by S. J. Rozan
“Why?”
“Because he feels bad about her husband being in jail in China?”
“Are you serious? And then why the hell hire me?”
“Because these have nothing to do with the ones we’re looking for?”
“Then why the hell fire me?”
“Because your boundless joy in asking unanswerable questions drove him crazy?” Bill suggested. “You two, there’s no point in this. We’ll go see the paintings, Anna will tell us why she has them, and at least we’ll know whether they’re real and whether they’re old.”
“How will we know that?” Jack asked.
“You’re the expert,” Bill said, as we reached the lot where his car was waiting. “You’re going to tell us.”
* * *
Papercutting’s an ancient Chinese art. Flowers, phoenixes, entire lacelike villages emerge under the cutter’s blade. The artist’s skill and patience determine how complex the piece will be. It’s painstaking and slow and one mistake ruins everything. I knew that because kids learn papercutting at Saturday Chinese school, ending up with stars and snowflakes to bring home for the fridge. Unless in their rushed impatience they’ve made that one mistake. I was too young to remember what my two oldest brothers brought home, but stodgy Tim, now a corporate lawyer, excelled in papercutting, smugly crafting trees filled with chirping birds. Andrew, who’s a photographer and was always a little off the wall, made fizzy, wild science-fictiony visions. My torn-and-Scotch-taped snowflakes rarely made it to the fridge.
Jack knew papercutting, too, though he’d never gone to Chinese school. “I did a graduate lab in paper conservation,” he said. “They’re a bitch to work with.”
“Did you ever tear one?”
“Of course not.”
“Silly me for asking.” We were in Bill’s car on our way to Flushing, me riding shotgun, Jack in back. I asked him, “Do many people still do it?”
“There are still classically trained masters in China. That’s who Anna went to study with. And there are papercutters on the streets in China, just like on Canal Street. Tourists love it everywhere. But mostly it’s seen as a craft and artists don’t bother with it, or if they do, it’s just to show off. Anna’s different. She took it up in the first place as a political statement because it’s a non-Western form. And what she does has political content, too.”
“You mean, Mao’s silhouette, things like that?”
“More subtle, and not particularly Chinese. She mostly cuts from advertising posters or magazines. She’ll work against the content of the original image. Last year she did a series of those tiny slippers women used to wear when they had bound feet. They were beautiful. She cut them from glossy ads for spike-heeled shoes.”
“Oh. Now I see why her work didn’t appeal to Shayna.”
Bill said, “Meow.”
“Come on, did you see her shoes?”
“I wasn’t looking at her shoes.”
“Why does that not comfort me?”
“You want to be even less comfortable?” he asked. “We have a tail.”
Jack whipped his head around to peer out the back window. I looked into the rearview mirror, staring at the headlights behind us. “Watch,” Bill said. He steered the car into the passing lane, overtook a cab, and slipped back in.
“Dark SUV?” I said. “Jersey plates? Two cars back now?”
“That’s the one.”
“How long?”
“Since at least the bridge, maybe since Manhattan. What do you want to do?”
My case, my call. I know Bill’s driving; he could lose the guy without breaking a sweat. I asked, “How close are we to where we’re going?”
“Two more exits, then local streets.”
“Is the next exit a residential neighborhood?”
“Yes.”
“Take it, and drive around like we’re looking for something. Jack, don’t look back again. I don’t want him to know we’re onto him.”
“Them.”
“You sure?”
“The driver and a guy beside him.”
“They got off with us,” Bill reported a few minutes later, on the exit ramp. “He’s hanging back.”
“Okay,” I said. “Make a turn and drop Jack and me off. You drive away. Let’s see who he’s following.”
Bill drove a few blocks, let us out on a corner, and pulled away. Jack and I ambled down a quiet street of small, neat brick houses. We walked uncertainly, checking address numbers. Bill’s taillights dwindled and no one passed us. “Well, it’s not Bill,” I said to Jack. “At the end of the block, you go right.”
We paused at the corner to look like we were conferring. The tail car was down the block behind us and it stopped, too. “What if it’s the guy who shot at me, come to finish the job?” Jack asked.
“I thought we decided he wasn’t really trying to kill you, just scare you. Look at your watch like you’re saying you have to go.”
“That’s the job I meant.” He turned his wrist over.
“A tough guy like you? Okay, now walk away.”
“No, the tough guy’s you. See you around.” Jack headed right. I turned left. A few seconds’ pause. Then headlights swept around the corner.
So. It was me.
The headlights didn’t keep coming, though. Were they just trying to find out where I was headed? Well, then I’d lead them on awhile. I continued down the block. Blue glows in the windows told me a lot of TV-watching was going on. I stopped in front of a house with no lights on, looked up at it, took out my phone and stood there as though I were making a call. Actually, I was.
“You or Jack?” Bill asked when he answered.
“Me. He’s idling at the corner two blocks up from where you dropped us. I went left.”
“I’m three blocks down. Be right there.”
“A door’s opening. One of them just got out.”
“Anyone we know?”
“I can’t tell but I don’t think so. Big. I’m still walking and I’m going to stay on the phone. Maybe he’ll want to wait until I’m not connected to anyone before he clobbers me. See if you can come around and get a look at him first.”
