrosities would remain on the floor for another week or two, then would be hauled to the back where they could terrify the other artworks entombed in the storage space. Calitri had an extensive collection of art in storage, every piece that never sold from all of his unknown clients.
Their deaths usually prevented them from picking up whatever was left.
Calitri reached the back of the storage area, where he kept his small work station. He might not be a sculptor like Amos or a painter like Esther, but he still created works of beauty. And he got an idea for his next masterpiece, after selling one of those god-awful statues for nearly $10,000.
“So, how do you do want to kill yourself, Reynard?” Calitri asked, removing his art supplies one at a time from the desk, gingerly laying out three knives and a near-empty vial before hoisting up a pistol. “I’m thinking you shoot yourself in the head, splattering one of your sculptures in blood. It will be marvelous.”
JAY C. MIMS writes both fiction and nonfiction. He is a Literature Writer for Into the Void Magazine and is pursuing an MFA from Columbia College Chicago.