by S. J. Rozan
I got out of the subway on Canal and walked east toward Chinatown. My office is just west of Chinatown’s unofficial but longstanding border. Over here, the electronics retailers, leather-and-jeans discount places, and job lot stores on the ground floors have English signs. More and more now, though, even this far over, the upper-floor signs are in Chinese: doctors, of Western or Chinese medicine; lawyers, especially immigration experts; acupuncturists, architects, accountants. The sweatshops are expanding in this direction, also. You can tell which ones they are because the windows are soaped or grimed or stuck with translucent rice paper, so you can’t see in.
My office is a room and a bathroom I rent from a travel agency on Canal. I have no windows on the street, and my name’s not on the street door. Nobody who sees you come in here has to know that you didn’t step directly into Golden Adventure to find out whether there’s a boat to Shanghai, but instead continued down the hall to admit to Lydia Chin that you can’t solve your problems by yourself.
Chinese people hate to admit that.
But Genna had admitted it. And look where it had gotten her.
At the end of the hall I unlocked my office door and curled my lip at my piles of paperwork. A lot they cared. The red light on my phone machine was lit, so I rewound to hear my messages. There was a total of one, from Andrew. “How did it go this morning? Call me.”
Sure, Andrew.
Later.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face, as Bill had recommended. As I dried off and put on some moisturizer, I thought, So this is what a private eye looks like when she’s lost fifty thousand dollars of her client’s money.
The thought disgusted me. I went back to my desk.
The phone rang.
I yanked up the receiver and said, “Chin Investigative Services,” in English and then in Chinese.
It answered in English. “Lydia? It’s Genna. I wasn’t sure you’d be back there already.” Her voice was subdued, a little tentative.
“I’m here. Did they call?”
“No. Not yet. Can you come up here?”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s something I think I should tell you. Can you come now?”
And leave these piles of paperwork? “I’m on my way.”
Genna’s studio wasn’t far from Andrew’s loft, in an ex-industrial building in Chelsea, with huge windows, wood floors, and slow elevators. On the ride up I glumly considered what had occurred to me as soon as I’d put down the phone: Genna was probably going to fire me. Why not? She could have lost her fifty thousand dollars all by herself; it would have been cheaper. Who needs a brainless P.I. whose partner chases a distraction all the way up Fifth Avenue while she cowers behind a tree, missing the real action taking place at the trash can ten feet away? If I were Genna, I’d fire me.
The elevator stopped, and I got out to face my fate. Mandarin Plaid Studios had the right-hand front piece of a jigsaw puzzle of studios and offices carved out of the top floor. The door was glass; I could see into the bright, polished space while I waited for someone to answer my ring. Above the receptionist’s desk, at which no one sat, four discreet plaques told me about the awards Genna had won for her work. On one wall a long series of photos overlapped each other, taking you down a country road inch by inch. A huge round clock with no numbers and little stubby hands filled a lot of the opposite wall.
It was Genna herself who finally came to the door; no one else seemed to be around. “Thanks for coming up,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Brad—you know, my secretary, Andrew’s friend—and my assistant are out to lunch, and John’s down in Chinatown, at the factory. I’m the only one here.”
She smiled, a slightly nervous smile. Well, the decent Chinese thing to do would be to put her at ease by talking about something besides what we were here to talk about. I asked, “You have a factory producing your things already? Where John is now?”
“No, not yet,” she said. Her smile turned grateful; she understood what I was doing. “But if orders come in from the show, we have to be ready. When you’re new you don’t have any leeway to deliver late, or short the order. There’s a particular factory we want to use. Roland Lum, do you know him?”
I considered. “I think I knew his father. Roland took over that factory in the last year or so, when his father died?”
“That’s right.”
“All right, then I know who he is. He’s the oldest son, a few years older than me. He was a friend of my brother Elliot’s. I remember his father. Big spender, big reputation in Chinatown. He used to send baskets of sweets to his kids’ classes at school at Chinese New Year. The rest of us were jealous.”
“Well, the son’s in charge at the factory now,” Genna said. “He’d committed to working with us, but then he told me he’d gotten a big offer he couldn’t turn down, and he dropped us. He does high-quality work, though, so I want to get him back. John’s been trying to persuade him.”
“I’m surprised,” I said. “I’d have expected him to sell the factory. I thought he’d be a doctor or lawyer or something by now. Something professional and clean, not a factory owner.”
Genna and I both knew what we meant when we talked about “factories”: the smudged-window sweatshops where women—most of them new here, most of them illegal—work twelve-hour days in rooms that are hot in summer, cold in winter, where the whine and shriek of twenty, fifty, a hundred machines never stops.
My mother had been one of those sewing ladies all my life. I’d done my homework in the corner on piles of cotton scraps, while the machines whirred and the radio, almost inaudible, played high-pitched quavering Chinese music. I’d snipped threads on winter afternoons after school so my mother could put out more pieces because all the work was piecework. I’d played chasing games between the machines with Andrew until Willy Leng, the owner of my mother’s factory, caught us, yelled at us, and stuck us in his office to practice writing Chinese characters until my mother’s shift was over. Usually my brother Tim was already in Mr. Leng’s office, doing extra-credit homework.
