“Not all that nice.” I tried to play it tough, but it was hard to keep from smiling at the white bandage on his forehead. Nice work, Jack. “I trust you feel all right.”
“Feel great, thank you.” He pulled out a chair and deposited himself in it. Not far from Jack, a squarish young guy looked up from a Chinese-language newspaper and looked down again quickly. So we were both cheating: Casey had a second here, too. Not suprising. I hoped Jack had noticed. I thought he might have, because, still reading his paper, he shifted in his seat to where both our table and the square guy’s were within his sight.
Casey stuck a straw in his plastic cup of bubble tea. I don’t like that stuff anyway, and certainly not for breakfast. And the one he had was purple.
“What do you want?” I said.
“No,” he contradicted me after a slurp. “Question is, what do your client want?”
“That’s private business.”
“Some private business, he telling everybody.”
“Who?” I said, confused. “He’s telling who?”
“Everybody. Go around saying, I looking new Chaus, you know where to find?”
“Not as far as I know, he’s not. That’s supposed to be my job. Do you, by the way? Know where to find them?”
Casey laughed cheerily, as though I’d made a good joke. “Of course. Boss know. But not telling you.” He wagged a finger in front of my face. “Not telling your client, too. You tell him, go away.”
“No.”
The smile dropped from his face. His voice hardened to ice. “Yes.”
What, we’re not friends anymore? Then enough of this. “Mr. Woo—oh, you’re surprised? Don’t be. I know all about you, you and Tiger Holdings.” “All” was exaggerating, but I let it stand. “Mr. Woo, if you want something, you have to give something. That’s how it works. Who is Tiger Holdings, how do you know who my client is, and why do you and your boss care if I find the Chaus for him?” Because they could be worth a ton, I suggested to myself; but I wanted to hear what he had to say.
He stared at me. “Think you pretty damn smart, Lydia Chin?”
“Why, is Tiger Holdings a big secret? Then you shouldn’t have a Web site. Who are you people?”
Eyes still on mine, he took another slurp of his purple bubble tea. Some tough guy, I thought. Except I was glad there were three dozen other people crowded into the shop here. And that one of them was Jack.
“We same people as your client,” Woo finally said.
“Interesting. Last night you said you weren’t.”
His brows knit. “Said I weren’t, what?”
“With the government. When I asked who you worked for. So, what, did Samuel Wing send you because I didn’t fold fast enough?”
“Samuel Wing? Who is he?”
“Yeah, I don’t know his real name either. The skinny guy in the gray suit. Came to see me yesterday afternoon, to tell me to back off. He sent you because I threw him out? You’re the stick?”
“Pah. Stick, what is stick? You don’t make sense. Don’t know Samuel Wing. Boss sends me.” He blotted his thick lips on a napkin. “Last night, you don’t ask
A light was beginning to dawn for me, but one dawned for him, too, and faster.
“Samuel Wing.” He frowned and held up a thick finger to stop me from saying anything. “You telling this guy come, say you stop looking for Chaus, you telling he work for government? American government?”
“Chinese government. I don’t know his real name or what his job is, but he’s at the Consulate. And you’re telling me you’re not?”
“Of course not.” He dismissed that with a wave of his purple tea. “Chinese government come bother you? Chinese government care about Chaus? Why?”
“I have no idea. You’re a gangster, right?”
His eyes widened. “Lydia Chin—”
“No, don’t bother. Tiger Holdings is a criminal organization, one way or another, and that’s what you mean by, you’re in the same business as my client. And Tiger Holdings is working for itself on this, not for the Chinese government.”
He rested his gaze on me, slurped, and smiled. “Yes. Tiger Holdings don’t want no trouble with Vassily Imports.”
No, who would?
“So you want me to tell Vladimir to back off.”
Because Vladimir Oblomov was a Russian mobster and Lydia Chin, as far as Tiger Holdings was concerned, was the art consultant helping him look for the Chaus. And State Department middle-manager Jeff Dunbar, aka Dennis Jerrold, and Lydia Chin, his PI, were nowhere to be seen.
“And you called me instead of Vladimir,” I said, “because mine was the number you had. He hasn’t been giving his out.” Except to Shayna. But Nick Greenbank and Doug Haig only had mine. Either of those fellows, it seemed to me, would hand it over without a squeak if a guy like Casey rose up on their horizon; but how would he know to
