“Hmm. I guess a partner can come in handy.”
“Come on,” I said, starting down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” He didn’t move.
“This bar,” I stated the obvious. “On West Street.”
“The Fraying Rope?”
“You know it?” I stopped. “Is it famous?”
“Among certain people. It’s a bogus waterfront dive in a new condo building down there. Cheap beer, plywood paneling, and a stuffed fish on the wall, but no danger of running into any actual longshoremen.”
“I think I hear a faint a note of disdain. You’re a fan of longshoremen?”
“I don’t know any. Neither does anyone at The Fraying Rope. A pretentious crowd that plays it safe, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Look at you, moralizing.”
Jack grinned. “Wow, I am, aren’t I? Sorry. They do make a good martini, I’ll give them that.”
Leaving aside the question of how many trips to The Fraying Rope his assessment of the crowd and the martini was based on, I asked something else. “How did you know that was where Jeff Dunbar said to meet?”
“The area’s changing but it hasn’t changed yet. Most of the West Street bars are the real thing, genuinely sleazy. Your man Dunbar doesn’t sound like the sleazy bar type.”
“No, you’re right, he’s more the new condo type. Not particularly pretentious, though. But plays it safe, definitely that.”
“Okay, you’re on,” Jack said. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“The subway’s four blocks east. When it gets us downtown The Fraying Rope will be four blocks west again. Your date is in fifteen minutes. Let’s take a cab.”
In order to maintain a harmonious working relationship I gave in. Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon for a cab ride down by the river, with the trees freshly green and the water sparkling. We left the cab a block north and Jack strode on ahead of me. By the time I pushed through the door of The Fraying Rope, he was already leaning over a martini, as relaxed as if he’d been hanging out here all his life and actually liked the place.
From what I could see, Jack had nailed it. Cheesy ersatz-nautical. Actually, ersatz-cheesy, too. Not just the stuffed fish, but the linoleum floor, the plaid lamps with ship’s wheels, and a variety of thick, looped, fraying ropes. The jukebox played Jimmy Buffett over a noise level loud but bearable. Glossy-haired blondes sipped pink drinks, and frat boys in suits or polo shirts swigged from beer bottles with lime slices in them. Chrome stools lined the bar, and cane chairs surrounded coffee tables. One of the stools was under Jack, and one of the chairs held Jeff Dunbar.
I spotted him right away, but lingered in the doorway as though I hadn’t to give Jack a chance to notice me. Jeff Dunbar waved, discreetly. I waved back and crossed the room to his table, though Jack had shown no sign he knew I was there.
“Mr. Dunbar,” I said as I sat. “How are you? Interesting place. Is it your local?”
“Friends brought me here, and I liked it.” Neatly sidestepping the question of whether he lived nearby. “I’m hoping you have good news for me.”
A waiter drifted over and I ordered cranberry juice. Dunbar was drinking one of those lime beers.
“I have news,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s good. For one thing, I thought you ought to know that someone else had the same idea you did.”
“What idea?”
“There’s another PI on the case.”
A pause. “Searching for the Chaus?”
“Yes.”
“For another collector?”
“No. For Kah Ching.” To his blank look, I said, “The Columbia professor?”
“Oh. Oh, right, of course.”
“He wants to debunk them. He thinks they’re phonies. I also thought you should know that someone took a shot at him.”
Dunbar’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth. “Took a— What are you talking about? At who? The professor?”
“At the other PI. Through his office window. Made a mess, but didn’t hit him.”
“Who? Who shot at him?”
“I don’t know. And a couple of other things I don’t know. For example: Who are you?”
“I—wait, what’s going on here?”
My cranberry juice arrived, perfectly timed. I steered the straw to my mouth, gave my client another moment to stew. “Jeff Dunbar’s not your name and you’re not a collector. There’s no such person as Jeff Dunbar. For your information there’s no Professor Kah Ching, either. There is another PI on the case, though, and if you knew anything about the art world you’d have hired him, not me. I don’t know what your real interest is, whether it’s the paintings, because they’re worth a fortune, or something else.” I sipped again, gave him just enough time to open
