Dr. Lin apparently shared Jack’s penchant for cabs, and I didn’t want to argue with so eminent a foreign expert. Also, I had those heels on again. We pulled up in front of Baxter/Haig, where Jack, without a care, got out, leaving me to pay the driver. On the sidewalk I once again smoothed my skirt, mussed my hair, and let my lips bloom into a superior smile. I waited for Jack to open the gallery door for me, but in his role as self-important overseas hick he was gawking through the glass at the art inside. So I yanked the handle and stalked into Baxter/Haig. Jack blinked and hurried after. I was surprised to see Nick at the front desk so early, but maybe Haig liked his first-string players here for VIPs. “Mr. Haig’s expecting us,” I told him nicely.
Jack didn’t even look at Nick, so busy was he rotating his head and craning his neck to take in Pang Ping-Pong’s giant canvases. The yellow-tinted glasses threatened to fall off, so he had to hold them on. If that meant his hand was in front of his face, well, he wasn’t just a pretty face anyhow. Not that he gave Nick much opportunity to inspect him. Jack found himself immediately drawn to the canvas on the far wall. I myself loomed at Nick’s counter much the way Bill had, though at five-three it’s not as easy for me. Still, I managed to fill a good deal of Nick’s field of vision, and by the time he was off the phone with the inner sanctum Jack was safely tucked behind a protruding wall, leaning forward to study a painting of Spider-man dancing one of the
“He says you can go on back,” Nick resentfully admitted.
“I’m delighted,” I chirped. “Is that charming Mr. Woo still with him?”
Nick curled his lip, which was answer enough.
I marched toward the rear, calling across the room, “Q. X., come on now, we have a meeting. We can look at the art later.” Jack joined me with an air of fusty impatience, as though I’d been the one holding up the proceedings. Jumpy Caitlin came out to meet us and escort us into the presence of the potentate.
Doug Haig, as usual, was examining art on his worktable, from which, as usual, he didn’t look up immediately. Mighty Casey Woo, in what might by now have become usual, clogged up the corner chair, drinking a Coke. When sufficient eons had passed for all to understand who was boss, Doug Haig raised his head to take in the vision of Jack and myself. The waiting time, I was not pleased to note, was about half of what it had been for me alone, now that I was accompanied by Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang.
“Mr. Haig,” I said when he’d finally laid a sheet of tissue paper over his drawing and languidly fixed his attention on us. “This is Dr. Lin, from the Central University at Hohhot, in Inner Mongolia, China. Dr. Lin, I’d like you to meet Mr. Haig.” Did I put emphasis on the “Dr.” and the “Mr.”? Perhaps a tiny bit.
Haig extended a pudgy paw, but Jack, as though he hadn’t seen it, snapped Haig a bow. Speaking that nasal, accented English, he said formally, “It is great honor for small scholar as myself to meet such eminent American art dealer.” He managed to make “small scholar” sound like “King Tut” and “art dealer” like “ditch digger.” He held the bow a few moments; by the time he stood straight again Haig’s right hand had folded itself over his left as though it had been on its way there all along.
“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Lin, to meet such an eminent authority. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.” Haig gave a bland smile. “Just yesterday, in fact, I was talking with Clarence Snyder. He speaks very highly of you.”
“Dr. Snyder, generous man. Must call him later, thank him for helpfulness. Never lets friend down.”
Jack sat, his jacket gaping over his chest-padding. He surveyed Haig’s office with a fusion of burning envy and icy disdain. “Very interesting work, this gallery,” he said, speaking like a man who’d been in and out of every important art venue in New York before coming down to this one. “Pang Ping-Pong, of course, does no new work now, five years, just recycles. Still, I suppose he still sells well in West? Here, though,” he gestured at the drawings on the table, “this work new, maybe good. Find in China? You travel good deal to China, Mr. Haig, so I understand. More than most dealer.”
“I have to,” Haig answered. “To find the artists before other dealers do. I can’t say I enjoy your country all that much”—a thin smile—“but those trips are my edge. How about you, Dr. Lin? Is it possible for you to travel outside China often?” He added innocently, “Does your schedule allow it?”
Schedule, my eye: that crack was about power, reminding Dr. Q. X. Lin who wanted what from whom. As Jack’s about Pang Ping-Pong and the work on the table had been, reminding Haig who had what to give.
“Inside China, travel often,” Jack said stiffly. “Outside, as you say, no time. Two years ago, go to conference in Berlin. This second trip to U.S.”
“And how do you like it?”
“Like very well. Trip too short, only two week. Would be better, much longer. So much to see in U.S. In New York.” Through the yellow lenses he stared straight at Haig.
“Yes,” Haig said, “and for a scholar of your eminence, I imagine the U.S. holds a great deal of opportunity. It would be a shame if you couldn’t take advantage of it.”
“Speaking of taking advantage,” I said, “I mentioned to Dr. Lin the paintings you were telling me about, the ones you thought would interest him. The unattributed works that might be by Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero? I suggested we might take advantage of the fact that we were in your neighborhood to come look at them.”
“She tell me,” said Jack, “you not sure, authenticity. She say, if someone, large knowledge, all parts of field, appraises, authenticates, paintings extremely valuable. If true Chaus, of course, I don’t need her tell me that.”
“No question about it,” Haig said, wetting his rubbery lips and giving me a look that said no one really needed me to tell them much of anything. “This is my area, of course, but I’m not an authority, not in the academic sense.” He managed, in keeping with the ongoing war of intonation, to make “academic” an insult. “From the moment I saw these pieces I was convinced of their authenticity, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting them on the market on the basis of only my own instinct. If, on the other hand, they were to be examined by an academic authority who came to the same conclusion I did, I’d feel on firm ground going forward. And,” he added, with a cold smile, “I’d be quite grateful.”
“I see.” Jack nodded.
“In fact,” Haig said, as though the idea had only just occurred to him, “an expert like that could be a great asset to this gallery. Over the years I’ve acquired a great deal of work—artists I handle and also work I’ve bought for my own collection—but my passion seems to have outpaced my paperwork. I’m afraid there’s a tremendous amount of scholarship to be done within these walls. I’d do it myself but I just don’t have the time.”
“I see,” Jack said again, more slowly. “How much time, Mr. Haig? How long you estimate this scholarship
