“The soup? Or us?”
“Sorry, but I’m hungry. The soup.” He slid onto a chair and studied the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Anything in a bowl. Tell me who my client is.”
“Hmm,” he said. “What’s wrong with that sentence? Eight treasure soup with bean curd,” he said to the waiter. “And a Tsingtao.” He peered at Bill. “You don’t look any the worse for wear. Have fun?”
“Are you kidding? It was exhausting. Sitting in a hushed bar over a Booker’s, watching a beautiful woman sip a pink drink?”
“Your dedication is noted,” I said. “Jack?”
“Hey, come on. Didn’t you say something on the phone about knowing where the Chaus are? Isn’t that why I came all the way to Chinatown?”
“You came for noodles, don’t lie to me. And we know where they were. Which we’ll share, after you share.”
“Seriously? You’re going to hold out until I tell?”
“I wouldn’t, but you’re obviously bursting to tell.”
“How well you know me. Must be the long acquaintance.” Grinning, Jack sat back and stretched his long legs under the table. “Dennis Jerrold.”
“That’s his real name? He just reversed his initials? That shows a singular lack of imagination. Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is, and that’s not necessarily his real name. It’s the name he lives under.”
“Talmudic,” I said. “And you know that how?”
“Is this where we start exchanging trade secrets?” The waiter clanked Jack’s beer onto the tabletop. After a long pull on the bottle, he said, “I left my cab around the corner and saw him go into one of those white brick apartment buildings on Second.”
“And someone’s going to tell me how you came to be tailing him in the first place, right?” Bill stuck in.
“Maybe,” I said. “Go on.”
“I gave him a minute and then went to the doorman. ‘Guy just come in,’ I said. ‘Just at my lestalant. Reave his cledit cald.’”
“You didn’t. The Chinese waiter scam? With that accent?”
“Works every time. ‘You mean Mr. Jerrold?’ ‘No, Mistah Dunbal. Medium guy, glay suit, brue tie. Just come in.’ ‘The man in the gray suit who just came in, that was Mr. Jerrold.’ ‘Oh. You shoe?’ Big glare. ‘Oh, so solly. Must be mistaken. Good-bye, got to find Mistah Dunbal.’”
“That’s really, really awful,” I said.
“Reary,” Bill agreed.
Jack drank more beer. “We do what we have to. Some suffer with blondes in dim bars, some use politically incorrect accents. I checked whitepages.com on my way here, found his first name. Haven’t gotten any further than that yet.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “That’s what cousins are for.” I took out my phone and hit the speed-dial number.
“Wong Security.”
“Linus, hi. Thanks for that stuff before. It seems to have worked.”
“Awesome! Bill got the girl?”
“He got the info, which is what we were after. Listen, I know it’s late—you up for another job?”
“He needs to be somebody else now?”
“No, this would be totally different, and easier.”
“We’re thinking of going to a club at, like, nine, can I do it before that?”
“I think you can do it in five minutes. A guy named Dennis Jerrold, lives on Second Avenue.” I relayed the address Jack gave me. “Who he is, what he does—I want to know whatever you can find by whenever you have to leave.”
“Easy peasy, call you later.”
“Wait! I just thought of something. Have to put you on hold.”
“’K.”
I did, checked my outgoing call record, and thumbed him back in. “Can you trace a phone number?”
“Is that a trick question?”
I gave him Samuel Wing’s cell.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
As I clicked off, Jack’s soup arrived. “Umm.” He sniffed. “Smells as good as my mother’s.”
“Your mother’s from Fujian?”
“My mother’s from Chicago. She takes a lot of cooking classes. Makes a hell of a pile of potato latkes, too. Now, your turn.”
Bill reached for his phone so I could show Jack the Chaus. Before he got it out of his pocket, though, my own phone rang. An unfamiliar number, so I answered in both languages.
“Hello, this is R. T. Singh calling.” The voice spoke English with the lilt of India. “You have said you lost an object in my taxi this afternoon?”
Samuel Wing’s cabbie! I’d just about forgotten. “Yes, Mr. Singh, thank you for calling. Yes, I think I might have lost something. Though it wasn’t an object.”
“I don’t understand, I am sorry.”
“It was my husband.”
Cautiously, he said, “Please?” while the men at my table exchanged surprised looks.
“Mr. Singh, you picked up a Chinese man at four on Hudson Street. He’s thin, with gray hair. He was wearing a gray suit? That’s my husband. I’m afraid—” I let my voice catch, then went on. “I’m afraid he was going to see … He was on his way … Mr. Singh, I think he has a mistress!”
“Oh. Oh, my. I—” said R. T. Singh. Bill and Jack were grinning, so I turned to the wall. Unfortunately, it was a mirror. They were inescapable.
“All I want, Mr. Singh, is to know where he was going. I’ll pay you for that. It’s just, not knowing, do you understand? It’s driving me crazy!” As were Jack’s and Bill’s merry stares.
“Now I see,” R. T. Singh said slowly. “Because when I received the e-mail, I said to myself, you did not have a woman passenger this afternoon at the time the alert is telling you, I think so. But Mrs. Chin—”
“Please, call me Lydia.”
“Mrs. Chin, I do not like to be indiscreet.”
“Of course not. And I wouldn’t ask you. But I have to know! Maybe I’m wrong. That’s what I’m hoping, you see. That I have it all wrong and we can laugh about it later. But I look at the children—our youngest looks just like him—and I start to cry. Please? I’ll send you a reward, I really will. I just have to know! Where did he go?”
After a short pause, he said, “Please. No reward. I prefer not to become involved in affairs such as these. I will tell you where I took the gentleman and after that I will delete your telephone number. If mine has appeared in your telephone record I ask that you delete it, also.”
“I promise! Can you check now?”
“There is nothing I need check. I remember because I was saying a prayer, that he does not want to turn about and go downtown. To get stuck in the Holland Tunnel traffic, you see, that was my worry. Luck was by my side, however. The address the gentleman requested allowed us to take the West Side Highway not south, but north. The Lincoln Tunnel can of course be a problem at that hour, also, but the tie-up was not bad, and we reached his destination soon after passing through that jam.”
To a woodpecker, the world’s a tree. To a cabbie, it’s all about the traffic. “Yes,” I said, with impressive self-control. “His destination, which was where?”
“Right at the next exit beyond the tunnel. Twelfth Avenue, at the foot of Forty-second Street. I left him on the south side, as that was where I turned. But he crossed to the north side while I drove away.”
I was temporarily speechless. “Did he go into the building there? On the northeast corner?”
“I believe he did. I am sorry, Mrs. Chin, if this is what you feared.”
“I—no, Mr. Singh, I’m better off knowing. Are you sure I can’t send you something to show my gratitude?”
“No, as I say, I don’t want to become involved, I think so. I hope for you everything works out well.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically. “I hope the same for you.”
I clicked off and stared at the guys. They exchanged glances. “What’s up?” Bill said. “You look a little stunned. What was that about?”
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “Remember I told you someone came to my office and threatened me?”