them.”
“The artists, though? You’d think they would. He’s part of their cultural heritage.”
“Maybe not. They’re young. Chau may have been a hero around Tiananmen, but that was more than twenty years ago. Especially if he worked in traditional media with traditional subjects—”
“—politicized, though—”
“—doesn’t matter. I bet he’s been pretty much forgotten. You know,” he said, winding noodles onto his chopsticks, “that group studio and that show, they sound right up Jack’s alley. Even if he didn’t go, I’ll bet he heard about it.”
“We can ask him when he gets here.”
“Ask him what? Because he’s here,” said Jack, his shadow falling over the fluorescent-lit table. “Wow. I’ll have one of each.”
“The soup? Or us?”
“Sorry, but I’m hungry. The soup.” He slid onto a chair and studied the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Anything in a bowl. Tell me who my client is.”
“Hmm,” he said. “What’s wrong with that sentence? Eight treasure soup with bean curd,” he said to the waiter. “And a Tsingtao.” He peered at Bill. “You don’t look any the worse for wear. Have fun?”
“Are you kidding? It was exhausting. Sitting in a hushed bar over a Booker’s, watching a beautiful woman sip a pink drink?”
“Your dedication is noted,” I said. “Jack?”
“Hey, come on. Didn’t you say something on the phone about knowing where the Chaus are? Isn’t that why I came all the way to Chinatown?”
“You came for noodles, don’t lie to me. And we know where they
“Seriously? You’re going to hold out until I tell?”
“I wouldn’t, but you’re obviously bursting to tell.”
“How well you know me. Must be the long acquaintance.” Grinning, Jack sat back and stretched his long legs under the table. “Dennis Jerrold.”
“That’s his real name? He just reversed his initials? That shows a singular lack of imagination. Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is, and that’s not necessarily his real name. It’s the name he lives under.”
“Talmudic,” I said. “And you know that how?”
“Is this where we start exchanging trade secrets?” The waiter clanked Jack’s beer onto the tabletop. After a long pull on the bottle, he said, “I left my cab around the corner and saw him go into one of those white brick apartment buildings on Second.”
“And someone’s going to tell me how you came to be tailing him in the first place, right?” Bill stuck in.
“Maybe,” I said. “Go on.”
“I gave him a minute and then went to the doorman. ‘Guy just come in,’ I said. ‘Just at my lestalant. Reave his cledit cald.’”
“You didn’t. The Chinese waiter scam? With that accent?”
“Works every time. ‘You mean Mr. Jerrold?’ ‘No, Mistah Dunbal. Medium guy, glay suit, brue tie. Just come in.’ ‘The man in the gray suit who just came in, that was Mr. Jerrold.’ ‘Oh. You shoe?’ Big glare. ‘Oh, so solly. Must be mistaken. Good-bye, got to find Mistah Dunbal.’”
“That’s really, really awful,” I said.
“Reary,” Bill agreed.
Jack drank more beer. “We do what we have to. Some suffer with blondes in dim bars, some use politically incorrect accents. I checked whitepages.com on my way here, found his first name. Haven’t gotten any further than that yet.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “That’s what cousins are for.” I took out my phone and hit the speed-dial number.
“Wong Security.”
“Linus, hi. Thanks for that stuff before. It seems to have worked.”
“Awesome! Bill got the girl?”
“He got the info, which is what we were after. Listen, I know it’s late—you up for another job?”
“He needs to be somebody else now?”
“No, this would be totally different, and easier.”
“We’re thinking of going to a club at, like, nine, can I do it before that?”
“I think you can do it in five minutes. A guy named Dennis Jerrold, lives on Second Avenue.” I relayed the address Jack gave me. “Who he is, what he does—I want to know whatever you can find by whenever you have to leave.”
“Easy peasy, call you later.”
