Ghost Hero (7 page)

We headed up the street. Both Bill and Jack seemed to know exactly where we were making for. I could only assume it was one of their male-bonding taverns.

“So,” Jack asked, “what did you guys do today? Tell me you haven’t been goofing off while someone tried to take me out.”

“Hey,” said Bill. “We’ve been busting our accents working this case.”

“Actually,” I said, “if you can hold off on that drink, when you called we were on our way to see someone.”

Jack stopped. “You have a lead?”

“We got it from our other lead.”

“You have
leads
? That you didn’t tell me about?”

“We weren’t working together then.”

He waited, then said, “Are you going to tell me now, or do I only get to know things that happen from now on?”

“Sure,” I said. “We leaned on a kid at Baxter/Haig and he broke like a twig.”

“Baxter/Haig? That repulsive little Nick something?”

“You know him?”

“He’s been there a long time. Haig’s a walking oil slick and he generally hires people from the same toxic gene pool. Baxter was better, but in the end he couldn’t stand Haig—”

“No, really?”

“—and he demanded to be bought out. Haig must have found someone else to finance him and now the place is all his.”

“He had to be financed?” Bill asked. “You don’t think he bought Baxter out himself?”

“Doug Haig only spends other people’s money. Count on it.” He looked Bill over again. “So Nick whatever, he was what the Russian gangster gag was for?”

“Greenbank. Gangster and his art consultant.” Bill thumbed at me. “Worked, too. He gave up Shayna Dylan. A gallerina at Gruber. You know her?”

“Nope. Must be new.”

“She’s reputed to have photos of these Chaus on her cell phone. Nick doesn’t know where she took them.”

“Gallerina?” I asked. “Is that really what they’re called?”

Jack nodded, verifying.

“Does that make Nick Greenbank a gallerino?”

“No,” said Jack. “It makes him a yellow-bellied sapsucker, if he gave up his girlfriend.”

“She’s not his girlfriend. According to him he hardly knows her.”

“My judgment doesn’t change.”

“Stubborn consistency in the face of facts,” said Bill. “I like it.”

“We also talked to the monumentally revolting Doug Haig himself,” I said. “You should have heard Bill say ‘Gvai Yink Shunk.’”

“Sounds like a Yiddish curse. You’re not telling me Haig bought it?”

“What Haig bought was the idea that
I
could buy anything I wanted,” Bill said. “And that what I want are the Chaus.”

“Well, he’s a greedy enough bastard that I can see that. Blinded, by the radiance of rubles, to the ridiculousness of your Russian ruse.”

“Not bad,” Bill said.

“But I’m guessing he wasn’t any help, or we wouldn’t need to see this gallerina.”

“Not only wasn’t he any help,” I said, “he completely destroyed a woman we interrupted his so-called meeting with.” I replayed the scene for Jack.

“Wow,” he said when I sputtered to a halt. “I guess he made you mad.”

“I’m going to stick a pin in the pompous pig and watch him deflate like a balloon.”

“Okay then. As soon as we’re done with the case.”

“That’s what Bill said.”

“That doesn’t make it wrong.”

“Then let’s get done fast.”

“All right.” Jack executed a sharp U-turn. “We’ll go to Gruber. And after that, you’ll still owe me a martini. How’s that?”

Bill said, “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*   *   *

Jack’s instinct was to step into the street and hail a cab, but I stopped him. We were only twelve blocks from Gruber Arts. It was faster to walk.

Three people making tracks on a midtown sidewalk is like running a team obstacle course. Especially when the other two have long legs and one of them is on an adrenaline high from being shot at for the first time. There was no way I was being left behind, though. Jack reached our destination first, me second, and Bill, who’d stopped to light a cigarette, last.

Gruber Arts was one of about a dozen galleries stacked vertically in a limestone-faced building on Fifty-seventh Street, the heart of New York’s uptown gallery district. For an artist, to have any gallery is a great thing, even in the East Village or Williamsburg. If yours is in SoHo or Chelsea, you’ve arrived. If it’s uptown, you’re annointed.

“Okay.” Jack spoke as the elevator rose. “I’ll provide covering fire and you two go in and take out the enemy.”

“You know,” I said, “this getting shot at thing may have had more impact on you than we thought.”

“Either that,” Bill said, “or Jack knows the gallery owner and is offering to distract him while we talk to Shayna.”

“Her,” said Jack. “Jen Beril. Lots of white wine under that bridge.”

