Ghost Hero (5 page)

“Of course not. She’s too dumb to know, why should I tell?”

“But your boss, he’s seen dem? Meester Bexter, or Meester Haig?”

“There’s no Baxter,” Nick said smugly. “Doug Haig bought him out years ago.”

Bill nodded. “And Haig has seen dese paintings?”

“On that girl’s phone, absolutely. But you mean, did he go out there, wherever the open studio was? How would I know? I certainly wouldn’t have gone. There’s no question these pictures are fakes.” With a curled lip, as though the artist had made a career blunder, he said, “Chau’s dead.”

“Dey could be real, chust old,” Bill suggested. “From da old days.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Condescending to connect the dots for the muscle-brained mobster, Nick explained, “If you happen to have a pile of vintage Chaus, and you’re some bridge-and-tunnel freak who wants to make it in the art world, you
sell
them. Get a studio in Manhattan. Where someone who matters might actually see your work. Trust me.”

“Vell, maybe you don’t sell dem iff you love dem?”

Nick looked at Bill as though he’d said the Easter Bunny was hopping through the door. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

Bill’s eyes flared. Nick shrank back. Then Bill relaxed. “Yess, of course,” he said soothingly. “You must be right. Terrible rotten fakes. But I vant to see dem anyvay, dah?” He looked at me, as though for confirmation, and then back to Nick before I could answer because what did he care what I thought, anyvay? “I appreciate your help, boychik. Now I tink ve go talk to Meester Haig. Dat vass him, in da beck, dat fetso?”

So Bill had noticed the round guy, also, his proprietary air and how he’d disappeared. Nick panicked. “Yes, that’s him, but you can’t tell him! You can’t tell him I told you! If he does care—if the paintings are real—”

“Den vat? He vouldn’t vant to sell dem to me, make fet commission?”

“He doesn’t have them.”

Bill stopped. “Oh? How do you know det?”

“He may be negotiating with the owner but if he had them I’d know, I’d have accessioned them.”

“Maybe dese paintinks are so important, da big boss accessioned dem himself?”

“No! He doesn’t know how to use the computer. He won’t learn. He thinks it’s beneath him.” Nick allowed himself a superior smirk. Then he remembered why we were talking about this. “But please, you can’t—”

“Oh, hush, hush. Vy so upset? Ve don’t say nothing. Ve say ve’re looking, not ve found. Don’t vorry, boychik.”

With that Bill turned and headed back. I threw Nick a commiserating look and hurried after.

“I think we’re supposed to wait until the guy in the front calls the guy in the back,” I whispered as we crossed the gallery.

“Oh, I promise you, he did,” Bill said.

He was right. Before we reached the rear office another emaciated assistant, this one a harried-looking young woman, came trotting around a wing wall. She established position in front of the opening and, though she looked like a mild breeze could blow her over, she didn’t move. Bill walked right up to her and grinned.

Nervously, she said, “Mr. Oblomov?”

“Dah, dat’s me.” Bill winked at her. “Leetle Neeky gafe you a ring?”

Her uneasy smile faltered but didn’t fail. “Mr. Greenbank said you wanted to talk to Mr. Haig. I’m sorry, Mr. Haig’s in a meeting. I can give you an appointment—no, stop! Wait, you can’t go in there!”

Bill had wrapped his hands around her arms and slid her aside. “Sure ve can, sveetie. Meester Haig, he can’t vait to see us.”

Bill, with me trotting behind, strode through the outer office—presumably, hers—and gave a perfunctory two knocks before throwing open the inner door. The portly man we’d seen in the gallery could be found now leaning over a table, or rather, leaning over a young Asian woman who was seated at the table. His thick hand rested on her shoulder, thumb gently rubbing the back of her neck. He wore black slacks and a dark blue band-collared shirt buttoned up to his double chins. His clothes fit him so well, despite his bulk, that they’d clearly been made for him. The young woman, in a demure long-sleeved dress, seemed to be trying mightily to click through photos on a laptop, not reacting to his touch or the closeness of his mountain of flesh. I caught a sheen of perspiration on her brow. Both their heads turned sharply when the door flew open, hers in hope, his in anger.

“Dammit, Caitlin!” he roared. “I said no interruptions!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Haig.” The assistant trembled. “He wouldn’t—I couldn’t—they didn’t—”

“No, I vouldn’t and she couldn’t and ve didn’t,” Bill agreed, striding forward, hand thrust out. “Vladimir Oblomov,” he beamed. “Heppy to meet you.”

Haig obviously didn’t share Bill’s delight. Staring at Bill, Haig said, “Caitlin, go. We’ll talk later.”