“Well,” Genna said, “but that factory’s the family business. He’s the oldest son. I guess he had to.” She showed me into a small, sunny conference room up front. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Do you have tea?”
“Of course.”
I looked around as Genna went to get my tea. Thick-pencil sketches of skirts and shirts and dresses were pushpinned onto the walls next to photos of models. Fabric samples draped and pleated and spread over them. Buttons and braid and other sorts of things my mother calls “trimmings” were stuck everywhere. The combinations they made were startling. A crinkled gold fabric flowed over what looked like melting seashells; I guessed they were buttons. Five different heavily textured leather scraps were pinned to a lucious creamy white wool. Shiny black silk with a shimmering, disappearing pattern, like ripples in a pool on a moonlit night, was crisscrossed with metallic strips of silver, gold, and red.
“I wondered about your work,” I said to Genna when she returned.
“Many people do,” she said dryly.
“Oh.” I took the mug of tea. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“That’s okay. I wonder myself.” She was wearing a loose blazer in a thick, tweedy men’s fabric, a big-collared white shirt open at the neck, and a skirt of the same fabric as the jacket. The skirt was so short that the jacket was longer. The Suit according to Genna Jing.
“I work with whatever I’m interested in,” she said. “Mostly that seems to be things that set up expectations and then do something different. My work is really strange sometimes. I’m lucky I found people who want to back me. I wasn’t sure I would.”
“Well, I like it,” I said. “Though I don’t think I’d look good in it.”
“Of course you would.” Genna was emphatic. “To wear clothes like this all you have to do is look like you meant to. Attitude. You can do attitude, right?” She went on without waiting for
an answer, which I thought was a good thing. “This here, the gold?” she said. “It’s for an evening gown.” She pointed to the photo next to it, a head shot of a model with a cap of short pale hair and a you-can’t-touch-this, don’t-even-try expression. “Andi Shechter,” Genna told me. “She’s going to wear it in my show. Lots of attitude. But the color would be great on you, too. One shoulder bare. In fact,” she narrowed her eyes, looked at me as though she were seeing something new, “have you ever modeled?”
“Me? I’m only five-one. And my mother says I walk like a truck driver. Sometimes like a truck.”
“That could be fun. People should move in clothes. The models, when you see them in magazines—did you know they’re all safety-pinned and Scotch-taped together where you can’t see it? It’s totally fake. Then they stand still and don’t breathe. And then you go to the store and wonder why you don’t look like that in those clothes.”
I’d never wondered. “Actually, my mother makes most of my clothes. Or else she alters what I buy.”
“No kidding? Did she make this?” Genna inspected the lapel of my midnight-blue linen jacket. “She’s really good.”
“Her mother taught her to sew in China. And she’s been sewing in Chinatown for thirty years.”
We were both settled at the conference room table by now, where a spring breeze floated in the open windows, stirring the fabric samples. I felt a brief moment of embarrassed silence. Then we both spoke at the same time.
“Well—” said Genna.
“I’m—” I said.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me go first. I’m really sorry about what happened this morning. It’s inexcusable. Bill and I both should have been more awake. If you don’t want us on this case anymore, I’ll understand.” Only it’ll kill me, I thought, not to have a chance to fix things up and redeem myself.
Genna gave me a surprised look. “People shot at you. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It’s something I should have thought of and been ready for. That’s my job. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” said Genna. “Well, thank you. But I’m not firing you, if that’s what you think.”
“You’re not?” My heart soared. Sunshine poured into the room; a bird chirped outside the window. Okay, Lydia, I scolded myself. Get yourself under control. You have a client. Pay attention. “Then what’s this about?”
“I said on the phone, there’s something I want to tell you. I should have told you yesterday, but John thinks I’m being ridiculous. He talked me out of it, I guess. I thought it didn’t matter, because once I paid, it would be over. But now the police are involved, and it’s not over.”
“The police are involved in the shooting, but we didn’t tell them about you.”
“I know that. But they might find out. Anyway, maybe I am being ridiculous, but I’ll feel better if I tell you.”
“Well, then, tell me.”
Her elegant hand—French-tipped today—picked at a thread in her jacket sleeve. “It’s just that I think I know who’s doing this.”
“You do? You know?” Close your mouth, Lydia, don’t stare at the client. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday? Who?”
“Well, I don’t really know. John says it’s completely farfetched, and I thought, what’s the difference? Even if I’m right, I’d still have to pay. Actually, I don’t know why I’m telling you now. Except Andrew said—”
“Andrew.” I’d forgotten about my brother. No, more like repressed him. “Does Andrew know what happened this morning?”
“Yes, he called me, and I told him. Was that wrong? Did you want to tell him yourself? I’m sorry; I should have thought.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I waved away the question of who should be telling Andrew something I was sure he could live a long and happy life never knowing.
“Didn’t he call you? He said he was going to.”
