Ghost Hero

to bring his own, but last week I’d bought a coffee press and a grinder and a pound of beans to store in the tiny freezer in my tiny fridge. Bill and I have had our ups and downs over the years; buying all this coffee-producing stuff was, for me, a big commitment.

“Excellent,” he pronounced.

“What a relief. So…” I leaned back in my creaky chair, cradling my jasmine tea, which was also excellent. “… what are we going to do about the late great Ghost Hero Chau and his new paintings?”

“Well, my first thought, you won’t be surprised to hear, is that they’re fakes.” He sipped his coffee and gave a happy sigh.

“I suggested that to the client. He agreed they could be.”

“If Chau’s dead, and the paintings are new, they sort of have to be,” Bill pointed out. “If they’re real and they’re new, Chau’s unlikely to be dead. Unless he painted them twenty years ago and they’re just turning up now, so they’re not really new. Or he’s dead and he just painted them, so he really is a ghost.”

“Dunbar says no.”

“No real ghost?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“It would be something different.”

“Sorry. No old paintings. Dunbar says the content refers to the problems of modern China. Internal migration, freedom of expression, corruption.”

“The content,” Bill said thoughtfully. “But it’s coded, isn’t it? He’s sure he’s reading it right?”

“Well, he’s not reading it at all, because he hasn’t seen them. Those are the rumors.”

“Rumors. Which the whole collecting world’s heard, but the dealers haven’t.”

“Dunbar thinks the dealers almost certainly have but won’t admit it until one of them’s got the paintings in his hot little hands.”

“Okay, so tell me this: Why is Dunbar coming to an investigator instead of an art expert?”

“And an investigator with no clue about art. There, I just had to say it before you did. But it’s not about whether the paintings are real or fake. It’s about finding them. Which he thinks I can do because I’m Chinese. He thinks I can boldly go where no muscle-bound barbarian has gone before.”

“Undercover in the teahouses and rice paddies of your people. Eavesdropping behind crimson columns. Parting the stalks in a bamboo grove.”

“I actually think that’s what he means.”

“Well, good for him. How much does he say these paintings are worth?”

“Chaus from the eighties sell for three to six hundred thousand. And if these are real and new, meaning Chau’s still alive, they could set off a feeding frenzy.”

“Ah. Now chasing something that may not exist starts to make sense. Though I think your client’s being a little cute about his motivation.”

“By which you mean?…”

“The thrill of the hunt, being the new kid in town, wanting the big boys to take him seriously. All that.”

“You think it’s baloney?”

“I think it’s worse than that, but if I use those words I might not get more coffee.” He held out his mug. “You said there was something off about him.”

“Well, there was. I remember the art majors from college. The studio majors were on their own planet, of course, but even the dorkiest history-and-crit major was hipper than this guy.”

“People change. Maybe he swerved to the right after he graduated.”

“Then why is he collecting cutting-edge art?”

“Now he has a little money and he’s loosening up again?”

“What are you saying? You think I’m wrong about something being off?”

“You’re never wrong about that. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Oh, good, in case I might forget who you are. So what do we think he’s up to?”

Bill considered briefly. “Well, one possibility: it’s exactly what he said. He’s looking to make an end run around everyone else and snap these paintings up. But—”

“But you think it’s about money, not the pure love of art.”

“That didn’t cross your mind?”

“Actually, it more than crossed it. It lodged there.” I drank some more of my excellent tea. “In our entire conversation, he didn’t once say anything about wanting to see the paintings. Wondering what they were like. How they might be different from the older ones, better or worse. What a thrill it would be if Ghost Hero Chau really were alive, and still painting.”

“So. He may be a collector, but he’s not a lover. He’s gambling they’re real and he wants to corner the market. You’re shaking your head. Why?”

“I don’t think he’s a collector, either. I ran a background. No Jeff Dunbars his age in any of the databases. He gave me a business card with no business on it, only his name and phone number. Not even an e-mail. Now, that could mean he’s rich enough not to work, rich enough he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is. Collecting