“All respectable?”
“Spotlessly.”
“My sympathies. Hey! Hey, I think Dunbar’s cab’s pulling over. Rajneesh, go around the corner and stop.”
“Where are you?”
“Second and Seventy-third. Save me a bowl of noodles. I’ll call you.”
He clicked off.
11
Bill was waiting when I got to New Chao Chow. Rich aromas of pork and fish circled around me. I greeted the chubby manager. “Hey, Tau.”
“Hey, Lydia. You bring appetite? Got good rice stick today. You eat two bowls?” We spoke in English because Tau’s dialect is Fujianese, as incomprehensible to a native Cantonese speaker as, say, Russian would be.
“I’m starved, Tau, so maybe.” There was no possible way I could eat two bowls of Tau’s soups, not rice stick fish soup, pork tendon stew, or anything else, but he was always hopeful.
I dropped into the chair opposite Bill and eyed him critically. “You look worn out. The charm thing takes it out of you, huh?”
“You kidding? I feel great. Like Maurice Chevalier in
“Am I glad I don’t get the reference?”
“Probably.” He took out his phone, handed it to me. “Somewhere in here are the photos.”
“You really should learn to do this,” I said, poking buttons. “Against the day when I’m not around.”
“Am I expecting that day?”
I looked up, thinking I’d heard an odd note in his voice. He seemed normal, though. Not even tired, actually; that had just been me giving him the regular hard time. “No.” A brief mutual pause, then I went back to his phone. A grumpy waiter came over and tried to hand us menus. Bill waved his away, ordered the beef stew noodle soup and a beer. I asked for fish cake rice stick soup and jasmine tea, but then grabbed one of the menus as the waiter turned to leave. “For Jack,” I told Bill.
“He’s joining us?”
“When his workday’s done.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still uptown, tailing Jeff Dunbar.”
“How did that come about?”
“Because he’s as smart as you said. I’d tell you but I can’t do two things at once and I want to see these famous photos. How did you get her to send them to you?”
“Shayna? I told her I was interested in moving into the Chinese-American area. That I was attracted by the hybridized, mongrel nature of it. I implied I was ready to spend money, but I wasn’t sure of myself in the field so I’d need an advisor, a specialist. Threw a bunch of art words around, then said I’d gotten the idea from Doug Haig, my drinking buddy, that Shayna Dylan was the person to ask about contemporary Chinese-American.”
“Her ego’s big enough that she bought that? A big-time dealer directing you to a temporary gallery assistant?”
“Without blinking. Like your client said, Chinese contemporary’s a small world. Haig has no interest in Chinese-American but he’d know who does. Why not throw some business her way? Doesn’t cost anything and now she owes him.”
“The idea of owing Doug Haig almost makes me feel bad for her.”
The waiter plunked down our beer and tea. “Shayna sipped her way through a cosmo and a half, explaining the difference between what the mainland Chinese are doing and what’s happening here. She’s not an airhead, you know.”
“Please don’t feel required to enumerate her good points. I bet you’re planning to put in for a reimbursement for the drinks.”
“Damn right I am. She mentioned one of the artists Linus had me buying. Just in passing, probably to prove we were on the same wavelength.”
“Did she say she’d Googled you?”
“Does anyone ever?”
“Say it or do it? Everyone does it, but mostly people don’t talk about it. She probably assumes you Googled her, too.”
“Really? Maybe I should have.”
“If only someone taught you how.”
He raised his beer in a toast. “She described the newest developments on the Chinese-American scene and offered to take me around looking. She even asked whether I thought you’d want to come.”
“Would I?”
“Not a chance. You only like tomb trash. Fusty stuff.”
“That explains why I hang out with you, no doubt.”
“She said she’d gotten that idea about you, but of course everyone has a right to their own taste. She said that with a lovely, tolerant smile.”
