“That’s how he put it?”
“It’s wrong?”
“It’s incomplete. For months after Tiananmen, there were rumors Chau was still alive.”
I gave Bill a quick look. “Oh. So if the rumors are true, the paintings could actually be his.”
“It’s unlikely, though.” Jack rearranged himself again, throwing one leg over a chair arm. “The PRC government admits to two hundred and forty-one people dying by the time Tiananmen was over. Rioters and hooligans, every one of them, threats to the public order and enemies of the revolution. But about a thousand more were never heard from again. The government says they were more rioters and hooligans and they ran away. Their families say they were killed, but no one’s been able to prove it. Those people are the ‘ghosts.’ But Chau was one of the two hundred and forty-one. He’s on the official list, his body was identified, he’s buried in his hometown.”
“Then where did the rumors come from?”
“People claiming they’d seen him. In different parts of the country, over the next few months. Rumors were flying everywhere that summer. They had a news blackout; no one knew what was going on. For anyone looking for a symbol to rally around, Chau would’ve been perfect. The rumors were probably started by underground student leaders trying to keep the movement going. Eventually, though, they died out.”
“Were there paintings?” Bill asked.
Jack’s thin face had been wearing a brooding look, but now he broke into a grin. “Smith, two points! No. That’s one of the things that finally convinced people it wasn’t true. If Chau had been alive, he could’ve signaled that and rallied people by making new paintings. Even under another name, his work’s that distinctive. But there weren’t any.”
“Okay,” said Bill. “Now I have another question. How come you’re a walking encyclopedia about Tiananmen Square? Which happened when you were eight?”
“Nine.” Jack considered him. “If I told you we studied Tiananmen at art school because the Beijing art school was in a leadership role in the movement, would you believe me?”
Bill shook his head solemnly. Jack turned to me.
“I would have,” I said. “Except I never believe anybody who asks if I’d believe him if.”
Jack regarded me another moment, then ejected himself from his chair. He strode the length of the room, turned, covered the distance again. He stopped with his back to us and stared at the full moon glowing from the only thing hanging on the wall, a Japanese woodblock print. “Okay.” He spun around. “Weighing the demands of client confidentiality against the possibility of actually solving the client’s case, and against the
“Client? What client?”
He grinned and folded his arms. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I have the same case.”
3
For the rest of our discussion we repaired to the cafe on the next block because Bill and Jack both thought the situation called for caffeine. Bill also wanted a smoke. I, of course, was completely self-sufficient and needed nothing, but I went along for the ride. Jack ordered and waited at the counter while Bill and I colonized a table. “The truth,” I said, as I unwound my scarf. “Did you have any idea?”
“That Jack had a similar case?”
“The same case, he says.”
“No. And I’m not sure I like it.”
“Why? You have a problem with him you’re not telling me about?”
“Absolutely not. Jack’s a wild man, but he’s stand-up. He’s also really good at what he does.”
“Then why have you been holding out on me?”
“Holding out what?”
“Him.”
“It’s my job to make sure you know every Chinese person in New York?”
“Oh, forget it. What is it you’re not sure you like?”
“Two people with enough sudden interest in the same set of facts—no, rumors—to hire investigators.”
“Maybe his client’s interest isn’t sudden.”
“Or maybe it’s not two clients. Maybe it’s the same client, hedging his bets.”
I’d thought of that, too. “That would be a weird vote of no confidence. In both investigators.”
Jack came back to us, spread mugs around, and plopped onto a chair. “Okay,” he said. “Cards on the table?”
“What do you mean? Share information? You’re suggesting we work the cases together?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think we can go that far. This is the race to the pole! Scott and Amundsen. Mush! You guys can be Scott.”
“Who won?”
“Amundsen.”
“Not only that,” Bill said, “Scott died on the way back.”
I said, “I thought you liked this guy.”