“See you soon.”
But not soon enough. Whoever this guy was, the fact that I was on the phone with someone who could presumably call a cop if I screamed—or suddenly went silent—must not have worried him. He was quiet and quick, and as I turned my head to look at a house number I found him at my elbow.
I took a sharp leap backward, said breathlessly, “You really should learn to knock.” I dropped the phone in my pocket, still on. I thought he might overlook that while he focused on the .25 now in my hand. I checked him out: a big, broadshouldered Asian man, not handsome, not hideous. Sportcoat, white shirt, no tie. In his hand, a gun also, and bigger than mine.
“I can shoot faster,” I said. “Also, I have more incentive.”
He smiled quizzically. “Incentive? For shoot me? You don’t even know me.” His intonations rang of Mandarin.
“That’s the point. You’ve been following me. You could’ve shot me already but you didn’t. So you don’t want me dead, you want something from me. I, on the other hand, don’t like to be followed, don’t know you, and don’t want anything from you. Why shouldn’t I shoot you?”
“But you don’t shoot. Just stand there.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, now you want something?”
Yes, I wanted to know where the hell Bill was.
“Why are you following me?”
“You want two thing! I only want one. Want to talk to you.”
“Who sent you?”
“Boss. Have couple questions, say, Go ask.”
“You work for the government like everybody else?”
He looked surprised at the question, then laughed. “Government? Can’t make no money, work for government.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Got some questions about guy you work for. Also, advice. Come
now, dark street dangerous place for lady. I drive you home.”
“I don’t think so.”
But his driver did. He stomped the gas and in three seconds had swerved up the block and onto the sidewalk behind me. His door blew open and I was thinking, Damn, I am going to have to shoot one of these guys when the big guy yelped and spun around, staring wildly into the dark. I didn’t know what was up, but whatever it was, it gave me a chance to spin, too. I slammed my gun up under the chin of the driver, off-balance as he left the car. His head snapped back. I kicked him in the belly and when he folded I smashed him on top of the head. That should hold him. I ducked in case the big guy had solved his problem and decided it was time to shoot me. In fact, I wondered why he hadn’t already. But he wasn’t even looking at me. He was shouting and cursing in the other direction, half-turned, one arm up to ward off a stone flying at his head. It bounced off his shoulder and so did the one after it. He waved his gun around, looking for his target. Another stone came soaring out of the dark and smacked his knee, and when his hand dropped there, he got clonked on the temple.
With a howl he took off after the thrower. He ran into a hailstorm of pebbles. Another big stone hit him square in the face. He fired into the dark, the gunshot thundering. In answer, a stone clipped his ear. He cursed again; when another skipped off his skull he turned back, racing for his car. I stepped to block his way but he plowed into me, then grabbed my jacket to drag me with him. Stumbling, I tried to break his hold. Whether I could have, I don’t know, but it didn’t matter: A rock walloped his back, making him stagger and slacken his grip. I pulled loose and stuck my leg out to trip him. He did a little jig but kept his footing, screaming to his driver as he reached the car door. The driver, still dazed, lurched in behind the wheel. He started the car as the big guy dove into the back under a rain of rocks. The car screeched into reverse, bounced off the curb, and roared away.
I peered after it. It swerved around the corner and vanished. I turned to look in the other direction. A lanky figure was sauntering out of the dark, hands in his pockets.
“That,” I said, “was pretty impressive.”
“Little League all-star,” said Jack. “Middle school travel team. High school all-state. College varsity.”
“Starter?”
“And relief both. Kid Iron, they called me. My high school senior season’s still the Wisconsin state record.”
“So all this whining about flying bullets—”
“I said I couldn’t shoot a gun. I didn’t say I was helpless. As long as there’s a gravel driveway and a little landscaping, I’m good. You think maybe we should keep walking?” He nodded at the houses around us, where lights had come on. One front door was open, a figure silhouetted in it, but no one was saying anything. “One of these citizens might have called the cops.”
“Over some cursing, a few squealing tires, and a single gunshot? They probably all think the neighbors have their TVs on too loud.” But I fell in nonchalantly beside him, a couple enjoying a peaceful stroll, not a care in the world.
Headlights swept around the corner and we both tensed up. “Oh.” I relaxed. “It’s Bill.” He slammed his brakes and threw his door open while I demanded, “Where have you been?”
“Got here as fast as I could. Wasn’t more than two minutes.” He climbed out. “I heard a shot. What the hell happened?”
“A couple of Chinese guys wanted to take me away from all this, but it turns out Jack’s a stone sniper.”
Bill turned to Jack. “Aren’t you the guy who’s been saying all day you don’t know anything about guns?”
“Not ‘stone’ metaphorically,” I said. “Stone, literally. He brained ’em with somebody’s rock garden.”
Jack pulled back his arm, his fingers curled around an imaginary baseball.
“Enterprising,” Bill said.
“The shot came from the bad guy,” I told Bill. “At Jack.”
“Just like the batters I used to fan,” Jack said. “Spun him until he was dizzy. He had no idea where to look.”
“You’re taking this much better than the previous gunshot,” I said.
