“You guys use the same dialogue coach? Listen, there’s a problem. Haig’s gallery is the investment Mighty Casey Woo’s protecting from Vladimir Oblomov.”
“Woo’s the investor?”
“His boss. A Mr. Lau.”
“Damn. How do you know?”
“He’s there. Woo. He’s sticking to Doug Haig like a bad smell. It seems his boss is worried Haig will dispose of the Chaus without cutting him in, as soon as he finds them.”
“Haig? Double-dealing?”
“I know, it rocks your world. It didn’t make either of them happy when I announced I knew he’d already found them.”
“Either of them, Woo or his boss?”
“Either of them, Woo or Haig. His boss wasn’t there. Woo’s probably on the phone to him right now. Bill and I are going to go up and see him. Vladimir and I, I mean. Actually, this might turn out not to be a bad thing.”
“You don’t think so? Gangsters wanting a piece of Haig?”
“As far as I’m concerned everyone can cut him into lots of little pieces.”
“Be practical.”
“I’m trying. Right now, I think we should go ahead. Momentum’s on our side.”
“Sometimes they call that the slippery slope.”
“You want out?”
“Why do you guys keep asking me that? Anyway, you can’t do this without me.”
“We’d do something else.”
“See,” he sighed, “in every species on earth, it’s that carefully calculated who-needs-you attitude on the part of the female that keeps the male strutting, sticking his neck out trying to prove himself.”
“It’s not calculated. It’s instinctive. Are you still in?”
“Was there ever any real question?”
“And so the real reason I’m calling: Did you speak to Dr. Yang?”
“Which is the real reason I’m still in. After the trouble he gave me? Now that I’ve talked him into getting with the program, the rest of this is going to be like taking candy from a baby.”
“That usually results in a lot of deafening squalling.”
On that encouraging note, we hung up.
* * *
I smartphoned my way to the Tiger Holdings Web site and checked out Lau’s photo so I’d know him when I saw him. Then I called. By dropping “Baxter/Haig” a couple of times, I leapfrogged through levels of secretary to the secretary to the man himself. When I hung up Vladimir Oblomov and I had an as-soon-as-we-can-get-there appointment with Lionel Lau.
We got there soon, meeting at Lau’s midtown building so we could saunter in together.
“Does your mother know you dress like that?” Bill asked when he saw me.
“You mean, parading my well-rounded calves for all the world to see?”
“And your dimpled knees, and not inconsiderable amounts of thigh.”
“She thought I looked very nice. She just hoped I wasn’t meeting you. You should consider piercing your ear, by the way. A nice diamond stud would complement the rings and chains.”
“Uh-huh. In your dreams.”
On the twenty-ninth floor the elevator opened into a hushed lobby. Glass doors guarded by a pair of marble lions announced “Tiger Holdings” at the far side of a carpet no bigger than a town square or softer than a summer evening. Bill peered around in smiling, fellow-gangster approval at the gaudy gold dragons on crimson columns, the blue-painted vases big enough for assassins to hide in, and the young woman at the desk, whose scarlet lipstick accentuated her Ming-princess cheekbones and porcelain skin.
“Lydia Chin and Vladimir Oblomov for Lionel Lau,” I told her. She arched an eyebrow and spoke into an elegant 1930’s desk phone, listened, then pointed a fingernail at the door behind her. A moment later it opened and a familiar squarish Asian man beckoned us in. I smiled at him. “My, my. So nice to see you again. I’m sorry, at the bakery I didn’t catch your name.”
He didn’t offer it now, either, just scowled and stood waiting. He and Bill sized each other up with identical nice-to-meet-you-I-wouldn’t-try-it looks. I ignored the rising scent of testosterone and walked past them into a large room where a wall of windows spread Manhattan below me. Bill followed me in. The young man shut the door and stood beside it.
I smiled at the man who stood between us and the view: an older, sharp-nosed Asian gent who looked exactly like his Web site photo. He wore short graying hair and a fine navy suit my mother would have admired.
“Mr. Lau? Thank you for seeing us. I’m Lydia Chin. This is Vladimir Oblomov.”
Bill came forward and enthusiastically shook Lionel Lau’s hand. “Meester Lau! A real pleasure, dis is.”
Lionel Lau, face impassive, returned the handshake in a more restrained manner and gestured us to large leather chairs. As we sat, he asked in accent-free English, “May I offer you tea?” He might be shady, Mr. Lau, but he was Chinese.
Before I could answer, Bill said, “Yah, tenks, but you got real tea? I mean bleck, vit a sugar cube? Dis tea you people drink, she like it,” he thumbed at me, “but it don’t got no punch, you know vat I mean?”
The younger man darkened, and internally I questioned the wisdom of throwing around the word “punch,” but Lionel Lau just said, “Mr. Zu, will you see to it, please?” Young Mr. Zu stuck his head out the door and spoke briefly to the Ming princess.
Bill cheerfully shifted his chair so he could see both Lau and Zu. “Dis iss big honor, Mr. Lau. Vassily Imports got great respect for Tiger Holdinks. My boss tell me, ‘Oblomov, you verk hard, you lucky, someday you be like Lionel Lau.’”
“I appreciate the compliment,” Lionel Lau said, sitting behind his ornate desk. “In that case, however, I wonder why you—or your boss…” He waited, but Bill did nothing but grin, so Lau continued, “… would want to interfere with one of my business ventures.”
“You mean, det gellery. Vere Fetso has de Chaus.”
“I do.”
A knock sounded, and Zu opened the door to a young woman who brought a tea tray to the sideboard, bowed, and backed out. Zu lifted from it a smaller tray with a glass of tea in a silver-handled holder and a bowl of sugar cubes, and brought it to the coffee table near Bill. From the larger tray he poured green tea into tiny cups, brought one to Lau and one to me. There was no cup for Zu; he must not drink on duty.
I gave the tea my full attention, out of courtesy to our host. It was sharp, sweet, and uncomplicated. “Lovely,” I said. Bill was busy positioning a sugar cube between his teeth and noisily sucking his tea across it, so after a second sip, I spoke. “Mr. Lau, we appreciate your situation and we don’t mean to cause trouble for you.”
“No, sir!” Bill stored the sugar cube temporarily in his cheek. “Vassily Imports vant to be friends vit Tiger Holdinks. But problem vass, my boss, he vanted Chaus, too.” He shrugged. What can a working stiff do? He went back to his tea.
“The problem runs deeper than you might think,” I told Lau. “We came here to warn you that there’s about to be unavoidable trouble at Baxter/Haig.”
“Warn me? Are you making threats?”
“No, I’m sorry, that was a bad choice of words. Perhaps ‘alert you’ would have been better. This trouble, you see, is unavoidable because the forces involved are some with whom Vassily Imports will go some distance to remain in good standing.”
“Da,” Bill agreed. “Big shots, you know?” He winked at Lau.
“If keeping these relationships untroubled involves Vassily Imports stepping aside in certain situations, I’m sure you can see that that’s an investment well worth making,” I went on. “And worth urging others to make.”
“Ms. Chin—”
“Vat she sayink, Meester Lau—she beat across da bush all da time, I know—she sayink, vat’s about to go down at Baxter/Haig, pleeze, you and Meester Voo chust stay out uff it, okay?”
“Vlad, please,” I said. “Mr. Lau, we’re in a position to help some friends with an operation that matters a great deal to them, and we’d like to do it. To this end Mr. Oblomov’s employer has already abandoned his pursuit of the paintings. We do understand, however, that Tiger Holdings has a significant and legitimate investment in Baxter/Haig.”