“Maybe Shayna Dylan’s just a step on the way to her,” I suggested. “Maybe Jen Beril’s the one who’s got the paintings and is going to be unveiling them next week.”

“Contemporary’s not a period she generally deals in. Her focus is strictly pre-Republic, mostly Tang through Yuan, but she’ll extend as far as the Han in one direction and the Ming in the other.”

I blinked. “Show-off.”

“I’m overcompensating for not knowing how to shoot. Anyway, believe it or not, I did think of that. I’ll probe discreetly. Are you guys going to use funny accents?”

“Lydia always uses one,” said Bill. “She’s a New Yorker.”

“Oh, I have to put up with that from a guy who sounds like Barney Fife?” That wasn’t really accurate; Bill’s speech still carries a trace of Louisville, but only a trace. But civic pride was at stake here.

“Vell, don’t vorry. I tink I better make like Vladimir Vladimirivich Oblomov. In case da pretty girl compares notes vit Leetle Neek.”

Jack snorted. “Oblomov? Russian Lit. 101?” The elevator opened and both men stood aside for me to step out first. At a door labeled G
RUBER
A
RTS
I waited with great dignity for these white knights to fight over who got to open it. Luckily for them it was a double door.

The atmosphere inside the gallery was infused with the same serenity as Jack’s office, and for a similar reason: There wasn’t much there. Plexiglas cases on white pedestals held here a porcelain vase painted in delicate peonies, there a pottery camel piled with Silk Road trade goods. Three scroll paintings hung on the walls, all of misty mountains and rushing streams. Acres of polished wood floor attested to the value of the art on offer: In Manhattan, nothing says wealth like empty space.

The young woman at the reception desk wasn’t as immediately imperious as Nick Greenbank had been, but we didn’t inspire in her a strong need to be of service, either. She glanced at us through golden hair curtaining the sides of her face. “Yes?” Her copy of
ARTnews
stayed open in front of her; clearly she intended to get back to it soon.

“I’m Jack Lee. Is Jen here?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Can I ask what this is about?” Her glance slid over me as though I’d been oiled, lingered a few moments on Bill, then returned to Jack.

“Jen knows me,” Jack said in affable nonanswer.

The young woman raked her fingers through her glistening hair. She gave Jack, and Jack alone, another microsecond look, then pressed a button on the phone. She murmured into it, and a few seconds later a white wall at the far end of the gallery swung open, revealing a room of bookshelves and files. Another golden-haired woman, also dressed in black, walked across the floor with the ease and dignity I’d been trying to muster at the elevator. On her it was natural, and she was twice my age, and in heels. She wore her hair pulled smoothly back. Her skin was silkily smooth, too, though I suspected both the gold and the silk had help. Smiling as she reached us, she took Jack’s hand in both of hers. “Jack! To what do I owe this pleasure?” She and Jack shared a double-cheek kiss.

“Hello, Jen. These are friends of mine. Lydia and Vladimir.” Bill and I shook her hand in turn. “I told them about the Han tomb figures.” Jack nodded toward a glass case in the corner, occupied by clay figures about six inches high. “And I wanted another look at those Luo Pings anyway. So here we are.”

“It must be kismet, how lovely. I was going to call you. I have a Jin Nong I’ve just gotten, a lotus pond, from the same year as the one at the Met. Shayna, will you take charge of Lydia and Vladimir? If you need me”—she included me and Bill in her smile—“we’ll be in my office. Come.” She took Jack’s arm and drifted off to the back.

A cloud crossed Shayna Dylan’s face as Jen Beril made off with first prize. But she dutifully stood, though I thought leaving the magazine open was a little pointed. Hair cascading over her shoulders, she led us across the floor to the glass case.

“It’s a complete set,” she said, sounding a little weary, as though she wished she didn’t have to tell people things this obvious. “From a duke’s tomb. Five musicians and three dancers. All women. In the Eastern Han, as you probably know, the musicians were often women.” She was examining Bill with a newly appraising gaze. “And the dancers, always. The Han understood that beauty and grace could go hand-in-hand with talent and power.”

I made a note to ask Jack if that was true. About the Han, I mean.

“The musicians would have had their instruments when they were placed in the tomb. But the instruments were wood and wood rarely survives burial.” She was speaking exclusively to Bill, so I decided I might as well actually look at the figures. Traces of colored paint still clung to them; they must have been riotous when they were new. Even now, their odd, flat faces, squared-off edges, and empty hands didn’t detract from their exuberance. Shayna took a step closer to Bill. “But I’m sure you know that. Are you a collector?”