“I really am sorry, Mr. Haig. I—”

“Go!” He waved Caitlin off like a bad smell. She faded meekly out the door. After another few moments of eyeball-chicken with Bill, Haig took his hand off the young woman’s shoulder and growled, “You, too. Get out. This work is shit.”

She looked up at him, not comprehending. “But, Mister Haig.” Her English was heavily Mandarin-accented. “You say you interested.”

“In you, honey. Not in this crap you do. Last night was fun but the magic’s gone. Get lost.”

“But my paintings—”

“Won’t be shown at this gallery. Eco-humano-we-are-the-worldo? Are you serious? Unfortunately I think you are. Beat it.” The young woman sat openmouthed. “Your English doesn’t include ‘beat it’? ” He turned to me. “Tell her what it means.” Taken by surprise, I said nothing, barely managing to keep my own jaw from dropping. “What the hell’s the matter with you people? What is this, Chinese Don’t Talk Day? You, honey. Leave.”

Uncertainly, the young woman stood, her face ashen. “I come all way from China because you say—”

“I said I’d give you a shot. I did. It’s over. Leave and I’ll do something for you: I’ll forget your unpronounceable name. Hang around and argue, I’ll remember it and you’ll never show anywhere in New York, not even in the grade Z galleries that specialize in this shit. Never, honey. Ever.” A two-second pause. “Why are you still here?”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. Blinking fast, she gathered up her laptop and her handbag and made a stumbing exit. As she passed I could see tears glazing her eyes.

Haig surveyed us. He took obviously displeased note of Bill’s open shirt, his rings and chains. I used the time he spent staring at Bill to breathe, lower my blood pressure, and unclench the fist that wanted to punch his lights out. After he’d made his point, he turned his small, devouring eyes from Bill to me. I forced myself to stick my hand out. “Lydia Chin. I work with Mr. Oblomov when he’s in town.”

Haig’s smirk said he knew exactly what my work involved. While his damp, fleshy hand groped mine, Bill, uninvited, pulled a chair up to Haig’s worktable. After forever, Haig’s fingers opened and I found myself wondering how soon I could wash. Bill, blissfully uncaring, craned his neck to see the prints spread along the table. He picked one up to have a look. Though he held the purple-and-green extravaganza only at the outermost edges, Haig still snapped, “I’m sorry, I have to ask you not to touch that. If you want to see something I’ll be glad to show it to you.”

Bill’s eyes met Haig’s. Slowly he put the print down. “Forgiff me.” He gave a thin smile. “Sometimes I forget American rules.”

“Yes, well, no harm done.” Haig’s smile was as bogus as Bill’s. “So.” He seated himself at the table, too. “Now that you’ve invaded my office and ruined my meeting, who the hell are you and why shouldn’t I throw you out?”

“Leetle Neeky don’t tell you?” Bill spread his hands in surprise. “Vladimir Oblomov. I’m new collector.”

“How nice. So what?”

“Sorry about meetink, by da vay. Looked interestink.”

“Forget it. She’s pathetic, and so’s her work. You saved me a wasted afternoon. Which doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

“No,” Bill said, grinning. “But I’m looking for someting, maybe you hev it.”

“
If
I don’t throw you out, and if it’s a question of what’s in our inventory, Nick has the complete catalog and can sit you down with a PowerPoint presentation.”

Bill shook his head cheerfully. “Leetle Neek tells me he got no idea vat I’m talking about. Dah?” Bill looked at me and I nodded. “But I’m theenking, Meester Haig, he knows everytink about dese Chinese. Maybe he can tell me.”

Haig waited, and finally asked, “Tell you what?”

Bill’s smile split his face in two. “Tell me vether you got new paintinks by Chau Gvai Yink Shunk.”

It took Haig a few moments to figure out exactly what Bill had said, he’d managled the Chinese so badly. “Gwai Ying Shung? The Ghost Hero? New? What are you talking about? Chau’s been dead for twenty years.”

“So efferybody says. But I hear somebody has new paintinks.”

“You mean, just found?”

“No, Meester Haig, I mean chust painted. New.”

“That’s absurd.”

“So you don’t know nothink?”

“Of course not. Mr.—Oblomov?—if someone’s told you that, they’re joking. Or they’re trying to separate you from your money.”

“Taking edventage?” Bill seemed unable to comprehend the idea. “Of Vladimir Oblomov?”

“Almost certainly.” Haig gave Bill a patronizing smile. Then it faded, replaced by a contemplative look. He sat back, folding his hands and crossing his ankles. “If there
were
new Chaus,” he said, as if rolling this idea around in his mind for the first time, “of course that would have to mean that Chau was alive. I suppose that’s possible. In the sense that anything’s possible, I mean.” He frowned to himself, then asked, “Who did you say told you about these paintings?”

