by S. J. Rozan
A few minutes more waiting and thinking, and here came Jack, unfolding from a taxi at the curb. I was about to make a subway-vs-cab wisecrack but, luckily for him, my phone rang. I checked the readout: my client, Jeff Dunbar. I held up a finger to Jack and answered.
“Sorry to take so long returning your call,” he said. “I was in a meeting.” He spoke eagerly. And gave me a bit too much of an explanation for someone so eager. “Do you have something to report?”
“A number of things. Can we meet later?”
“You’ve found the paintings?”
“If I had I wouldn’t keep you in suspense. No, but I want to discuss some other issues.”
“What kind of ‘issues’? ” His voice became wary.
“I’d like to meet you later, if that’s all right. It’s important or I wouldn’t be calling.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He paused. I could have suggested a meeting place but I was curious what would happen if I left that to him. He gave it a few seconds; then since I wasn’t coming through, he said, “There’s a bar on West Street and Eleventh called The Fraying Rope. Do you know it?”
“No, but I can find it. About an hour?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“See you then.” I clicked off, aware of Jack hovering at my elbow. “Excuse me,” I said as I put the phone away. “Do I know you?”
“Not well enough.” He was grinning, so I guessed the twin traumas of the gunshot and Dr. Yang’s dressing-down had faded. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Though I’m actually five minutes early.”
“I was ten.”
“Does anyone ever get over on you?”
I sighed. “People do it all the time. That’s why I have to win when I can.”
“I guess that’s not unreasonable. Uh-oh. Eagle-eyed Nick’s spotted us.” Cheerily, Jack waved through the glass door.
I turned to see Nick Greenbank scowling. I waved, too, and said to Jack, “Good thing he doesn’t have Vladimir Oblomov’s cell number or he’d be calling him to rat me out for two-timing.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No,” I said. “He has mine.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Oh ho ho ho. Is that an apology?”
“No way. But it’s an interesting fact.”
“That’s true. Should we discuss it with him?”
“I think so.”
“Any special gag?”
“I haven’t thought of one. He knows you, right? He knows what you do?”
“Yes. Does he know what you do?”
“Not unless he Googled me. I was here as Vladimir’s art consultant.”
“Nick doesn’t have that kind of enterprise. If you were convincing, he believed you.”
“So how do you want to go in?”
After a second he grinned. “Winging it, like you and Bill. Walk this way.” He turned and pushed through Baxter/Haig’s oversized doors.
Nick’s scowl fizzled around the edges as we approached. He was clearly happier expressing his disdain through an inch and a half of glass.
“Hi, Nick.” Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack Lee. We’ve met a couple of times.”
“I remember.” Nick gave Jack a perfunctory limp mitt.
“And you know Lydia Chin. She’s a consultant, she was here this morning. With Vladimir Oblomov. The Russian guy.”
Nick licked his lips. “Yeah.”
“The thing is, Lydia’s an old friend of mine. This Vladimir, he was making her nervous. So she asked me to check up on him.”
“Is that why you’re here? He hasn’t been back or anything. Made me nervous, too.” Nick gave a weak laugh, seeming relieved that he and I were on the same side.
“From what I found, he’s a nervous-making guy,” Jack said. “Though actually, no, we didn’t come here to talk about him. We weren’t headed here at all. We’re going upstairs to see the show at Red Sky. ‘Bright Sun, Still Sea, Green Homeland’? ”
Nick nodded. “It’s good. If any of those three guys gets a following over the next year, we might take him on.”
“Really, you liked it? I hated it. But no accounting for taste. Anyway, on the way here, something weird happened. Lydia got a phone call. So we thought we’d stop and see you before we go up.”
Nick looked unhappily bewildered, as though he wasn’t sure what to respond to: the fact that Jack hated a show he liked, or the weirdness of me getting a phone call. In the interest of progress I helped him out. “A man named Samuel Wing. The odd part is, he called my cell phone. I keep that number kind of close. But Vladimir gave it to you before.”
