by S. J. Rozan
“I need a reason?”
“Many daughters would not. Do you have a date with the white baboon?”
“Have you ever known me to dress up for him?”
If she’d been anyone else I’d have had her. That I didn’t put on heels and a skirt for Bill should have signaled a lack of interest in what he thought of me, and should also have reassured her because he wasn’t getting any free peeks at my legs.
But this was my mother. “Pah. When you see him you look like a gang boy but he doesn’t stop calling you. He is a hyena with no understanding of beauty.”
I splurged on a cab, because of the shoes.
Outside Baxter/Haig I smoothed my skirt, elegantly mussed my hair, and pulled back the heavy glass door. I gave Nick Greenbank a sweet, sweet smile. He returned a scowl and muttered, “He’s here.”
“Yes, I know he is,” I said.
Little Nicky called the back office. When he hung up he jabbed his head in that direction, with a spreading smile so nastily predatory I began to wonder if Doug Haig had said to send me in, the bear trap was set. Nevertheless, I sashayed to the back where I was met by jittery Caitlin. She knocked on Haig’s private door, got a barked, “Come!” and opened it.
And there was the bear trap: Mighty Casey Woo.
20
Woo sat in a chair in the corner of Doug Haig’s inner office, where the take-out coffee he was sipping didn’t threaten the art. He smiled at me, a smile uncomfortably similar to Nick’s.
Doug Haig, meanwhile, sat examining a gold-and-pink pastel drawing just long enough for me to get it that the work on his table was far more important than I was and then slipped it with great care back into a portfolio, at which moment he finally looked up at me.
“Mr. Haig,” I said, blasé and serene. Or I hoped I conveyed that impression. My heart was racing and my brain was outpacing it in an attempt to deal with this turn of events. “Thank you for seeing me.” I nodded to the corner. “And Mr. Woo. What a nice surprise.” I pulled out a chair at Haig’s worktable, sat primly and waited.
Wielding his chunky fingers with impressive delicacy, Haig tied the portfolio’s boards shut and laid it flat. He rejiggled his bulk to face me, showing Woo his wide back.
“Yes,” he said. “Well, Caitlin told me you said I’d be happy if I met with you. So far, I’m not.”
“You’re an impatient man. And,” I added, my brain reorganizing data like crazy, “you have such interesting friends.”
“A busy man. And my friends aren’t your business.” Haig didn’t look in Woo’s direction, as though the man weren’t there.
“No,” I said. “It’s not my business. It’s yours, and they’re not your friends. When Mr. Woo and I met, he told me he had an investment to protect. This is it. Your gallery. In my mind I had things more complicated than they needed to be. Now I get it. Tiger Holdings is your investor.”
“I don’t know why my financial arrangements were on your mind at all. You can’t really be expecting me to discuss them with you? Now, if you’re here about buying the Chaus for Mr. Oblomov, I’m not in a position yet—”
“I think you are.”
He stopped. “I am what?”
“In a position to sell them. Well, let me qualify that. You have them. But it’s true you can’t sell them yet. And without my help I don’t believe you’ll be able to.”
Woo sat forward. “You have Chaus? This true, what she say?”
“Why is he here?” I asked Haig.
Still without a glance at Woo, Haig said, “Certainly not at my invitation.”
“And yet, here he is. You, who threatened to have Vladimir Oblomov thrown out yesterday, you who bullied a terrified young woman into leaving just because you could, you’re putting up with this coffee-swilling klutz in your pristine inner sanctum. It’s killing you, I can see that. But there’s nothing you can do. He’s here because his boss is getting impatient. You owe Tiger Holdings a lot of money and they’ve heard about the Chaus.”
Woo, who’d let “coffee-swilling klutz” whizz right by him, jumped again on “Chaus.” “You have Chaus? You have, don’t tell Mr. Lau? That don’t make him happy.”
Haig’s tongue darted out and licked his lips. He didn’t seem to like the thought of Mr. Lau being unhappy.