“Not of antiquities,” I said, partly to hear my own voice to make sure I was still here.

Shayna turned slowly to me. “Oh?” She couldn’t have been less interested and still conscious.

“I wish we were. I love these old pieces. So much history, such subtlety.”

“Yes.” Shayna gave me a cold, customer-is-always-right smile.

I sighed. “But Vlad is the real collector.” Bill grinned like the Cheshire cat, to underline my meaning: He was the one with the money. “He gets bored easily. He’s only interested in what’s flashy and new.” I looked Shayna up and down, then gave Bill a smile sweet enough to cause a toothache. “Our focus is contemporary Chinese art. Because that’s what Vlad loves.”

“Oh?” Shayna said in a totally different tone, swiveling back to Bill.

“Dat’s right.” Bill winked. “Lydia doesn’t like it, but I can’t get enuff.”

“Is that so?” Shayna eyed me with pity. “Well, many people are skittish. Unhappy with anything outside their comfort zone.”

“Absolutely,” Bill agreed. “But dey don’t know vat dey’re missing. Me, personally, I don’t care about comfort.”

“No?”

“Not exciting, comfort.”

“I can hear the passion in your voice.” Shayna swept her glossy hair. “I feel the same way.”

“Dah. I tink I could tell dat as soon as ve came in.”

“The edgy, the transgressive. The very newest. That’s what I love.”

“Iss dat so?”

Their eyes met with a spark that made me want to remind them they were talking about art.

“Vell,” Bill smiled, “iss possible you could help me out vit something.”

“I’d certainly like to try.” Shayna shifted her weight from one Jimmy Choo to the other, thrusting forward, ever so slightly, the hip that came between me and Bill.

“Sveetie,” Bill said to me, “dis von’t interest you. Ve came here so you could look at dis stuff.” He waved a vague hand. “Take long time, look at vatever you vant.” His hand came to rest on Shayna’s elbow. He steered her across the prairie of gleaming floor, toward her desk, where he, with no hesitation, slipped behind the counter to sit beside her as though he were working, too.

Which he certainly was.

*   *   *

I spent twenty minutes wandering lonely as a cloud, absorbing ten centuries of my heritage. What Bill was absorbing, I didn’t know. Or Jack either, until the rear wall swung open and he emerged with Jen Beril. They were both smiling, though her smile tightened as she glanced around the gallery and took in the situation. Jack’s smile, on the other hand, widened.

“Shayna?” Jen Beril’s voice rang across the oak-floored miles with the silver sound of tinkling icicles. “Have you shown our guests what they wanted to see?”

Shayna’s head, and Bill’s, popped up, both with guiltier looks on their faces than the situation seemed to warrant.

“Absolutely,” Bill answered.

“Yes,” I agreed from beside a shelf of snuff bottles. “We’ve seen more than enough.”

I wouldn’t have been surprised if my words had just echoed and faded away; by now I’d concluded I might be invisible. But Jen Beril said, “I’m glad,” and Bill stood, though he didn’t look happy about it. I waited, kind of icily myself, until he walked over to where I was. Just as he reached me I turned and stalked away, to the door. I yanked it open and strode with great majesty down the hall, where I punched the elevator button. Before Bill and Jack had left the gallery I’d stepped through the closing doors and started my descent.

6

Bill and Jack came out onto the sidewalk laughing. I was behind them, sitting on a planter near the door. They stopped and looked around; I let them be confused for a minute, then I spoke up.

“All I want to know is, did you see the photos on her phone? The rest can stay in Vegas.”

They spun around like a two-man dance routine. “Awesome,” Jack grinned. “I wish I’d seen the whole thing. Do you guys run that gag often?”

“It changes,” Bill said. “Sometimes she’s the boss, and I’m all crude and Neanderthal.”

“It’s easier that way,” I said. “Closer to reality.”

“I was expecting the art-consultant routine that you pulled on Nick Greenbank.”

“One look at Shayna, I could tell this would get Bill next to her faster. Cutting me out made her day.”

“Did you know it was coming?” Jack asked Bill.

“I just go with the flow.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who hauled out the Uncle Vanya accent and the Jersey Shore jewelry when we started this,” I said. “So? The photos?”