It took Nick a minute. “You think I gave it to him?”
“Yeah,” said Jack, leaning on the counter. “Yeah, Nick, I do.”
“Oh, Jack, back off!” I snapped. “You know that he-man stuff drives me nuts. I may have to put up with it from clients, but not from you.” Jack, startled, turned to me. I spoke to Nick. “I don’t know what makes some guys think I need a prince riding to the rescue all the time. Is that how I come across to you? I mean, because I’m small, or what? Anyway, Jack has it wrong. As usual. He thinks I’m upset. So he can, I don’t know, beat you up and save me or something.”
Jack started to protest. “I thought—”
“You always do. Do you ever ask? No.” I gave him an exasperated glare, and gave Nick, pointedly, a smile. “If this Wing guy were just some jerk, maybe I’d be mad. But it turns out he’s kind of a big deal. A new collector with lots of money. It might develop into something. So I was wondering who he’s a friend of. I told Jack that, but of course he didn’t listen.”
As I chattered, Nick caught on. If a new collector had come into my art consultant life, I might want to show my appreciation. I could practically see the gears grinding as he tried to figure a way to get in on it. In the end, though, he shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know the guy.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing. I’d hoped—”
“But what about Doug? Did you give him your number?”
“Mr. Haig?” I said that as though it were a new and clever thought. “Well, yes, we did.”
“Then it was probably him.” If Nick couldn’t pocket my gratitude directly, at least he could make sure I knew which gallery to bring my new client to.
“Well, then, I’d like to thank him. He’s in the office?”
“Gone for the day. He’ll be back in the morning.”
“Oh, I have a meeting in the morning. Give me his cell, I’ll call him now.” I took out my phone and waited.
“Sorry, no can do.”
“What?” I acted like this was a first, being refused someone’s cell number.
Nick squirmed but shook his head. “He really doesn’t like that.”
“Oh.” I blinked. I glanced at Jack, who still stood there looking confused. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll catch up with him sometime. Just to thank him.” I waited, giving Nick another chance, but he didn’t bite. I stuck the phone back in my bag, said, “Jack, are you coming or what?” and walked out.
Jack followed me out of Baxter/Haig and then in the door to the upstairs galleries. Once Nick couldn’t see us, he laughed. “Hey, Porthos, nice work.”
“Same to you, Aramis.”
“Why, thanks. Can I hit the elevator button, or is that too macho for you?”
“No, go right ahead.”
He did. “A real twerp, Nick, and an ass-kisser and backbiter besides. He’ll rise to the top in no time.”
“Is that how the gallery business works?”
“What business doesn’t?”
“Oh, good, another cynic.”
“That’s just so you won’t miss your real partner while you’re working with me. I’m actually an upbeat, positive sort of guy.”
“I don’t miss him a bit,” I said, though I was wondering a tad edgily how long Bill needed to extract some simple information from Shayna Dylan. “If you’re all that positive, though, tell me something. What am I supposed to
think about the work in that gallery?”
The elevator arrived to fetch us. As it started jerkily up, Jack said, “Where, Baxter/Haig? The Pang Ping-Pong show? You can think whatever you want. Wait. Are you asking what I think?”
“Of course I am.”
“Ah. Well. His technique, especially in the control of line weights in the smallest details, is terrific. That’s real old-school stuff. And his color choices are fresh and his composition can be really strong.”
“So you like it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Just judged visually, it’s great to look at. But the content’s a one-liner. He’s been doing this for years and he’s done. Nothing new to say. If you look at the most recent ones you can tell even he’s getting bored.”
“You can? How?”
“The composition’s slipping. Those three along the back wall? Too overall even, too balanced. Busy, bright, and sarcastic, but no aesthetic risk.” The elevator bumped to a halt. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I guess I expected a wiseass answer. Not something that serious.”
“Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.”
I was saved from having to comment on Jack’s face by the elevator door, which slid open into a huge loft. I stepped out and stood, taking in the skylights, the unpainted concrete floors, and the art.
