Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “Racial violence was a fact of life in old Chinatown,” Nicole said. “Every once in a while tensions would flare out of control and curfews were imposed on anyone of Asian heritage. When bubonic plague broke out at the turn of the twentieth century, Chinatown was put under strict curfew. They may have needed the tunnels to move around after sunset.”

  “Or to get away from their wives,” Will teased.

  “They wished. Most of the men didn’t have wives. That was the whole point of bringing in girls for prostitution: the whites didn’t want the Chinese to marry, settle down, and start families, so they didn’t allow marriageable Asian women to enter the country. Then somebody started bringing in Chinese girls to work as house servants, claiming they were here under ‘three-year service contracts,’ though they were usually forced into prostitution or domestic slavery. The authorities looked the other way.”

  Will gave the lazy Susan a spin and said to me, “Try the chicken feet.”

  “She doesn’t want chicken feet,” Nicole objected. “Why would she want chicken feet?”

  “They’re good!”

  “Ignore him, Annie,” Nicole said. “Nobody’s feelings will be hurt if you don’t eat chicken feet.”

  One of my strengths as a social being was the ability to eat almost anything, so I tried the chicken feet.

  “What do you think?” Will asked, impressed.

  “They’re kind of...gelatinous. They’re okay, but keep slipping out of my chopsticks,” I said, dabbing at a spot on my silk blouse left by a swan-diving chicken’s foot. “I like the noodles better.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Nicole said, nudging her cousin.

  “Allow me to continue my fascinating historical lecture,” Will said. “A lot of the so-called ‘dens of iniquity’ that so intrigued non-Chinese were actually connected basements that were built to follow the contours of Chinatown’s steep hills. Tourists thought they were several floors beneath the surface when in reality they were in a cellar just below street level. Same thing with the speakeasies during Prohibition. The subterranean mystique was good for business. Customers loved the thrill.”

  “How about under Nob Hill?”

  “What about it?”

  “Are there tunnels under there, as well?”

  The cousins exchanged a look.

  “There are stories about that,” said Will. “Supposedly there used to be. But I don’t know if it’s ever been confirmed.”

  “Your Uncle Anton mentioned he’d found out something about that,” Nicole said. “He was going to ask the F-U for some grant money to restore the Cameron House mural and other decorative pieces we inherited over the years.”

  “He intended to ask the Fleming-Union for money?”

  “It seems only right considering their history. I’m not one to blame the living for the sins of the dead, but in this case some kind of reparations seem in order.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Domestic slavery. Worse, maybe. Donaldina Cameron was never able to make much progress with them; they had more pull than she did. It’s rumored the folks on ‘Snob Hill’ had their own tunnels connecting the homes of the wealthy so they could trade girls back and forth without anyone knowing. All the other mansions were destroyed in the earthquake, but the F-U kept the tradition alive.”

  * * *

  By the time we parted, the city lights were coming on, making San Francisco look like fairyland. Nicole and Will wished me luck in my search and I hiked the several city blocks, mostly uphill, back to my truck.

  What Nicole hinted at about the history of the Fleming-Union seemed to confirm my worst prejudices about all-male, exclusive refuges of the super-wealthy. Michael was right, that sort of milieu twists people. On the other hand, I reminded myself that I had a tendency to jump to conclusions. After all, a lot of organizations had shocking histories. And this in no way proved that anyone connected to the F-U had set out to harm Anton.

  My stomach lurched when I thought of my uncle. I kept half expecting a phone call from the hospital, saying Anton had awakened and told everyone what the heck’s been going on; either that, or a phone call saying he would never be able to speak to us again.

  The current situation was ironic, really. Had it not been for Anton’s being poisoned I might well be with Frank at this very moment, developing that love life Anton was so keen on.

  I needed a serious distraction.

  Surely the police would have cleared out of Anton’s studio by now?

