Ghost Hero - Страница 5

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“Ling Wan-ju? ‘Sparkling doll?’”

“More like the buzz-saw blades,” Bill put in.

Jack stuck out his hand to me. “Lee Yat-sen.”

We shook hands a second time. Maybe it was from his coffee mug, but now his grip seemed not just strong, but warm. “Named after Sun Yat-sen?”

“My mother’s a great admirer. What about you?” Jack asked Bill.

“Charlie Chan Smith. Your Professor Yang, what’s his interest?”

“Moral outrage.” Jack leaned forward, bony elbows sticking out. “Yang also taught at the Beijing Art Institute, back in the day. He wasn’t involved in the democracy movement—cautious kind of guy—but of course he knew Chau. They were friends, and he admired Chau’s work. He thinks these new paintings are fakes and all the mystery’s just a way to build them up.”

“For what purpose?”

“For some forger and some dealer to make a lot of money.”

“And that makes him so indignant he’s willing to pay an investigator to expose them? Before they’re even on the market?”

“They may never come on the market. Lots of art is traded privately. Yang says Chau died for his beliefs and he shouldn’t be resurrected to fill someone’s pockets.”

“So Yang’s doing what, salving his conscience for not marching shoulder to shoulder with Chau back then?” Bill asked. “He doesn’t have a horse in the race?”

“That’s the implication.”

“Okay.” I looked up from my spice tea. “The reason my client gave for hiring me sounded fishy and I told you what we think his real one is. Yours sounds fishy, too.”

Jack nodded. “It does.”

“And?”

“My completely theoretical, backed-up-by-nothing hypothesis?”

“You have another one?”

“No.”

“Then that one.”

“I think he’s got a closetful of Chaus from the Art Institute days. They’d lose value if there’s been a miracle, the guy’s alive, these new ones turn out to be real and more keep coming.”

I thought about that. “Is he a collector?”

“No. He has some nice pieces in his office, probably a few more at home. But he’s an academic. He advises collectors, but he can’t afford to collect in a major way. What that means, though, is that if he does have a stash of Chaus, they’re probably his whole retirement fund.”

“So if these new ones are frauds, he’ll want to expose them. If they’re real, he’ll want to know fast, so he can unload what he has.”

Bill said, “Then why not say that? Protecting his investment by exposing frauds wouldn’t be illegal, or even immoral. He might even be doing someone else a favor. Like Lydia’s client.”

“Who is who, by the way?” Jack asked. “I did show you mine.”

I raised an eyebrow but played it straight. “Jeff Dunbar. Freelance rich guy. Sez him.”

“You don’t think so?”

“He’s invisible in the databases. His cell phone’s a prepaid. And he doesn’t look all that rich.”

“Hmm. So what’s up?”

“I think being found sniffing out these paintings would get him in trouble with someone, and he doesn’t trust his PI’s discretion.”

“I hate that in a client. And I have another question. Don’t take this wrong, because I know you’re kick-ass and all. But why didn’t he come to me?”

“Nice guy, your friend,” I said to Bill. “Too bad he’s so insecure.”

“You say he chose you because you’re Chinese. I’m Chinese and I specialize in art—Chinese art, even. Any collector in this area looking for a PI, my name would pop up like the answer in a Magic 8-Ball.”

“But,” Bill said, “anyone not in the art world searching online for a Chinese PI would have nothing to go on but a Chinese name.”

“Which Chin looks like, and Lee, not necessarily.”

“Plus,” I said, “it comes earlier in the alphabet.”

“She’s very competitive,” Jack said to Bill. “Is she insecure?”

With great dignity I ignored that. “So Jeff Dunbar’s likely not a player in the art world. We’d figured that out, thank you very much. Still, he could know the value of these paintings and be hoping to make a quick buck.”

“Why not just tell you that? Why the song and dance?”

“Good question.”

“But you didn’t ask?”

“Not yet.”

“Because?…”

“The whole situation intrigues me. If he knew I hadn’t bought his lies he’d drop me and find someone else. That would be no fun.”

Jack’s gaze rested on me, level and appraising. He broke into a big grin. “You’re right,” he said to Bill. “Kick-ass.”

“Hey, listen,” I said. “Your client’s not so straightforward, either. If all he’s doing is protecting his investment, why did he give you a story?”

Jack looked surprised. “Face,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Come on, he knew the guy. Chau died standing up to the tanks, Yang’s making a cushy living in the capitalist heartland. Sounds better to tell me he’s offended at the crass attempt to cash in on Chau’s rep than to admit he doesn’t want his nest egg to take a hit.”