Behind the reception desk, giant silver springs curved upward, topped with mylar strips streaming in the breeze made by rotating silver ceiling fans. To the right, multicolored acrylic tanks held multicolored plastic fish standing on their tails; occasionally one did a pirouette, then they all stood motionless again. To the left, taking up fully a third of the room, little patterned red boxes on big white wheels scooted through a forest of blue posts plastered with Chinese product labels.
“I can’t wait for you to explain this to me,” I whispered to Jack as a smiling young Asian man left the desk and came over to greet us.
“Inexplicable,” Jack said. “Hi, Eddie. Lydia, this is Eddie To. This is his gallery, his and his partner Frank’s. Eddie, Lydia Chin.”
“Hey, what’s up, Lydia? Jack, I’m surpised to see you back here. Frank said you didn’t like this show.” Eddie To, lithe and small, wore round black-framed glasses and a diamond stud in his ear. He had no more of a Chinese accent than Jack did. Or me.
“Hate it,” Jack said. “Especially the dancing fish. I thought you ought to know, though, that Baxter/Haig is planning to poach your artists once their prices rise.”
“Why, Jack. I’m touched by your concern, but not to worry. Doug Haig puts the moves on all our artists just to keep in practice. Mostly it’s caca. Even that big giant diva Jon-Jon Jie’s been running around lately telling people how much Haig loves him.”
“Jie? I don’t know him.”
“Yes, you saw his show. Last winter. Don’t deny it. ‘Extra/ordinary.’”
“Wait. Blades, arrows? Animal skins? That’s him? He’s from Texas.”
“So? They have divas in Texas.”
“Haig’s taking on Chinese-Americans?”
“Not. That’s the point. Haig will string him along and then break his heart. Frank and I are keeping out of it, we’re hoping it might make a man of him.”
“Haig?”
“As if. Anyway,” Eddie To said slyly, “I’m not sure the time is ripe for dear Doug to try something new. Not that I’m one to take joy in another’s misfortune—”
“You’re not?”
“All right, I am.” He lowered his voice, though we were alone in the room. “If you listen, you can hear the walls murmuring that Doug Haig is deep in doo-doo. His backers, who helped him buy Brad Baxter out? The walls say they’re getting antsy. The art market’s not gushing cash as fast as they thought it would and they’re tired of waiting. Or maybe they’re just tired of Doug Haig pawing all their women. Haig’s already discreetly had a fire sale of some older work he’s had around. I guarantee you the chance of him stepping outside his comfort zone to start showing Chinese-Americans right now is exactly less than shit.” Eddie raised his voice to a normal level and spread his arms to the work in his gallery. “Now, these fine fellows are from China, so technically they’re Doug Haig’s natural prey. But utilizing our super-secret weapon, Frank discovered them, so we’re counting on a little Chinese loyalty.”
“What’s your super-secret weapon?”
“Jack. If I tell you it won’t be a secret. Oh, all right, since you insist. You remember when Frank was in Beijing two years ago for the China Contemporary conference? He struck up a warm friendship with the head of the Art History Department at the Central University in Hohhot. So warm, in fact, I had to wonder if my domestic bliss was threatened.” He gave a little sigh.
Jack asked, “Where’s Hohhot?”
“Inner Mongolia,” I said. When they both looked at me, I added, “Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.”
“Whatever positions Frank offered Dr. Lin,” Eddie To went on, “the only one he agreed to, as told to me, was to be our exclusive consultant in the field of bleeding-edge Chinese art. Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang. And doesn’t Doug Haig wish he knew. Q.X. is the only reason we find artists Doug the Slug hasn’t gotten to yet. We have to keep him secret or he’d be stolen in a heartbeat.”
“How secret can you keep him, if he’s an expert in Haig’s field?”