“I don’t remember.” Bill’s smiling apology was patently false. “Chust, I hear dis, and I tink, Vladimir, iff dere really are such tinks, you vant dem very much, don’t you?”

Haig nodded slowly. “Mr. Oblomov, wanting is one thing. Being in a position to have? That’s another.”

“Vat are you saying? You’re esking iff I hev money?” Bill pointed to himself with a be-ringed finger. “You Americans, alvays beating da bush. Meester Haig, my friend, I got
lots
uff money. Lots uff money, and lots uff friends vit lots uff money. Iff Chau got new paintinks, I vant dem. And I’m, vat you said, in a position to have dem. In fect,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice, “I’m not in no position not to have dem. If you see what I mean.”

I saw he meant nothing at all, but Doug Haig wasn’t so sure. Also, he’d heard the word “money” a number of times.

“Well,” Haig’s pudgy hand rubbed both his chins, “why don’t we do this? I’m intrigued. I’ll check around. Leave me your contact information, and if I come up with anything, I’ll give you a call.”

“Dah.” Bill nodded. “Dat sounds fine. You got pen?” Bill always carries pen and paper with him, but he waited patiently while Haig, after an irritated look, swiveled his chair to his desk and picked up a pen and one of his own business cards. Bill gave him my cell phone number, then stood to leave. “You find da Chaus,” he instructed Haig amiably, “den you call Brown Eyes here. Vould be a pleasure to do business vit you.”

In the crashing silence of Doug Haig not urging us to stay we strode through the office, trailed by Caitlin’s nervous gaze. As we were recrossing the gallery to Nick Greenbank’s desk, I heard Haig bellow, “Caitlin! Get in here!” At least the gentry weren’t allowed to behead serfs anymore.

Leetle Neek had his eyes glued on us from the moment we emerged from the inner sanctum, but when we got back to his desk I can’t say he greeted us like long-lost friends.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he asked, smug even before the answer. “He thinks they’re fake?”

“He says he never heard uff dem. But he says he’s goink to look.”

“But you didn’t say anything about me?”

I just shrugged, but Bill said benevolently, “No, boychik. Vat you tell me, eet’s our leetle secret. Dah?”

“Dah. I mean yes!”

“Good boychik. Now, vile your boss—charmink man—ees looking, ve’re going to see your leetle Shayna. Meanvile, if you suddenly theenk of something maybe I should know, you giff Brown Eyes a call, how about dat?” Bill reached over the counter, lifted a pen from a steel tube, peeled a Baxter/Haig business card from a steel box, and scribbled my number again. He tucked the card in Nick’s shirt pocket and patted him on the cheek. “Okay. Now chust tell me diss. Your little Shayna, ven ve get dere, iss she going to say she hass no idea vat dat cute guy from Baxter/Haig iss talking about? Or maybe, Shayna don’t even remember no cute guy from Baxter/Haig?”

“She’ll remember me,” Nick said savagely, already angry with Shayna for stabbing him in the back.

“I’m gled for you. But you’re not gonna remind her? You’re not thinking right now, maybe you’ll give dat cute Shayna a call? Because I’ll be very disappointed iff I get dere and Shayna suddenly vent home sick.”

Nick shook his head. “No, no.”

“And diss won’t be, vat do dey say in English, a vild bird chase? Vee get up dere, Shayna don’t got no photographs on her phone, and vee come back here and little boychik iss da vun vent home sick? Because…” Bill swept the room with his arm one more time.

“No,” said Nick. “It’s what I said. You ask her where that open studio was that Doug Haig got excited about. That’s who has the Chaus. But I’m telling you—”

“Fakes, yess, yess, thenk you, boychik. Now, you get back to verk, so Meester Haig, he don’t fire you, dah? Hah, fire you! Det’s pretty funny.” Bill socked me in the arm again, turned, and left. I hurried after him. Too bad Bill had told Nick to stay put. He looked bad enough to go home sick.

5

Bill and I stayed silent until we’d rounded the corner onto Ninth Avenue and put another block between us and Baxter/Haig. Then I exploded. “That sleazy, twisted, pervy horn-dog! Ugh ugh ugh. Creeparama! Can I burn his gallery down myself?”

“After we’re through.”

“That poor woman! Unbelievable! All the way from China and she had to put up with that! And your rings are hideous. Where did you get them?”

“Chinatown, where else?”

“And the accent? Did you get that in Chinatown, too?”