  While riffling through the cab of my truck earlier, I noticed a respirator with a pack of fresh cartridges stashed behind the seat. I couldn’t tell whether it was rated for arsenic, but presuming Hazmat had done their job airing things out, it wouldn’t be an issue.

  The street outside of Anton’s place was quiet, with no police presence in sight. I slipped in through the gate and across the courtyard, then up the rickety stairs to Anton’s atelier built over a garage.

  At the top landing outside his door, I cut the police tape, used my old key to his studio, took a deep breath, pulled on my respirator, and started snooping.

  Like most artists, Anton was a messy guy. Still, despite the general jumble and the aftermath of the police investigation, the studio did not show signs of having been ransacked. So whoever attacked him had either found what they were looking for sitting out in the open, or they were simply trying to silence the old forger. Successfully, so far.

  I noticed that Hazmat had cleared out all toxic substances, which is saying a lot in a traditional artist’s studio. Turpentine, mineral spirits, linseed oil, and of course any arsenic green they might have found. Normally Anton’s shelves were crowded with dusty glass jars and bottles filled with enough toxic liquids and powders to rival nearby former Hunter’s Point Naval Shipyard as a Superfund site.

  In one dim corner stood a mannequin draped with an embroidered velvet cape and wearing a jaunty felt hat decorated with a large ostrich feather, à la the Three Musketeers. Mismatched bookcases, window ledges, table tops, and all other horizontal surfaces were cluttered with dirty wineglasses, half-empty cups of tea, cigar butts, wrinkled sketches, stacks of reference books, outlandish Mardi Gras masks, sea shells, goose feathers, flower pods, and teetering stacks of art supply catalogs hawking everything from gold gilt to terrazzo.

  It was much like my own studio, except that the balding Pole’s fondness for unfiltered Gitanes cigarettes made this place smell like a cheap French tavern on New Year’s Day. Still, for an art restorer that could be a plus. Just as it does with the human body, nicotine speeds the aging process of paintings. It is an old forger’s trick to tint new canvases an age-appropriate brownish-yellow by pumping cigarette smoke into sealed chambers.

  I spotted a stack of unframed canvases leaning against one wall and wandered over. Shoving aside an insipid nineteenth-century landscape, I flipped through the paintings, which ranged in style from French Rococo to American Expressionism. None was worth much. Anton had probably picked them up for a song at estate sales and flea markets with the idea of recycling the vintage linen canvases and the aged wood stretchers dotted with authentic wormholes. A forgery painted on top of one of these would be good enough to fool most art dealers and collectors, the majority of whom decide on a painting’s authenticity after a cursory inspection by the naked eye. More reliable testing methods, such as chemical paint composition analysis and spectrometer X rays of the underpainting, are expensive and are reserved for the most valuable works of art. A clever artist can make a good living, and avoid a prison sentence, by painting forgeries that sell for thousands of dollars instead of millions.

  But Anton had promised me he hadn’t been involved in anything nefarious lately. Supposedly he had gone straight.

  A man appeared in the doorway.

  I jumped and let out a scream, blessedly muffled by the respirator.

  Jarrah Preston. “Sorry ’bout that. Did I scare you?”

  I took off the mask. “Just a little jumpy, I gu
ess. Let’s talk outside.”

  We descended the wooden stairs and sat on a sad-looking concrete bench surrounded by a couple of tomato plants and straggly bushes that looked suspiciously like pot.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to your uncle,” Preston began. “I had no idea this Gauguin thing would stir up a viper’s nest.”

  “So you don’t think this was an accident?”

  He shook his head. “Do you?”

  I shook mine in response. “But we can’t be sure it has anything to do with the forgery, can we?”

  “It would be awfully coincidental, if not. I wonder if Elijah—”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He was the body we found in the bathtub at the Fleming-Union.”

  He looked stunned. “You’re saying both the man who painted the copy, and the one who brought in the forgery for sale, are dead?”

  “Anton’s still alive.” My voice shook slightly.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I meant to say that they were both assaulted.”

  “Hardly seems like an accident, does it?”

