art would go along with that, and I guess so would paying my retainer in cash—”
“How much, by the way? Unless it’s none of my business.”
“Since I’m paying you out of it, it can be your business. A grand against two days plus expenses. More after that, or we settle up if I find them sooner.”
“A trustful sort of fellow, handing over cash like that.”
I shrugged. It was a lot, but clients paying in cash are not all that rare. Many people like to avoid a paper trail leading to a PI.
“But the phone,” I said, “is a prepaid cell.”
“Ah. Now that’s damn dubious, I’d say.”
“And the suit didn’t scream ‘too rich to work’ either.”
“Shiny and threadbare?”
“No, no. Perfectly fine, but strictly off the rack. A good rack, but not super high-end. Remember, I’m a seamstress’s daughter.”
“You do your mother proud.”
“Leave my mother out of it. And frankly, if he were a Getty or something—not to display my lack of self-esteem but why is he coming to me? All the big guys have Asians on staff.”
“Because you’re better?”
“But how would he know that? Seriously, I’m thinking he’s just a working stiff, and his work has to do with China. He said he learned Chinese because he thought it would be useful. I bet he’s in import-export, or he’s American legal counsel for a Chinese firm, something like that. That’s probably where he heard about the paintings—at work. He’s using a phony name because he doesn’t want his bosses to know he’s on the hunt, and he came to me, not one of the big boys, out of the same instinct. He’s not the new collector on the block. He’s not on the block at all. He just wants to cash in on the Chaus.” I finished my tea and looked at Bill. It was a sensible theory and he nodded.
“Or,” I said.
“Or.” Bill didn’t stop nodding, but he waited for me to say it.
“Or he’s not looking for the paintings at all. He’s looking for the painter.”
Bill lit a cigarette and dropped the match in the ashtray I keep around for him. “So. Why?” He streamed out smoke. “Chau owes him money? Stole his girl?”
“Twenty years ago, when Chau was thirty-five and Dunbar was ten?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Dunbar. It was his daddy. A multigenerational family feud. Your people go in for that, don’t they? God knows mine do. Maybe this is the Hatfields and the McChaus.”
“Okay. But still. Chau’s well-known to be dead.”
“An obstacle, but not insurmountable. Maybe he’s been reincarnated. Another thing your people go in for.”
“You’re mocking my people.”
“In case you might forget who I am.”
“Fat chance.” We sat in silence for a few moments. Then I said, “Here’s what I propose: we take the case. But, whatever we find, we don’t tell the client until we know what’s really going on.”
“Or, you could tell the client to go climb a tree and branch off.”
“Are you kidding? May I remind you I haven’t worked in nearly a month? There was that fistful of cash, you remember.”
Bill didn’t respond to that. He and I have both sent clients packing, retainer or not, when they were up to something we wanted no part of.
I sighed and looked into my empty cup. “I realized something. While Dunbar was talking.”
“Which is?”
“The collecting thing … I don’t get it. I never have.”
“Okay.”
“But the hunting thing? Being the one to chase something down? Find it first, discover a secret? That I do get. I think,” I admitted slowly, “that’s why I’m in this business.”
Bill cocked his head and grinned. “That’s your big insight?”
“What do you mean?”
“If that’s news to you, you’re the last to hear it.”
I felt myself redden.
“No, come on,” Bill said. “You keep telling me I do this so I can be Sir Galahad, riding in and saving the town. Why can’t you have a less-than-pure motive, too?”
“I never said Sir Galahad. I said the Lone Ranger.”
“The effect is the same, and Sir Galahad doesn’t have to wear a mask.”
“No, just a tin suit. Anyway, my motives are pure and we’re taking the case.”