“Please. Haig doesn’t have a field. He has a market. He doesn’t speak Chinese and Lord knows he doesn’t go to conferences. He’s above all that. So maybe we can remain a step ahead long enough to get established and stay out of the poorhouse. Possibly even to be able to afford some of the artists Q.X. has found us who, by the time we get to them, are beyond our means. Though as I said, with the gentlemen in this show we’re counting on gratitude and a Chinese sense of duty.”
Jack said, “I think you can count on their prices not rising.”
“Oh, Jack, you’re such a stiff. Hey, Frank named the spotted robot after you.”
“Really? If that’s a bribe he’d be better off naming them after critics.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’re a tastemaker.” Eddie cocked his head. “Odd for a stiff, hmm? Anyway, he did name a few after critics. The one that keeps crashing into that post, like it can’t see it? That’s Gross, from ARTnews.”
I watched a red box drive itself into a blue post, back up, and do it again. “Why is the spotted one Jack?”
“Its job is to tail the striped one.”
Sure enough, wherever the striped red box went, the spotted box zoomed after a few moments later. “They all have jobs?”
Eddie To went to the desk and brought over three stapled sheets. “Artists’ statements. English on one side, Chinese on the other.”
“The Chinese makes more sense,” Jack said. “Especially if you don’t read Chinese. Listen, Eddie, love chatting with you but we’re here on a case.”
“Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you working. I’ve had to watch the robot to get any sense of what you do.”
“Here’s your chance. I want to ask you something.”
“Well, isn’t this exciting? Frank will be jealous. How can I help?”
“You’ve heard the rumors that there are new Chau Chuns floating around?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Jen Beril heard them, too. She heard them here, at your opening last week. She just can’t remember who from.”
Eddie To clutched his chest. “That’s just heartbreaking.”
“Why?”
Eddie pointed an accusing finger toward the elevator. “Ms. Thing made her entrance—vogueing in the doorway like RuPaul—took one quick spin, guzzled some Vigonier, and left. Frank would’ve named a robot after her but none of them’s enough of an ice queen. Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Do you remember her talking to anyone?”
“I remember it well. Though obviously she doesn’t. Shows you where I am on the food chain. Th
e only person she spoke to was—me.”
“It was you who told her about the Chaus?”
“Was that bad of me? I was trying to impress her with my up-to-the-second inside-track type of knowledge.”
“I’m sure she was impressed. Where’d you hear it?”
“Yes, so impressed I’ve slipped her mind entirely. Remind me not to save the Vigonier for her next time. She can suck up Chablis and like it. As for me, to go back an earlier conversational motif, I heard about the Chaus from the wellspring of all self-importance. Jabba the Hutt down there on the first floor: Doug Haig.”
* * *
As soon as the elevator door closed behind us I exploded. “That revolting creepy fat sleazebag ugly creepy liar!”
“You said fat, so I know you don’t mean Eddie. And you said ‘creepy’ twice, by the way.”
“Doug Haig! He is creepy twice. He told Eddie To about the Chaus last week? He acted like the first he’d heard of them was from Bill.”
“You guys believed him?”
“Not at all. Unless Nick’s wrong, Haig found out about them from Shayna Dylan, even though she doesn’t know she knows. But Haig’s spreading the rumors himself? I mean, what is that?”
“Why? Rumors create buzz and buzz drives up prices.”
“And brings you people like Vladimir Oblomov, and then you act like you don’t know what he’s talking about?”
“Maybe Haig already has a buyer.”
“Then why not say, ‘I already have a buyer’? instead of, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you silly Russian, there are no such paintings’? And besides, you aren’t telling me Doug Haig would put loyalty to an existing buyer above profit from a brainless mobster? Especially if it’s true he’s in trouble.” The elevator opened at the lobby. “No,” I said, “here’s what I think. I think Haig absolutely does know about the paintings. I think he’s seen them and I bet he knows where they are. But he hasn’t got his hands on them yet, so he can’t sell them, to Bill or anyone else. Something makes him pretty sure he will, though. So he’s trying to create buzz now, for then. Then he’ll try to reel Vladimir in, and whoever else. But I don’t want him to find them.”