Ghost Hero (12 page)

Three-one-one is the city’s information number. You can ask all sorts of questions and get all sorts of answers. Or you can do it online. Tap a few keys, for example, and you’re at the find-your-stuff page, which exists to hook you up with the bus, train, or taxi you left your stuff in. I went to “taxi,” filled in a form that asked for the medallion number, which I’d memorized from the top of Samuel Wing’s cab, and the time of day, plus a description of the stuff in question and a way to get in touch. It claimed it would automatically text the cabbie or his garage. I could only see this working under two conditions: the cabbie was conscientious and honest; or the searcher was offering a reward. I went the reward route, not describing my stuff but suggesting there’d be something in it for the cabbie if I found what I was looking for. Then I locked up the office and headed west again.

9

In the slanted sunlight I walked past cheap electronics stores, hawkers of bootleg purses and bogus perfumes, and immigrants at sidewalk tables waiting to paint your name in bright brushstrokes and surround it with carp or dragons. Or to fold long leaves of grass into curled pythons; or dollar bills—that you supplied—into butterflies. As I passed them, the painters and folders, I wondered about their lives back in China: whether they were landscape painters, calligraphers, weavers, what their work was like when it wasn’t butterflies and tourists’ names. Whether they kept up that work here, on their own, when their Canal Street day was done.

Another few blocks and the crowds thinned out. I’d considered walking up to Chelsea, but decided I’d hate it if Jack beat me to the gallery. The subway got me there in a flash. I took up a station in front of the gallery building to wait.

Actually, not directly in front, a few yards east. I’d glanced into Baxter/Haig and seen that Nick Greenbank was still guarding the gates. It wasn’t like it would blow my cover if he saw me; there was no reason that, in my role as an art consultant, I shouldn’t accompany yet another client to yet another gallery, even one that happened to be in his building. But I’d had a thought and I was working out its implications: Doug Haig, and little Nick himself, courtesy of Vladimir Oblomov, had my cell phone number.

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.