  He shook his head. “But why would they be harmed? What could they be hiding? What possible motivation?”

  “What made you stop by this morning, when you found Anton?”

  “He called and left me a message last night, saying he wanted to speak with me. I didn’t get the voicemail until this morning, and I came right over.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a long few minutes, both lost in thought.

  “Where to now?” Jarrah asked. I heard frank sympathy in his voice.

  I shrugged, at a complete loss.

  “It’s late,” he added. “A good night’s sleep works wonders.”

  “I’m not supposed to go home,” I thought aloud. Frank’s warning rang in my ears. He was probably overreacting...or maybe he had just said that in an attempt to seduce me. Nah. Frank was more upfront than that. Still, the thought of climbing three stories to a lonely apartment, the one that still carried the fragrance of saffron rice cooked by the little Pole currently lying prostrate in the San Francisco General ICU, was too much.

  Jarrah raised his eyebrows in question.

  “I had something of a run-in with Balthazar Odibajian earlier today.”

  “What kind of a run-in?”

  “I sort of broke into the Fleming-Union and...kind of accused him of being involved in what happened to Anton.”

  He gave a silent whistle. “I warned you Odibajian was a bit of a dag. But you really think he’s a physical threat?”

  “Probably not. But I promised someone I would lay low for a couple of days, let things cool off. Just in case.”

  “I’ve a suite at the Palace.”

  “What are you, visiting royalty?”

  He gave me a wicked grin. “Expense account.”

  “I want your job.”

  “Sure, it looks glamorous, but the reality is traveling first-class to fabulous places, meeting fascinating people, and in general living the high life. How much can one man take?”

  “Do you think Augusta Confederated would hire me to take your place, once I’ve served my time for killing you?”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “How about a bribe to let me live? I can offer dinner and an expensive bottle of wine, and you’re welcome to sleep over. There’s a pull-out sofa in the sitting room. Can’t imagine Odibajian would be able to track you down there.”

  “Really?”

  “It’ll be my first American slumber party.”

  “A real slumber party includes pillow fights.”

  “If you insist,” he said with a slight leer. “But only if we do it in our jammies.”

  I laughed. “I’m afraid at this point, I might fall asleep in the elevator on the way up.”

  “Then by all means, let’s get you to bed. And don’t worry, no funny stuff.”

  Jarrah was true to his word. We ordered up room service, watched an appalling amount of cable TV, sipped a lovely Cabernet Franc, and then he tucked me into the sleeper sofa with a brotherly wink.

  I really was going to have to visit New Zealand one of these days. Nice people.

  * * *

  Despite what my friends, enemies, and acquaintances seem to think of me, I haven’t spent all that much time walking on life’s wild side. I have never, for example, been in a street fight. I have never driven faster than eighty miles per hour, though in fairness this is because I’ve never had a vehicle that would go any faster. I don’t have a tattoo. I have never danced naked in public. And never have I set foot inside a pawnshop.

  Until today.

  The store was in Oakland, on Telegraph Avenue. It looked like a cross between a regular retail shop and a high-end thrift store. Electronics and musical instruments lined the walls and took up most of the floor space, but there were also glass cases packed with jewelry, watches and guns, silver tea services and similar wedding- and anniversary-themed knickknacks, and, most disturbingly, numerous children’s bicycles.

  The man behind the counter was huge, dressed in a black leather vest over a Harley-Davidson T-shirt that was meant to either disguise or highlight his substantial gut. Greasy brown hair hung in lank clumps around his sallow face, his nose was vaguely porcine, and his bloodshot brown eyes bugged out in an unfortunate manner. He was, in brief, precisely what one expected of the proprietor of a pawnshop.

  “Good morning,” I said, ignoring his baleful glare and holding out the article with the photo of the Odibajians. “Do you by any chance happen to know these guys?”

  He shrugged.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Vamoose, lady. I’m not good with faces.”

  “Did I mention Hipolit sent me?”

