Ghost Hero (11 page)

Of course, he might not be local.

Or his name might not be Samuel Wing.

I did a little more computer work, since I had the time. Precisely fifteen minutes after we’d hung up, here came the buzzer, and when I asked who was there, I heard, “Samuel Wing.” Between the panic button and the .22 in the small of my back, I felt I was ready. I buzzed him in and stuck my head out the door so he’d know where to head for.

“Ms. Chin?”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wing.” We’d spoken so far in English, so I kept it up. His accent told me it wasn’t his first language, but my bilingual phone message would have told him I speak Cantonese. I guessed we weren’t speaking that because he didn’t, and he wasn’t trying Mandarin because if I wasn’t fluent that might embarrass me.

Samuel Wing sat, pulling at his trouser knees in that way men have. He was thin, medium-height, fiftyish, gray hair, nice suit. Not a face I’d just seen on the block. Looking around, he said, “What an interesting office.” Actually, I have fairly standard, if battered, desk and filing cabinets, plus laptop, lamps, and Lucky Tiger Tofu Factory tear-off calendar. If you were an anthropologist from outer space this room might be interesting, but I wasn’t sure what Samuel Wing was getting at until, nodding with satisfaction, he said, “Very discreet.”

So it wasn’t the office, it was location, location, location. “I find my clients appreciate that. Can I offer you some tea?”

He seemed pleased to find this courtesy extended. Before I was old enough to walk I’d understood that no Chinese people could decently sit down together, for business, gossip, or companionable silence, without tea. Even Jack Lee, from the midwest suburbs, had felt inadequate when he’d realized he had no refreshments for guests. I’d been a little surprised not to have been offered anything by Dr. Yang, but maybe the rules were different for angry academics.

I scooped some oolong into a pot, poured water from the kettle, and while the tea steeped I brought out the Chinese-client cups: bamboo-painted porcelain with lids and no handles. They add a touch of elegance to my office. That I buy them by the dozen in the basement of Kam Man supermarket because I break them regularly was not Samuel Wing’s concern.

“How can I help you, Mr. Wing?”

“It is I, Ms. Chin, who can help you.”

I was perfectly willing to believe that and only slightly annoyed at his smug air, as though by turning the tables like that he’d made a clever pun.

“It’s come to my attention, Ms. Chin, that you have an interest in certain paintings.”

“I’m an art lover,” I said, swirling the tea in the pot. I poured for both of us.

He smiled. “Of course.” He lifted, sniffed, and tasted his tea, cradling the cup in one hand and shifting the lid aside with the other in a move my mother had made me practice my whole childhood. He sat in silence to permit the tea to occupy his thoughts and senses. “Quite good,” he said, as though he hadn’t expected that. Just because of the back-room-on-the-alley thing? Another sip, and then he replaced the lid and set the cup gently on the desk. “I’m speaking specifically, of course, about the paintings of Chau Chun. Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero.”

“Yes, I thought you might be. May I ask how my interest in Chau came to your attention?”

“No, I’m sorry, that must remain confidential. Nothing so dramatic as an electronic surveillance or anything of that nature, I assure you,” he said with a dry smile. “In any case, this is an interest that the people I represent would prefer did not go further.”

“Really?” I sipped and said, “I thought, Mr. Wing, you’d come here to help me.”

“I have. The people I represent are prepared to show their gratitude if you abandon your search for these paintings.”

“Are they? Who are these people?”

“I apologize, but that also must remain confidential. But they’re serious, I assure you.” He took a wallet from his jacket pocket, fat with crisp new bills. He fanned a few out: They were hundreds. “Whatever compensation you’ve received for your efforts thus far, my principals are prepared to exceed it. They believe ten thousand dollars is a fair recompense for the trouble you’ve taken.”

Well. Now there was an intriguing offer. I could hand Jeff Dunbar back his thou and kiss not just him good-bye, but also the slimy Doug Haig, the angry Dr. Yang, and whoever was making like Annie Oakley uptown. Ten large, that would buy a lot of coffee beans. Jack could go ahead and find the new Chaus by himself. And Bill wouldn’t have to date Shayna anymore.

