“No! All right, listen, I don’t know who’s got them—”
Bill sighed and shook his head.
“No, really. But I know who knows.”
“Oh?” Bill smiled. “Now vee get someplace.” He leaned on the counter again and placidly waited.
“This girl,” said Nick. “She’s at some gallery uptown, I don’t remember. Wait, Gruber, I think that’s it. Anyway I have her number.” He was thumbing a BlackBerry as he spoke. “I met her at an afterparty, some opening. She was trying to impress me.” He said that as though that was the usual reaction to meeting Nick Greenbank at an afterparty. “She tried to show me work from some studio visit. Bunch of Chinese-American artists, a group open studio. Like I’d care.”
“You vouldn’t? Vy not?”
“Hybridized,” Nick scoffed. “Mongrel work, no real grounding in place. We don’t handle Chinese-American shit, just real Chinese.”
Bill had better wrap this up fast, I found myself thinking, or I might have to shove my Chinese-American fist down Nick Greenbank’s throat.
“Here, Shayna Dylan, that’s her.” Nick turned the phone so Bill could see the screen. Bill entered Shayna Dylan’s number into his own phone. Nick, meanwhile, had managed to reinflate his punctured superiority. “She’s an airhead. Yadda-yadda about this shit, and then she drops that my boss saw her photos, too, and got all excited, wanted to know where the open studio was. So then I said, okay, whatever, and looked at what she was trying to show me. Of course I knew right away what he was hot for. Not the crap she was photographing. There were three Chaus, hanging on the wall behind.”
“You could tell dey were dat? From a tiny picture on a leetle phone?”
“Chinese contemporary is what I do. It’s the hottest area around.” When Bill still looked skeptical, Nick added defensively, “Chau Gwai Ying Shung had a very distinctive style. Unmistakable, if you know what you’re looking at.”
“And boychik knows?”
Nick made a comically insincere attempt at a modest shrug.
Bill winked. “Did you tell da pretty girl? Vat she hed pictures of?”
“Of course not. She’s too dumb to know, why should I tell?”
“But your boss, he’s seen dem? Meester Bexter, or Meester Haig?”
“There’s no Baxter,” Nick said smugly. “Doug Haig bought him out years ago.”
Bill nodded. “And Haig has seen dese paintings?”
“On that girl’s phone, absolutely. But you mean, did he go out there, wherever the open studio was? How would I know? I certainly wouldn’t have gone. There’s no question these pictures are fakes.” With a curled lip, as though the artist had made a career blunder, he said, “Chau’s dead.”
“Dey could be real, chust old,” Bill suggested. “From da old days.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Condescending to connect the dots for the muscle-brained mobster, Nick explained, “If you happen to have a pile of vintage Chaus, and you’re some bridge-and-tunnel freak who wants to make it in the art world, you sell them. Get a studio in Manhattan. Where someone who matters might actually see your work. Trust me.”
“Vell, maybe you don’t sell dem iff you love dem?”
Nick looked at Bill as though he’d said the Easter Bunny was hopping through the door. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Bill’s eyes flared. Nick shrank back. Then Bill relaxed. “Yess, of course,” he said soothingly. “You must be right. Terrible rotten fakes. But I vant to see dem anyvay, dah?” He looked at me, as though for confirmation, and then back to Nick before I could answer because what did he care what I thought, anyvay? “I appreciate your help, boychik. Now I tink ve go talk to Meester Haig. Dat vass him, in da beck, dat fetso?”
So Bill had noticed the round guy, also, his proprietary air and how he’d disappeared. Nick panicked. “Yes, that’s him, but you can’t tell him! You can’t tell him I told you! If he does care—if the paintings are real—”
“Den vat? He vouldn’t vant to sell dem to me, make fet commission?”
“He doesn’t have them.”
Bill stopped. “Oh? How do you know det?”
“He may be negotiating with the owner but if he had them I’d know, I’d have accessioned them.”
“Maybe dese paintinks are so important, da big boss accessioned dem himself?”
“No! He doesn’t know how to use the computer. He won’t learn. He thinks it’s beneath him.” Nick allowed himself a superior smirk. Then he remembered why we were talking about this. “But please, you can’t—”
“Oh, hush, hush. Vy so upset? Ve don’t say nothing. Ve say ve’re looking, not ve found. Don’t vorry, boychik.”
With that Bill turned and headed back. I threw Nick a commiserating look and hurried after.
“I think we’re supposed to wait until the guy in the front calls the guy in the back,” I whispered as we crossed the gallery.
“Oh, I promise you, he did,” Bill said.
He was right. Before we reached the rear office another emaciated assistant, this one a harried-looking young woman, came trotting around a wing wall. She established position in front of the opening and, though she looked like a mild breeze could blow her over, she didn’t move. Bill walked right up to her and grinned.
Nervously, she said, “Mr. Oblomov?”
“Dah, dat’s me.” Bill winked at her. “Leetle Neeky gafe you a ring?”
Her uneasy smile faltered but didn’t fail. “Mr. Greenbank said you wanted to talk to Mr. Haig. I’m sorry, Mr. Haig’s in a meeting. I can give you an appointment—no, stop! Wait, you can’t go in there!”
Bill had wrapped his hands around her arms and slid her aside. “Sure ve can, sveetie. Meester Haig, he can’t vait to see us.”
Bill, with me trotting behind, strode through the outer office—presumably, hers—and gave a perfunctory two knocks before throwing open the inner door. The portly man we’d seen in the gallery could be found now leaning over a table, or rather, leaning over a young Asian woman who was seated at the table. His thick hand rested on her shoulder, thumb gently rubbing the back of her neck. He wore black slacks and a dark blue band-collared shirt buttoned up to his double chins. His clothes fit him so well, despite his bulk, that they’d clearly been made for him. The young woman, in a demure long-sleeved dress, seemed to be trying mightily to click through photos on a laptop, not reacting to his touch or the closeness of his mountain of flesh. I caught a sheen of perspiration on her brow. Both their heads turned sharply when the door flew open, hers in hope, his in anger.
“Dammit, Caitlin!” he roared. “I said no interruptions!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Haig.” The assistant trembled. “He wouldn’t—I couldn’t—they didn’t—”
“No, I vouldn’t and she couldn’t and ve didn’t,” Bill agreed, striding forward, hand thrust out. “Vladimir Oblomov,” he beamed. “Heppy to meet you.”
Haig obviously didn’t share Bill’s delight. Staring at Bill, Haig said, “Caitlin, go. We’ll talk later.”
“I really am sorry, Mr. Haig. I—”
“Go!” He waved Caitlin off like a bad smell. She faded meekly out the door. After another few moments of eyeball-chicken with Bill, Haig took his hand off the young woman’s shoulder and growled, “You, too. Get out. This work is shit.”
She looked up at him, not comprehending. “But, Mister Haig.” Her English was heavily Mandarin-accented. “You say you interested.”
“In you, honey. Not in this crap you do. Last night was fun but the magic’s gone. Get lost.”
“But my paintings—”
“Won’t be shown at this gallery. Eco-humano-we-are-the-worldo? Are you serious? Unfortunately I think you are. Beat it.” The young woman sat openmouthed. “Your English doesn’t include ‘beat it’? ” He turned to me. “Tell her what it means.” Taken by surprise, I said nothing, barely managing to keep my own jaw from dropping. “What the hell’s the matter with you people? What is this, Chinese Don’t Talk Day? You, honey. Leave.”