She was silent for a time, her eyes roving over the sloping lawn, the drive, the tangles of forsythia. 'All right, she said quietly. 'I'm hiring you as a professional. If you think this is necessary, do it. But understand that total discretion is as important to me as the return of those paintings.'
I couldn't help grinning. If I hadn't gotten that message already it would have been a good time to tear up my license and go fishing.
Chapter 3
It was early for lunch at Antonelli's. Tony was alone inside except for two T-shirted guys wolfing down beers, burgers, and a mountain of fries. Tony, leaning on the bar, looked up from his newspaper as I came in.
'Jesus,' he said. 'You look like hell.'
'And you don't. Why is that?'
He grunted. 'Clean livin'.' He folded the paper, put it aside. 'You okay?'
'Sure,' I said. 'Just thirsty. Let me have a Genny Cream.' He opened a bottle and put it on the bar with a glass. 'Listen, Tony, I need to talk to Jimmy. Where can I find him?'
'Trouble?' His mouth tightened.
'No. Just something I need to know.'
'From that punk?' He gave a humorless laugh. 'If you can't drink it, drive it, or steal it, he don't know nothin' about it.'
'Oh, Christ, Tony, there are some things he's good for, if you'd cut him a little slack. He cooks as well as you do. And he's better than anyone I know with a car.' I was sorry the minute I said it.
Tony's face flushed. 'Yeah. He can fix 'em, smash 'em, or cool 'em off if they're hot.'
Oh well, I was in now. 'That what Frank Grice was here about last night? Something to do with the quarry?'
'That's none of your fuckin' business!' He slammed his open hand on the bar. The T-shirts looked up from their fries. Tony shifted his eyes to them, then back to me. He dropped his voice. 'You saved my ass last night. I owe you, okay? But keep out of this. I can handle Grice.'
'His type doesn't handle, Tony. You give him what he wants or you shut him down.'
'What the hell do you know?'
'Not much,' I said. 'I only know Grice by reputation. But I've met a lot of guys like him. I do it for a living.'
'Then stick to the payin' customers.'
I drained my glass, turned it slowly between my palms. Tony gestured at it. 'You want another?' I nodded. He opened a bottle, filled my glass. I drank.
'I'm sorry, Tony,' I said. 'I have trouble minding my own business. And guys like Grice make my skin crawl.'
'Forget it.' He took the empty bottles, put them in slots in the cardboard case under the bar. 'Jimmy's been workin' a coupla days a week at Obermeyer's garage over in Central Bridge. Call over there, maybe you can get him.'
'Thanks.' I stood. 'Okay if I tie up the phone for a while?'
He shrugged. 'It ain't rang in two days.'
I took my beer over to the pay phone against the back wall. I thought for a minute, about Tony, Jimmy, Eve Colgate's pasture, and some paintings she hadn't seen in thirty years; about how things change and how they don't. Then I slipped in some quarters, dialed Lydia's office number in New York.
I got the bounce-line message; so she was on the phone; either actually in her office or at home on the line that rings through. Normally I would have just left a message of my own, but calling me back up here wasn't all that easy. I took a chance and dialed the other number, the one that rings at home, in the kitchen. It's not a number I call often, but it's engraved deep in my memory just the same. I lapped my fingers on the old, scarred woodwork as the phone rang and rang.
Finally a woman's voice answered in Cantonese, using words I recognized, though I didn't understand them. I gave her my dozen Cantonese words: a respectful greeting and a request. There was silence, then a snort; then the phone clattered in my ear and I could hear the voice calling to someone else.
A few moments later came another woman's voice, this time in English. 'My mother says you should stop trying to impress her; your Chinese is terrible.'
'What did she call me this time?'
Lydia said, 'The iron-headed rat.'
'What does it mean?'
''Iron-headed'—you know, stubborn, willful; sometimes stupid. I guess it could mean gray-haired, too.'
'You think she meant that?'
'No. In Chinese that's a
'Great. Why rat?'
'Don't ask.'
'Someday she'll like me. Listen, are you real busy, or can you take something on?'
'She'll never even tolerate you. I'm tailing a noodle merchant whose wife thinks he's messing around with her younger sister, but it's not as engrossing as it sounds. But I thought you were up in the country.'
'I am.'
'You never call from there. Are you all right?' A slight quickening came into her voice.