“Ice water in his veins,” Bill agreed.
“Actually, I think I’m in shock. Wait until the numbness wears off. What?” Jack’s eyes suddenly widened. “Someone shot at me? Again?”
“No,” I said. “It was all a dream. Listen, you guys, I hear sirens. Maybe we should get out of here before the homeowner comes to get his rocks back?”
“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere,” Bill said.
“I’d rather you didn’t find it.”
We got in the car and drove away.
13
“So,” Bill said as we wound our way through Queens, “who was he, your Mighty Casey?”
“I have an idea, but I don’t like it.”
“In that case, by all means share it.”
“I never saw him before. He said his boss had some questions about, and some advice for, the guy I work for. I asked him if he worked for the government, and he said there’s no money in it.”
“He’s never heard of corruption?” Jack asked.
“I’m sure he has. I’m thinking he’s some kind of Chinese gangster. He’s unhappy about something Jeff Dunbar’s doing—or Dennis Jerrold, or whoever he is—and he wants me to do something about it.”
“Why doesn’t he go to Dunbar?”
“If Dunbar’s really with the State Department, that’s got to be overstepping, no matter how big a deal Mighty Casey’s boss is in China. I got a partial plate, four of, I think, six numbers. Can you find someone to run it?”
I have my own cop contacts, like my best friend Mary, but doing this kind of thing gives her hives. Bill’s contacts are more straightforward: He slips them Knicks tickets and guy stuff like that. He made a call, left a message, made another, left another. “One of those guys will do it,” he said. “But it looks like neither one’s on tonight, so it’ll be tomorrow.”
“I guess we can wait.” I had a thought. “Or not.” I took out my phone, speed-dialed Linus.
“You’ve reached Wong Security,” Trella’s voice told me. “We’re sorry we can’t take your call right now, but it is important to us. Please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
“It’s Lydia,” I told the microchip. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but I have something I’d like Linus to do. Give me a call?” I clicked off, said to the guys, “Maybe that will get us something,” and found my phone beeping as I started to put it away. It was Linus, but not a call, a text:
Hi cuz, @ club, cant hear a thing. Txt me.
So I did, typing in the partial plate I’d made out while the SUV careened away. Jack looked over my shoulder. I was typing
blck navgtor, late modl
when Jack said, “Last year.”
I raised an eyebrow and he shrugged.
Last yr. C what u cn do. I know this illegal. Dont do deeply illegal. If cant do, ok. If u find sumthing, call whenever.
I put the phone away without interruption this time and said, “That may get us somewhere. Jack, you’re a car guy?”
“It’s a Midwest suburban thing.”
“I see.” I settled back, leaned my head on the seat. “You guys? I’m getting tired of this.”
“Of what?” Jack asked. “Me getting shot at?”
“That, too. Of being confused. Of not knowing who any of these people really are and what they really want.”
“I have an idea,” Jack said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s go to Anna’s studio, find the Chaus, have her tell us what’s going on, and all go out for a drink after the big dance number.”
“Good plan.” I closed my eyes, and opened them briefly to add, “I’ll have a cosmo.”
* * *
Bill meandered randomly through Queens until he was satisfied we weren’t being followed. As that was going on, Jack and I filled him in on what he’d missed while he was exchangi
ng pleasantries with Shayna Dylan. By the time we pulled over in front of the artists’ converted warehouse it was half-past nine, but light still glowed through the industrial windows.
“Behold the midnight oil of inspiration,” I said.
“Most of these people have day jobs,” Jack said. “They make work when they can.”
“It’s more romantic my way.”
Bill said to Jack, “What did I tell you?”
I couldn’t remember what he’d told him but I was sure it was something unflattering about me, so I instructed them both to go jump in a lake.
We’d parked at the building’s long side. Jack led us around the corner to a loading dock with a huge roll-down door and a smaller door beside it. He punched a couple of buttons on the keypad. Only silence, so he did it again. “No answer from Anna. I assume we want to get in even if she’s not here?”
“As opposed to coming all this way,” I said, “exchanging rocks and bullets with who knows who, and then going home empty-handed? You better believe it.”
He read down the list beside the keypad, pressed another combination, and when that didn’t work he tried a third.
“Who’s there?” squawked the speaker.
“Francie, it’s Jack Lee. Can you let me in?”
“Jack Lee? What are you doing in an outer borough at this hour? Don’t tell me there are no hip parties in Manhattan tonight.” The buzzer buzzed and Jack pushed the door open.
We walked into a cavernous space, windowed along the long walls from waist height to the overhead steel beams hung with metal-shaded lights. The broad entryway held a few sagging chairs and battered couches, a bookcase, and a bulletin board covered with announcements and flyers. Off it, in both directions, corridors turned the corner and ran past a series of large, ceilingless cubicles in the center of the paint-splattered concrete floor. Skylights punctuated the roof. The place smelled of turpentine, sawdust, and frying garlic. I could hear the high-pitched whirr of some industrial tool, drifts of music, various bits of unidentifiable clatter, and the opening of a door. Then footsteps, and a compact, cheerful-looking Asian woman appeared around the corner, bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other.