“Why, Mr. Haig,” I marveled. “They’re afraid you’ll cheat them. Mr. Woo’s here because Mr. Lau—that’s the boss, right?—isn’t going to let you make a move anymore without him knowing about it. They suspect you of being the lying, cheating worm you are. I bet Woo’s even supposed to follow you home. At least he buys his own coffee. Mr. Woo, please sit down.” Haig whipped his head around. Woo, out of his chair, stopped uncertainly. “Mr. Woo, you won’t get what you want by physical intimidation. Not because Mr. Haig is a brave man by any means, but because you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip. Do you know that expression in English? Well, it doesn’t matter. Please sit down. I’m here to help you both.”
After a moment, Woo sat, scowling. Haig, who’d paled at the word “blood,” slowly turned back to me, showing great self-control by not rearranging his chair to bring Woo into his line of sight. Maybe he was braver than I gave him credit for.
“As I say,” I told Haig, “you’ll need my help to sell the Chaus. Without me,” I spoke to Woo, “he can’t sell them and Mr. Lau can’t get his money back.” I gave him a significant look. I wasn’t sure what it signified but he seemed to be. When I turned back to Haig, Woo stayed silent.
“Your help?” Haig said, starting to recover. “I cannot think of a situation in which I’d need your help. Oblomov’s not the only interested party, you know.”
“I do know that. But finding a buyer’s not the problem, is it?”
“Ms. Chin. If I did have the Chaus,” he flicked an involuntary glance in Woo’s direction, “why couldn’t I sell them? And if you think I can’t sell them, why are you here?”
“You do have them,” I repeated. “You knew all about them, even where they were, when Vladimir and I were first here, but you didn’t have them yet. Now you do. But you can’t sell them because you can’t get them authenticated. And I’m here because I can help.” I crossed my legs, letting my skirt ride up a tiny bit. Oh, Lydia, sometimes you’re just so cheesy.
Haig zeroed in on my leg-crossing operation. When it was over he switched his attention back to my face. “I can’t imagine how.”
I fingered the jade on its gold chain around my neck and smiled again. “Then I’ll explain. You can’t get the Chaus authenticated because they’re not authentic.” Movement in the corner caused me to turn my head. “Mr. Woo, sit down!” He scowled, but after a moment, he sat. “Thank you. You didn’t know they were fakes? Don’t worry, we can still make Mr. Lau happy.” I turned back. “But you, Mr. Haig, you knew all along. Anna Yang painted them, Bernard Yang’s daughter. Please, Mr. Haig, don’t insult me by looking affronted. Or surprised. Thank you. Or by asking me how I know this or anything else I’m about to say, because of course I’m not going to tell you. You’ve asked Dr. Yang to authenticate them, but he won’t. But maybe I should be more precise. You didn’t ask him to determine whether they’re authentic. You asked him to say that they are. To put his stamp of approval on them, so you can sell them for the fortune they’d be worth if they weren’t fakes. Your threat, if he didn’t, was that you’d claim Anna Yang already rooked you, sold them to you as real, using his name to pull the wool over your eyes. You’d look like a fool and be stuck with worthless junk paintings—which by the way you stole, she didn’t sell to you, but that’s another issue entirely and in fact I commend you on your resourcefulness.”
Haig made a strangled sound.
“Please, Mr. Haig, this really will go better if you just let me finish.” I bounced my high-heeled foot impatiently.
“Again, thank you. You’d be stuck, but Anna Yang’s reputation would be ruined and her career would be over. You thought that would be a persuasive argument, forcing Dr. Yang into t
his bit of chicanery. But it wasn’t. His own reputation means more to him, it seems, than you were banking on. More than his daughter’s, and more than her career. In any case, there’s a rift between them since her wedding in Beijing. Apparently, when she married that dissident poet, Liu Mai-ke, it was without her father’s permission.”
Haig’s eyes widened.
“You didn’t know that?” I asked. “You were at the wedding banquet. I’ve seen the footage on YouTube. It didn’t strike you as odd that Dr. Yang wasn’t there?”
“I understood he couldn’t get a visa. May I speak now? Well, thank you. That wedding was a ridiculous public spectacle. I went because I had to go. A lot of my artists were there. It would have been unseemly for me to refuse. I assume she did it for the notoriety and he did it for the green card, and I really don’t care. Unless you’re accusing me of some crime in connection with that, too? I should have you thrown out of here on your compact little ass for the slander you’re slinging around.”
