“Eddie, it’s Lydia,” I interrupted. “About five-nine, skinny, receding gray hair?”
“No. Smaller, chubby, bald.”
I glanced at the guys. “Okay, go on.”
“He’s been here before, has Mr. Jin, in his position as culture vulture. I’ve also seen him at receptions and such, once or twice in the company of a fellow like you’re describing, if that helps.”
“That other fellow, do you know his name?”
“No. Frank’s fluent in four dialects of the mother tongue, plus Japanese, so he gets the eastern hemisphere VIPs. I get the French and all those stodgy Germans, plus the occasional Argentine, olé. But Frank’s not here today, so Mr. Jin was all mine. I thought it would interest Jack and Co. to know he was after Chau Chun.”
“Chau himself? He said that?”
“No, I’m sorry, the paintings. The rumored ones you and Jack were up here asking about yesterday.”
“Eddie, this is Bill. What did he say, exactly?”
“Hi, Bill. Exactly, he said he’d heard someone was trying to pass off forged Chaus as real and was that a circumstance we here at Red Sky were familiar with?”
“It sounds almost like an accusation,” I said.
“From the PRC Cultural Attaché, it’s always an accusation. Understand, the role of Cultural Attaché is rarely played by anyone cultured. Mr. Jin’s the third in that job since Frank and I opened this gallery. It’s a reward position they give to party-liners who can be trusted out of the country and might enjoy a little capitalist R & R. Just like Ninotchka. There are other people at the Consulate whose job is to actually know things, but knowledge can be dangerous, so they have the Cultural Attaché to keep an eye on those people and to look after the government’s and the Party’s interests. At least that’s what Frank always says, while I’m filling him full of martinis after an afternoon at the Consulate trying to get visas for our artists.”
“So this Mr. Jin, he thought you had the Chaus?”
“I doubt it. It’s a reflex with him, to make threats.”
“Did he make a specific threat?”
“Why waste the opportunity? He told me regretfully that ‘a lot of Chinese artists might have to be protected from the corruption of the Western art markets’—which means they’d have trouble getting visas—‘if forged paintings falsely attributed to a discredited bourgeois counterrevolutionary were exhibited in New York in a blatant attempt by calculating capitalists to embarrass the People’s Republic.’ Which, by the way, is a direct quote. I liked it so much I wrote it down as soon as he left, so Frank could hear it.”
“It sounds to me like he does think you know something about the paintings.”
“No, he’s probably going to all the galleries where they might turn up, to see if he can learn anything and to make sure everyone’s disinclined to get involved with them if they do. Except to call him. That, it seems, would put him in our debt. So? How’d I do? Now you know the Chinese Consulate cares, too. Is that important news? Can I be Deep Throat?”
“Eddie, you’re the very epiglottis,” Jack said. He didn’t mention we already knew the Chinese Consulate, or at least someone up there, was interested in this case. “Thanks. Stand by and keep your ear to the ground. Report in if you hear anything else.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bond. Over and out.”
The phone went silent and we all three looked at each other. “Well,” said Jack.
“No kidding,” I answered.
“What now?” Bill asked.
I thought. “We have to go see Dr. Yang, but before that, I have to get back to Chinatown to meet with my client. Maybe after that, we should consider dropping in at the Chinese Consulate.”
“Right up in their faces?” Jack asked.
“Maybe. First things first.”
We gathered up our garbage and our cell phones and headed for the car. Bill unlocked it, said, “Saddle up!” and we were back on the road.
We’d reached the Manhattan Bridge and were admiring the view when Jack’s phone rang once more. He checked it. “A 718 number I don’t know. Maybe it’s your cousin. Jack Lee,” he told the phone. “Yes, hi, Linus, good to meet you.… I know. You ready?… Well, but it doesn’t have to be good Chinese.… No, not even … Great. Here’s what we need. Go to my Web site…” The conversation got art-technical from there, Jack directing Linus to a few places online, listening to Linus’s questions and suggestions, responding with his own. By the time we’d reached Bill’s parking lot they were done. “He thanks you for your faith in him,” Jack said to me, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Was he being sarcastic?”
“No, just nineteen.”
18
We’d debated whether the guys should be in on my confab with my client.
“I’ve never even seen the guy,” Bill said.
“I have, but I bet he couldn’t tell me from Daniel Dae Kim,” Jack said.
“A common mistake, no doubt.”
“It’s the broad shoulders and smoldering brow. Still, it could be useful. Him not knowing what we look like.”
“You could hide in the closet,” I suggested.
“Both of us?” Jack said. “I think it would have to be the bathroom.”
“What if her client has to pee?” Bill asked.
So we decided to come clean with Dunbar/Jerrold, in the hopes that he’d come clean with us.
Bill stuck his head in at Golden Adventure as we passed and was rewarded with the usual waves and smiles.
“Guess you don’t need panic button today, Lydia!” Andi Gee called.
“No, I’m good,” I agreed, unlocking my door.
“I don’t get it,” Bill complained as he followed me in. “They all like me. Why doesn’t your mother?”
“You flirt with them.”
“I could flirt with your mother,” he offered. The idea did not merit a reply.
“I’m going to hear about you, too,” I told Jack. “You know our dinner last night was all over the Chinatown telegraph? The aunties think you’re cute.”
Jack gave Bill a smug grin.
Bill, in response, went to my desk drawer and retrieved his ashtray. He’d just lit up when the doorbell buzzed. I buzzed back, and we waited.
Dennis Jerrold, aka Jeff Dunbar, pushed my door open but stopped with his hand on the knob when he saw Jack and Bill.
“Come in, Mr. Jerrold.”
“Who’re they?” He showed no sign of recognizing either of them, which I guessed spoke well of Jack’s lurking-and-tailing talents.
“Colleagues,” I said. “Bill Smith, Jack Lee. Guys, this is Dennis Jerrold, who likes to be called Jeff Dunbar.”
“What are they doing here?” Jerrold/Dunbar ignored the introduction.
“Working the same case.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you there was another investigator with another client. Bill’s my partner; Jack’s the other investigator.” This time the smug smile went from Bill to Jack.
“Who’s the other client?”
“I didn’t tell you before and I’m not going to tell you now. But I do have other things to tell you. And some to ask you.”
“I don’t want them here.”
“I don’t care. The three of us are working on this together. I’m following through on what I’ve found no matter what you think about it and don’t start with the stuff about your dime. I offered you your money back and you said no. Unless you’ve changed your mind, come in and sit down, Mr. Jerrold.”
So much for the whole Jeff Dunbar thing. Another hesitating moment, and Dennis Jerrold shut the door and sat. Jack was in the other chair; Bill, of course, was standing, though there’s not much to be seen through my pebbled alley window.