  His prominent eyes got even bigger. Now he looked like a praying mantis. “Prove it.”

  “Call him.”

  “Don’t have his number.”

  “I do.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and flipped it open. “I’ll be sure to mention you’re not being helpful.”

  He grunted, glanced at the photo, and shook his head. “Haven’t seen ’em.”

  “How about someone looking to sell a Gauguin?”

  “A Gauguin? Like a real one?”

  Either this particular pawnshop owner had taken a few art history classes, or he was a fence. I nodded.

  “Coupla guys came in, askin’ ’bout it a while back, two, three weeks ago.”

  “What kind of guys?”

  “Two-bit hoods, not my usual clientele, if you catch my drift. I don’t deal with that sort of thing much. Told ’em to get the provenance together and we’d talk. I’m no retard.”

  “Who were they? Where were they from?”

  “We weren’t formally introduced. Butler’s day off.”

  I bit down on my annoyance. “What did the men look like?”

  “One was kinda middle-aged, the other young, probably in his twenties. I told you, amateurs.”

  “White guys?”

  He nodded.

  “Hair color, height?”

  He shrugged, buggy eyes focusing on a pair of teenage boys who had entered the shop and were admiring an electric guitar. “Like I said, I don’t really know nothin’.”

  “Not even for Hippo?”

  “Not tall, not short. Look, they didn’t make an impression, okay? You want me to lie and say somethin’ else, just tell me what. I’ll do it. But I can’t tell you somethin’ I don’t know.”

  It was a weirdly honest response. “How about a bronze sculpture? A life-sized sculpture of a Greek god. Anybody try to sell that recently?”

  “That one? Sure. Those guys have tried to foist that thing off on every pawnshop from here to Sacramento. Coupla morons get drunk one night and snatch a—what? Five-hundred-pound? More?—big-ass sculpture off the street? How ya gonna move somethin’ like that? Ain’t no market for that sort of thing. Crazy-ass, shit-for-brains fuck-ups. Pardon my French.”

&nb
sp; “I think that’s actually their legal name.”

  “You know, for a stuck-up bitch, you’re all right.”

  “Thanks. Were those the same guys as the ones talking about the Gauguin?”

  “What?” His attention was again fixed on the boys playing around with the guitar. “Oh, no. Different guys. Look, lady, like I said, I don’t know nothin’. Okay? Hey, you two. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. Watch it with that—that guitar’s expensive....”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “Hey, any time. You be sure an’ tell Hippo I cooperated, will ya?”

  “Will do.”

  Seemed I now had a friend in the pawning business.

  12

  I walked into an “art” store today, and was confronted with hundreds of tubes of different oil colors! I simply must protest. First, an artist should mix his or her own paint. It is an act of devotion and love. Second, if you must buy “off the shelf,” consider the traditional palette: 1. Flake White 2. Yellow Ochre 3. Venetian Red 4. Charcoal Black. Finis. From these, you can mix a pale blue, an olive green, flesh tones, and a rich brown. From these alone, such artists as Rembrandt and Hals created masterpieces.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  As long as I was in Oakland, I decided to stop by the Piedmont Hills jobsite where my contractor friend, Norm Berger, was working. Norm had asked me to bid on the job last month, but the homeowner had low-balled it and I’d walked away. It was just as well; I never regretted losing those kinds of customers. Whenever a homeowner tries to save on remodeling costs by skimping on the subcontractors, it turns out badly.

  From half a block away the annoying whine of a compressor clued me in to the jobsite. As I approached I saw dust wafting through open windows, plastic sheeting tacked across door frames, and scaffolding climbing the side of the Italianate Revival home.

  “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Her Highness, the Princess of Paint,” Norm called out. With his dishwater blond hair, nicotine-stained teeth, and belly hanging over his dusty jeans, Norm could have been the pawnshop owner’s brother by a different father. Today’s T-shirt, tame by Norm standards, read REHAB IS FOR QUITTERS.