“He did,” I said guiltily. “He left a message for me to call him, but I didn’t yet. I’ll bet he’s upset.”
“Upset?” Genna’s smile was wry. “He said something about locking you up until this case ends. He said when you get taken like this it makes you madder than a hornet and stubborner than a mule. He said you hate to lose.”
“Andrew always had a weakness for clichés,” I said in a superior way. “You can tell from the fifties furniture.” Secretly I was pleased. I didn’t think Andrew meant those things as compliments, but they sounded like compliments to me.
“He said you wouldn’t stop now until you found out what was going on, whether you had a client or not. He’s afraid you’ll get into trouble doing that. He said you had before.”
“What Andrew thinks of as trouble,” I said in a professional voice, “is just part of my job. It’s—”
“You like it, don’t you?”
“My job?”
“The trouble part.”
She was looking at me in a strange way. Worry and recognition were mixed in her eyes, and something that might have been pride; but I had the feeling none of those things was for me.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “I guess I do.”
“I thought so.” The strange look passed. She shook her head. “I don’t understand that, myself. I’m not big on risk.”
Involuntarily, my eyes went to the odd fabrics and outrageous sketches stuck on the walls. Genna’s glance followed mine. “That’s different,” she said.
“I’m not sure.”
Genna looked appraisingly from her work to me. “Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly. Then she sat up straight; suddenly she was all business. “Anyway, Andrew said you wouldn’t stop, no matter what. So I thought I could at least tell you what I was thinking.”
I waited silently for Genna to tell me what she was thinking.
“Do you know what a show producer is?” she asked.
“Like on Broadway?”
“No,” Genna said. “For a runway show. Sort of like on Broadway, but their role’s a little different. They’re consultants; you hire them to take care of everything but the clothes.”
“The music and the lighting, that sort of thing?”
“Yes, and also the shoes, and the accessories. And the makeup and the models. To pull it all together, to give your collection a ‘look.’ The way it works, the producer would study your work, then say we should use so-and-so and so-and-so, they’ll wear your things well. And we’ll put everyone in white patent leather army boots, we’ll use that with everything. Very pale on the makeup, with black-rimmed eyes for evening. Et cetera. You see?”
“I never knew that. I guess I thought the designer did it all.”
Genna smiled. “All I do is the clothes. Believe me, that’s enough. Of course, you want to work with a producer who understands you. Someone who’s in tune with what you’re doing. I thought I’d found someone like that about six months ago, a producer named Wayne Lewis.”
“You thought,” I said. “But you were wrong?”
“I’m not sure if I was when I called him. I’d known Wayne from other jobs I’d had in the industry, although I hadn’t seen him in close to a year. I remembered him as the kind of person who inspires confidence. He always had an answer to everything. He could come on strong, but I wanted a strong hand running things, especially this first time. So I called him.”
“But it didn’t work out?”
“No, it didn’t. He came on even stronger than I remembered, and short-tempered, which was new, although he was always a little impatient. He was unreliable, never on time for meetings. He had some really good ideas, I thought, about the collection and the show, but he was so difficult to deal with that it wasn’t worth it. I was actually relieved when he quit.”
“When was that?”
“About three months ago. I think I might have fired him if he hadn’t. But one day he called and said he couldn’t work with us anymore, sorry, good-bye.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you were that hard to work with.”
“I don’t think I am
. But John can be difficult. He wants things to happen fast, and then he wants the next thing to happen. He loves action, not planning and details.” She smiled softly. “I think it’s one source of the trouble between John and his mother.”
“They don’t get along?”
Genna’s silky hair swayed as she shook her head. “And I’m the other reason. That’s why this has all got me so upset, Lydia. John’s mother thinks I’m after his money. She wants me out of his life. She absolutely hates it that he works here. He’s what they call in the business the ‘outside man,’ you know? He deals with all the stuff, so I can concentrate on design. Anyway, I’m hoping if my line takes off and I have money of my own, maybe she’ll feel better about me.”
“Is he … is it a problem between you that his mother feels that way?”
“Oh, no. John cares less about it than I do. He says let’s just get married, and the hell with her. But I don’t want to do it that way. My mother-in-law. I’d like to get along with her if I can. Am I making sense?”
I smiled. “To me.”
She smiled also. “I thought so, and I’m glad. Andrew and I have talked about it, and he gets it, but John just doesn’t.”
“I think,” I said, trying to be cross-culturally understanding, “that where he comes from, ‘mother-in-law’ carries a different meaning.”
“I guess so,” she agreed. “But anyway, that’s not why I asked you to come up. I’m sorry. I really don’t like it when other people assume their personal problems are interesting to me, and here I am acting as though mine are interesting to you.”
“But they are,” I told her. “That’s why I’m in this business. Everything about everybody is interesting to me.”
“Really? I’m not sure if that makes you lucky or unlucky.”
“Me either. But the more I know about you the more likely I am to be able to help solve your problem.”
“Well, I don’t think knowing what my future mother-in-law thinks of me is going to be much help in getting my sketches back. But what I wanted to talk to you about was Wayne.”