“Who would do that? Nicky Greenbank? Call him, why don’t you? Or maybe you’ll ask Mr. Woo for a favor? He’d probably enjoy it. But no, why would you? I’m right. Whatever hole you were in with Tiger Holdings that got you so hot and bothered you had those paintings stolen, you’re still in it if you can’t get them authenticated. You’re desperate and you’re wondering what I’m here to offer you. Not, I assure you, my compact little ass.”
We stared at each other: he calculating, though pale; me smug, though I was getting tired of my heart racing.
“What, then?”
I smiled, taking my time before I spoke. “Vladimir Oblomov, as I’m sure you noticed, is an oaf.”
“Oh, my. Really?”
“I promise you. An oaf with money. I do a lot of work with Russians. They’re all the same. Vladimir’s different only in his interest in Chinese art. He’s a complete ignoramus, but he’s decided it’s his ‘field.’ Probably because Americans and Europeans collect it, but none of the other Russians do, so he can be a big cutting-edge deal. If the Chaus were real, or he thought they were, he’d buy them in a flash. At whatever price I told him was a good one. Which, of course, you and I would agree upon in advance.”
“Lovely. And you’re planning on getting around the eight-hundred-pound forged-painting gorilla exactly how?”
I leaned forward, hoping my eyes were glittering. “I can get them authenticated.”
For a moment Haig didn’t move. Then he shifted his vastness again, crossing his legs at the ankles. Woo sat up straight. I held up a finger to shush him. Haig said, “You have something to hold over Bernard Yang better than what I have?”
I tick-tocked my finger back and forth. “Not Dr. Yang.”
Haig frowned. “The only other name in this area big enough to be believed is Clarence Snyder, in Chicago. These paintings are goddamn good, but I don’t think they’re good enough to fool him. Are you telling me you have him in your pocket? Or”—Haig’s small eyes caressed my legs—“you can put him there?”
“Mr. Haig, if you weren’t a potential source of a lot of money I’d slap your face and walk out of here.” I said that, but I didn’t pull my skirt down. “But you’re also a narrow-minded moron. Yang and Snyder aren’t the only two big experts. There’s Lin, in Hohhot. And him, yes, I can get to him.”
“Lin? Who the hell is Lin?”
“You see? That’s what I mean. You’ve never heard of him, and though that speaks much worse of you than of him, it makes you assume that he’s nobody. Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang. At the Central University in Hohhot. Of course Hohhot is a minor Chinese city, and the University isn’t Shanghai U., so you don’t know a thing about it. Beneath you, right? Lin’s a rising star. Young, but he’s built himself quite a reputation in late-twentieth-century Chinese art, which is a big study area at Hohhot. You can Google him. His work’s largely theoretical and historical, not involved with the gallery and commercial world. You’d know him if you went to conferences, if you studied in the area, if you were actually interested in the art in any way except as a money trough you can wallow in.”
“Oh, spare me.” The acid in Haig’s voice practically dissolved the words. “The opinion of a slutty art consultant whose clients are third-rate Russian pigs doesn’t interest me in the least. I’ll look at this Dr. Lin. If he’s as impressive as you say maybe there’s something there to talk about. But if he’s a true expert he’ll know the paintings are fake. Why would he do it?”
“Because, frankly, he cares as little for Hohhot as you do. Although his is an educated opinion. As things stand, though, he’s forced to stay there. There aren’t very many positions he could rise to in China. There are tenured professorships in his area in Shanghai and Beijing, but they’re full. Or he could open his own gallery, but in China that involves dealing with the government, which makes even Hohhot seem appealing. Go ahead, check him out. Have little Nicky or poor scared Caitlin take a look and give you a full report. But be quick. For one thing, you want these paintings ready for sale next week, don’t you? To take full advantage of all the sharks in the water. For another, he’s here now.”
“He’s here? Who’s here? This Dr. Lin?”
“In New York. He got in two days ago. For Asian Art Week. And he wants to stay.”