“A very Chinese motive,” I admitted. “So. Interesting situation.”

“Generally, or specifically?”

“Both. Specifically: I wonder what your client will do if we find the paintings, and it turns out they’re real?”

“Be unhappy. Just like yours will be, if it turns out they’re fakes.”

* * *

We shook hands in the cool spring sun outside the café, wished one another luck, and headed off in opposite directions.

“Nice guy,” I said to Bill. “We’ll clobber him.”

“One of your best qualities,” Bill said. “Your cooperative spirit.”

“I cooperate. I share.”

“You didn’t share our other theory. That Dunbar’s not looking for the paintings at all, just the painter. And you didn’t tell Jack we have a lead on that gallery assistant.”

“You’re his friend, and you didn’t either.”

“I’m your partner. Your case, your choice.”

That was how we worked: The one who brought the case in took the lead. It had been that way since back when we weren’t partners, just PI’s who called each other in from time to time. But not really, I suddenly realized. From the start we’d discussed, argued, poked holes in each other’s theories and plans. We operated from a two-person consensus, not a hierarchy.

“If it were your case,” I asked, “would you have told him that stuff?”

Bill grinned. “Probably not.”

On the next corner I took out my phone and called Baxter/Haig, the gallery where our lead worked. I spoke to an ennui-filled young woman, then clicked off and told Bill, “On the late shift today. In at noon.”

Bill checked his watch. “Okay, then, I have an idea.” He told me about it, I liked it, and we both headed off to fulfill our parts. I went to the Met’s Asian art galleries to inspect classical ink paintings, for an idea of what these new Chaus, real or fake, might look like.

Bill went home to shave.

The half hour I spent drifting through the museum’s quiet rooms mostly just reminded me how ignorant I was. I read exhibit labels and bought a book that talked about brushstroke angle and ink saturation. It also discussed the concept of veiled commentary, just enough to confuse me. I looked at the paintings with it in mind, but I had trouble following how plum blossoms that were borderless gray wash instead of opaque white with black outlines expressed the sympathy of Buddhist monks for exiled officials.

What did intrigue me, though, were the poems. Because this was familiar stuff.

Chinese classical paintings often have poems on them, either the poem that inspired the painting, or one inspired by it. Sometimes the poem’s by the painter, sometimes by someone else. I knew that, but I’d never spent much time with the poems. Now I tried reading them as political commentary, too. The ones in the exhibit were mostly short couplets—“Crickets and ants are on the Great Road,” that sort of thing. After a few, it hit me: All the old men of my childhood talked like this. Even today, if I drop in at Grandfather Gao’s herb shop, we’ll sit over tea and he’ll come out with something like, “A swirling feather cannot come to rest until the wind dies down,” or “Beating the grass for game may stir the sleeping snake.” Half the time I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the other half, it turns out he’s saying something I really need to listen to.

I leaned in to study the poems. The crickets and ants, those must be the riffraff you encounter everywhere, even on the Great Road. The wild goose whose call, unanswered, echoes outside the poet’s hut is his yearning for his hometown, far away. The poems made me feel considerably less dim than the paintings did. I was reading one about centipedes and spiders that ended, “Pity the ones caught in the world’s web/Those with poison are not lenient with each other,” when a voice in my ear whispered, “Don’t turn around. There’s a ghost behind you.”

“No, it’s only you,” I said to Bill, whose reflection I’d seen in the glass as he was sneaking up on me. “It’s just that, spiffed up like that, you look so unreal.”

“You’re adorably ephemeral, too. Shall we go?”

A bus, a subway, and a little walking—together faster than a midday cab—put us in the heart of the Chelsea gallery district. This part of lower midtown, way over west, is where the art dealers fled after SoHo went all upmarket.

Baxter/Haig occupied prime real estate, the ground floor of a renovated warehouse on West Twenty-fifth. We pulled open glass doors and strolled into a high-ceilinged space hung with huge, vivid canvases. The paintings all offered clichéd—or, I suppose, iconic, depending on your point of view—images of China. Tiered pagodas, terraced rice fields, moon-gated gardens, the slithering Great Wall. Busy folks swarmed everywhere, numerous as insects. Another icon/cliché: the vast industrious Chinese masses. Only when I looked closely I saw these weren’t people. They were American cartoon characters. Mickey Mouse, in his white gloves, harvested rice. Donald Duck, along with Daisy, Huey, Dewey, Louie, and an army of shirted and pantsless waterbirds, strolled the Wall. Yosemite Sam inspected the terra-cotta warriors. Outside the Temple of Heaven the Simpsons posed for a family photograph.