“I’d be interested to know, Mr. Wing, why these people care so much.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Although you don’t expect that I’m prepared to tell you?”

“No. But you can appreciate that I’d have to know who, and why, before I could consider your generous offer.”

“Actually, no, I don’t see why that should be true. In this country, don’t they say ‘money talks’? Is this”—he lifted the cash—“not loud enough? I think, though I’m merely an agent acting on their behalf, I can confidently say my principals would be prepared to … raise the volume. An additional fifty percent, would that be acceptable?”

Part of me wanted to see how far I could push this. For one thing, how high Mr. Wing’s “principals” were willing to go would be the true gauge of their interest. For another, I didn’t know what the going price of integrity was these days.

But I’ve never been one to string a man along. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wing. I value your principals’ directness and their generosity. Please express my great regret at being forced to decline.”

Samuel Wing didn’t put his wallet away. “Ms. Chin, I’d urge you to reconsider.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. But you might be.”

“Excuse me?”

“Another expression they use in this country, I believe, is ‘the carrot and the stick.’ This”—raising the wallet—“is the carrot.”

“You’re telling me,” I said slowly, “that you also have a stick? Mr. Wing, are you threatening me? In my own office, while you’re drinking my tea?”

“No, of course not.” He smiled at the absurdity. “But I’d very much like to report to my principals a successful conclusion to this affair.”

“You can
report,
” I said, “that you delivered the message you were sent with. You can
report
that I considered the offer most generous and I was sorry I had to decline. And you can
report
that you got the hell out of here.”

I stood. He didn’t, immediately, but spoke looking up at me. “Ms. Chin, your loyalty to the client who’s already paid for it does you credit. As does your natural curiosity. However, I very much hope you’ll reflect on this conversation. When you do, you’ll come to understand where your true interests lie. You have my number. I expect to hear from you soon.” He tucked his wallet away, and stood. “Thank you for the tea. It was delicious. Good day.”

He pulled open my office door, strode into the hall and out onto Canal Street. Before the street door closed behind him, I saw him turn right. I counted to ten, not to calm myself down, but to give him a chance to get far enough that he wouldn’t notice me. Then I hit the street, too.

I ambled a block behind him for a while. At Hudson, he turned north. He didn’t look around and, intriguingly, he didn’t take out his cell phone. I hoped he’d take advantage of the spring weather to stroll back to wherever he was going, but three blocks later, he flagged a cab. I watched it roll up Hudson, then headed back to my office. I called Bill, got voice mail. Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt his tête-à-tête with Shayna. I left a message telling him to be careful and to call me when he came up for air. Then I called Jack.

“Lee.”

“Chin.”

“Hey.”

“Hey. Should I stick to one syllable, or can I use sentences?”

“Whatever flies your flag.”

“How’s your window?”

“Smaller than it used to be. Plywood and plastic. But at least it won’t rain in here before I get a real one. I put the Hasui back on the wall so I could contemplate the peaceable life I had before I met you. Is that why you called?”

“No. Is it bulletproof?”

“The Hasui?”

“The window.”

Pause. “I don’t think so. Does it need to be? I thought that act was over.”

“It never hurts to be prepared. I just had a visit from a gentleman calling himself Samuel Wing. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, but I get the feeling it’s about to.”

“I don’t know. He offered me a boatload of money to abandon this search.”

“Re-eally?” In a way I was beginning to recognize, Jack drew the word out. “How big a boat? The
QE2
? Or a kayak?”

“I’d say the Staten Island Ferry. He started at ten thousand, went to fifteen at the drop of a ‘no.’ He’d have kept going if I let him.”

“Well, that’s not chump change. What’s his angle?”

“According to him, he doesn’t have one, he’s working for ‘some people.’ His ‘principals,’ he said, would pay handsomely if I dropped the case. Then he suggested rather pointedly I’d be sorry if I didn’t.”

“Damn. Did he suggest specifically that he’d shoot your uptown partner?”

That tripped me up. It had taken years for me and Bill to start using the word “partner.”

“Um, no,” I said.

“That’s a relief.”

“It wasn’t clear exactly what would happen. Earthquakes, tornadoes. But Mr. Wing made himself suspicious to me in oh so many ways.”