An unappetizing, upper-hand look of understanding settled on Doug Haig’s face. “He wants to stay?”
“There you go,” I said approvingly. “Now you’ve got it. He came here hoping for an offer from a university or college. He did get one from Oberlin—they have a major art collection, and ties to China—but it’s in Ohio. Really, he’d rather be in New York. If someone here were to offer him a job, in an area of expertise so esoteric he’d be able to get past the INS—for example, writing a catalogue raisonné on a few decades’ worth of contemporary Chinese art—if, even, they agreed to sponsor him for his green card—it’s entirely possible he might overcome his scruples and authenticate some paintings that are, anyway, as you so eloquently put it earlier, goddamn good.”
I gave it a few beats while I watched Doug Haig’s gears creak. “Of course, if he accepts Oberlin’s offer first—”
“Yes, all right, I get it. When can you have him here?”
“As it happens we’re meeting for coffee in the morning.”
“Does he know you’re here on his behalf right now?”
“His behalf? I’m not here on his behalf. Or yours. Or, god help me, Vladimir’s. I’m here for me. No, Dr. Lin has no clue. He has a serious poker up his compact little ass. He’s a lot like you—he thinks he’s all that. The difference is, he is. Still, if he gets any whiff that he’s being played, it’s all over. When he comes here you’ll have to handle him very carefully. I’ll be here to help, of course.”
“How kind of you. All right, I’ll check on him, as I said. You call early tomorrow and I’ll let you know whether I want you to bring him over.”
“I’m a busy woman.” I got up to leave. “Being a slutty art consultant is a fast-paced life. I may have another appointment, any number of other appointments, by the time you get around to calling. We’ll do it this way: Unless I hear from you I’m going to bring Dr. Lin here at ten a.m. If you decide you don’t want to see him, don’t. Do whatever you think best, but in my opinion, not seeing him would be a big, big mistake. Mr. Woo, I think you can see how this arrangement will benefit Mr. Lau, also?”
Woo shook his head. “Not so sure.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Lau will be happy. Gentlemen.” I nodded to them both and left them staring after me as I walked away.
21
I dropped the hip-swinging as soon as I got around the corner, and I called Bill.
“How’d it go?”
“Give me Oblomov.”
“Vat’s wrong?”
“Unexpected glitch. We need a meeting. Can you be ready soon?”
“Girlchik, I vass born ready. Meetink vit whom?”
“I’ll set it up and call you back.
Wear the bling,” I added. “All of it.”
Next, I called Jack.
“How’d it go?”
“You guys use the same dialogue coach? Listen, there’s a problem. Haig’s gallery is the investment Mighty Casey Woo’s protecting from Vladimir Oblomov.”
“Woo’s the investor?”
“His boss. A Mr. Lau.”
“Damn. How do you know?”
“He’s there. Woo. He’s sticking to Doug Haig like a bad smell. It seems his boss is worried Haig will dispose of the Chaus without cutting him in, as soon as he finds them.”
“Haig? Double-dealing?”
“I know, it rocks your world. It didn’t make either of them happy when I announced I knew he’d already found them.”
“Either of them, Woo or his boss?”
“Either of them, Woo or Haig. His boss wasn’t there. Woo’s probably on the phone to him right now. Bill and I are going to go up and see him. Vladimir and I, I mean. Actually, this might turn out not to be a bad thing.”
“You don’t think so? Gangsters wanting a piece of Haig?”
“As far as I’m concerned everyone can cut him into lots of little pieces.”
“Be practical.”
“I’m trying. Right now, I think we should go ahead. Momentum’s on our side.”
“Sometimes they call that the slippery slope.”
“You want out?”
“Why do you guys keep asking me that? Anyway, you can’t do this without me.”
“We’d do something else.”
“See,” he sighed, “in every species on earth, it’s that carefully calculated who-needs-you attitude on the part of the female that keeps the male strutting, sticking his neck out trying to prove himself.”
“It’s not calculated. It’s instinctive. Are you still in?”
“Was there ever any real question?”
“And so the real reason I’m calling: Did you speak to Dr. Yang?”