We were about to pack up and leave our little paradise when an unexpected good guy called us. Jack’s phone rang, and he answered it with, “Hi, Eddie. What’s up?… Say again?… Seriously?… Holy cow. Eddie, can I put you on speaker? I’m here with Lydia and her other partner.”
That brought a snort from Bill. I swatted him. Jack pressed the button and lowered the phone, holding it so we could all hear. “Guys, this is Eddie To. Eddie, if you hear a voice you don’t know, it’s Bill Smith. Eddie, go ahead and tell Lydia and Bill what you just told me.”
“Hi, Lydia, and good to meet you, Bill,” Eddie To said politely. I pictured him in his gallery surrounded by giant springs and speeding red boxes. “I called Jack because I’m being a source. A gent from the Chinese Consulate was just up here. Wei-mai Jin. Jin Wei-mai it would be in the patois of Mother China, which I don’t speak. He’s the Cultural Attache.”
“Eddie, it’s Lydia,” I interrupted. “About five-nine, skinny, receding gray hair?”
“No. Smaller, chubby, bald.”
I glanced at the guys. “Okay, go on.”
“He’s been here before, has Mr. Jin, in his position as culture vulture. I’ve also seen him at receptions and such, once or twice in the company of a fellow like you’re describing, if that helps.”
“That other fellow, do you know his name?”
“No. Frank’s fluent in four dialects of the mother tongue, plus Japanese, so he gets the eastern hemisphere VIPs. I get the French and all those stodgy Germans, plus the occasional Argentine, ole. But Frank’s not here today, so Mr. Jin was all mine. I thought it would interest Jack and Co. to know he was after Chau Chun.”
“Chau himself? He said that?”
“No, I’m sorry, the paintings. The rumored ones you and Jack were up here asking about yesterday.”
“Eddie, this is Bill. What did he say, exactly?”
“Hi, Bill. Exactly, he said he’d heard someone was trying to pass off forged Chaus as real and was that a circumstance we here at Red Sky were familiar with?”
“It sounds almost like an accusation,” I said.
“From the PRC Cultural Attache, it’s always an accusation. Understand, the role of Cultural Attache is rarely played by anyone cultured. Mr. Jin’s the third in that job since Frank and I opened this gallery. It’s a reward position they give to party-liners who can be trusted out of the country and might enjoy a little capitalist R & R. Just like
“So this Mr. Jin, he thought you had the Chaus?”
“I doubt it. It’s a reflex with him, to make threats.”
“Did he make a specific threat?”
“Why waste the opportunity? He told me regretfully that ‘a lot of Chinese artists might have to be protected from the corruption of the Western art markets’—which means they’d have trouble getting visas—‘if forged paintings falsely attributed to a discredited bourgeois counterrevolutionary were exhibited in New York in a blatant attempt by calculating capitalists to embarrass the People’s Republic.’ Which, by the way, is a direct quote. I liked it so much I wrote it down as soon as he left, so Frank could hear it.”
“It sounds to me like he does think you know something about the paintings.”
“No, he’s probably going to all the galleries where they might turn up, to see if he can learn anything and to make sure everyone’s disinclined to get involved with them if they do. Except to call him. That, it seems, would put him in our debt. So? How’d I do? Now you know the Chinese Consulate cares, too. Is that important news? Can I be Deep Throat?”
“Eddie, you’re the very epiglottis,” Jack said. He didn’t mention we already knew the Chinese Consulate, or at least someone up there, was interested in this case. “Thanks. Stand by and keep your ear to the ground. Report in if you hear anything else.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bond. Over and out.”
The phone went silent and we all three looked at each other. “Well,” said Jack.
“No kidding,” I answered.
“What now?” Bill asked.
I thought. “We have to go see Dr. Yang, but before that, I have to get back to Chinatown to meet with my client. Maybe after
“Right up in their faces?” Jack asked.
“Maybe. First things first.”
We gathered up our garbage and our cell phones and headed for the car. Bill unlocked it, said, “Saddle up!” and we were back on the road.
We’d reached the Manhattan Bridge and were admiring the view when Jack’s phone rang once more. He checked it. “A 718 number I don’t know. Maybe it’s your cousin. Jack Lee,” he told the phone. “Yes, hi, Linus, good to meet you.… I know. You ready?… Well, but it doesn’t have to be good Chinese.… No, not even … Great. Here’s what we need. Go to my Web site…” The conversation got art-technical from there, Jack directing Linus to a few places online, listening to Linus’s questions and suggestions, responding with his own. By the time we’d reached Bill’s parking lot they were done. “He thanks you for your faith in him,” Jack said to me, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Was he being sarcastic?”