“Tell me one.”

“He came here with a fat wallet stuffed with hundreds. I booted him out with it untouched but he didn’t call in to report to his principals.”

“How do you know?”

“I followed him, dummy.”

“Oh, of course you did. And you saw him not call?”

“For at least ten minutes. If they were so anxious to have me sign on that they sent him with cash, not just the promise of cash, wouldn’t they have been anxious to know my answer? Also, his language is Mandarin, he drinks tea like a mainlander—I gave him the lidded-cup test—but he knows enough about New York that he walked north of the tunnel before he tried to get a cab.”

“Which says he’s been here awhile.”

“Bill told me you were smart.”

“On the other hand, I’ve been here all my life and I don’t think I could pass the lidded-cup test.”

“Your mom didn’t make you practice?”

“Who were we going to impress in Madison?”

“I’ll teach you. So I’m thinking Mr. Wing’s from China, but he’s spent serious time in New York. Also, he didn’t threaten my mother.”

“Well, now, that
is
suspicious. What?”

“Think about it. A pro working for people who want to intimidate a Chinese woman, the first thing he’d do would be threaten my family. I don’t have kids, but a couple of my brothers do, and I have an aged mother. He didn’t mention any of them.”

Jack was silent for a few moments. “So he’s an amateur. Not actually an enforcer.”

“Exactly. I don’t think he’s used to threatening people and I don’t think he’s working for anyone. Except, possibly, for someone who’s also not used to threatening people.” I paused as a thought struck me. “At least, not with violence. Maybe with failing grades.”

“Wait. You think he’s working for Dr. Yang?”

“Is it crazy?”

“I think it is,” Jack said slowly.

“Not all that many people know I’m looking for the Chaus. And only one, as far as I know, is seriously upset about it. Samuel Wing had my cell phone number.”

“Which I didn’t give Dr. Yang. If that’s what you’re calling to ask.”

“I wasn’t. Honestly, I wasn’t. That only just occurred to me. I was calling to tell you to watch your back.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really really? Because I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t trust me.”

“Bill says you’re stand-up.”

“He said I was smart, too. Do you always believe him?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“What happens the other one percent?”

“I’m wrong.”

“Well, you’re wrong now. I’m the good guys. We have a deal. I didn’t have my fingers crossed or anything.”

My cheeks burned. Good thing we were on the phone. “Dr. Yang might have sent this guy without telling you. Just because I don’t trust your client doesn’t mean I don’t trust you.”

“Methinks you’re protesting too much, but I’ll take it. I’ll also take the warning at face value, and I appreciate it.”

“It really was why I called.”

After an awkward moment, Jack asked, “What did Bill say?”

“About Samuel Wing? I left him a message. He’s incommunicado, tied up with Shayna Dylan.”

“You think she’s into that?”

“Yuck!”

“Sorry. Listen, what I’m doing up here—and I’m telling you this because now that you think I’m offended you’re afraid to ask because it’ll sound like you’re checking up on me—is I’m trying to track any recent interest in Chau, see who the buyers and sellers have been, the last few years.”

“Oh. Thanks, and thanks.”

“Nothing interesting’s coming up, though. I’m ready to move on. If you’re not planning to spend the rest of the day with gangsters or at the pistol range or something, do you want to go over to Red Sky and see if we can find where the rumors came from that Jen Beril heard? They’re open until six, which believe me is plenty of time to see the current show.”

“You know, that’s a really good idea.”

“You don’t have to sound surprised. Red Sky, forty-five minutes?”

“In the same building as Baxter/Haig, right? Meet you outside.”

I’d been heading back along Canal while we talked, to my office. I had some time, so I clicked the computer on to try a couple of things.

First I checked my archived Samuel Wings. Two were in their twenties, and one was eighty-three, so I scrapped them. The fourth, in a stroke of luck, had won a bowling tournament on Long Island last year. His smiling puss was in a newspaper photo, and I’d never seen it before. So much for that. I moved on to my next bright idea.

New York City has devised all sorts of online and phone-related ways of making itself more user-friendly over the last few years. Some work and some don’t, but as a PI it’s my duty to keep up with them. I’d never used this one before and I was eager to try it.