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.”