me, and a phone number. So I called it.
“Ah, Ms. Chin, good to hear from you. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”
“Can I know what this is about, Mr. Wing?”
“Certain paintings. I don’t want to say anything more over the phone, but I’m fairly sure you’ll be interested.”
Unless the guy was going to try to sell me a hot Picasso, I was fairly sure he was right.
“I’ll be happy to come to your office,” he said. “Canal Street near Broadway, is that correct?”
He’d done his homework, the well-spoken Mr. Wing. “Yes. six-nine-three Canal, buzzer number two.”
“Fifteen minutes? Is that convenient?”
For me, very. For him, that either meant his base was downtown—office or home—or he was already in Chinatown, hanging at the noodle shop or the tea house, waiting for me to stroll by. I checked the faces of the noodle-eaters and tea-drinkers on my way up the block, so if one of them appeared in my office attached to Samuel Wing I’d know I’d been, if not quite ambushed, at least waited for a little hard.
I pushed through the street door at 693, checked my mailbox, and waved to the ladies at Golden Adventure Travel. This is really their space, this whole ground floor, and their name is on the door. I’m their subtenant and buzzer number two has no name on it at all. That way, if anyone should chance to see a client of mine come in here, he can always claim he was looking into a package tour to the casinos of Macao.
In the office I put on the kettle and closed the barred airshaft window. Mr. Wing might not enjoy the Hong Kong back alley atmosphere: Beijing opera CD’s; crying babies; spring onions and pork stir-frying in sesame oil. I switched the computer on and checked the phone. Interesting: no calls. My landline message gives my cell phone number, which is where I’d assumed Samuel Wing had gotten it. Evidently I’d been wrong. Putting that away for further thought, I speed-dialed Golden Adventure.
Andi Gee answered. “Hi, Lydia! What’s up?”
“I have a guy coming in I don’t know. Can I check the panic button?”
“Sure. Hey, girls, Lydia’s checking the panic button. Don’t panic!” I pressed my foot down on the button Bill wired under the desk the last time I had a little trouble in here. I’ve never used it, but I like to check it occasionally to make sure it works. A loud buzz sounded down the hall and also in my ear, where Andi said, “Works great! You get problem, you press, we come save you!”
“No, you don’t! You call the police.”
“Yeah, yeah. Who this guy? He dangerous?”
“I doubt it. Just a precaution.” Because, I didn’t tell her, someone already got shot at today.
I turned to the computer and searched the local databases for a Samuel Wing. I came up with four, none of them jumping out at me as possibly connected to this case. I archived them anyway, to recheck after I’d met him.
Of course, he might not be local.
Or his name might not be Samuel Wing.
I did a little more computer work, since I had the time. Precisely fifteen minutes after we’d hung up, here came the buzzer, and when I asked who was there, I heard, “Samuel Wing.” Between the panic button and the .22 in the small of my back, I felt I was ready. I buzzed him in and stuck my head out the door so he’d know where to head for.
“Ms. Chin?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wing.” We’d spoken so far in English, so I kept it up. His accent told me it wasn’t his first language, but my bilingual phone message would have told him I speak Cantonese. I guessed we weren’t speaking that because he didn’t, and he wasn’t trying Mandarin because if I wasn’t fluent that might embarrass me.
Samuel Wing sat, pulling at his trouser knees in that way men have. He was thin, medium-height, fiftyish, gray hair, nice suit. Not a face I’d just seen on the block. Looking around, he said, “What an interesting office.” Actually, I have fairly standard, if battered, desk and filing cabinets, plus laptop, lamps, and Lucky Tiger Tofu Factory tear-off calendar. If you were an anthropologist from outer space this room might be interesting, but I wasn’t sure what Samuel Wing was getting at until, nodding with satisfaction, he said, “Very discreet.”
So it wasn’t the office, it was location, location, location. “I find my clients appreciate that. Can I offer you some tea?”
He seemed pleased to find this courtesy extended. Before I was old enough to walk I’d understood that no Chinese people could decently sit down together, for business, gossip, or companionable silence, without tea. Even Jack Lee, from the midwest suburbs, had felt inadequate when he’d realized he had no refreshments for guests. I’d been a little surprised not to have been offered anything by Dr. Yang, but maybe the rules were different for angry academics.
I scooped some oolong into a pot, poured water from the kettle, and while the tea steeped I brought out the Chinese-client cups: bamboo-painted porcelain with lids and no handles. They add a touch of elegance to my office. That I buy them by the dozen in the basement of Kam Man supermarket because I break them regularly was not Samuel Wing’s concern.
“How can I help you, Mr. Wing?”
“It is I, Ms. Chin, who can help you.”
I was perfectly willing to believe that and only slightly annoyed at his smug air, as though by turning the tables like that he’d made a clever pun.
“It’s come to my attention, Ms. Chin, that you have an interest in certain paintings.”
“I’m an art lover,” I said, swirling the tea in the pot. I poured for both of us.
