trouble in here. I’ve never used it, but I like to check it occasionally to make sure it works. A loud buzz sounded down the hall and also in my ear, where Andi said, “Works great! You get problem, you press, we come save you!”
“No, you don’t! You call the police.”
“Yeah, yeah. Who this guy? He dangerous?”
“I doubt it. Just a precaution.” Because, I didn’t tell her, someone already got shot at today.
I turned to the computer and searched the local databases for a Samuel Wing. I came up with four, none of them jumping out at me as possibly connected to this case. I archived them anyway, to recheck after I’d met him.
Of course, he might not be local.
Or his name might not be Samuel Wing.
I did a little more computer work, since I had the time. Precisely fifteen minutes after we’d hung up, here came the buzzer, and when I asked who was there, I heard, “Samuel Wing.” Between the panic button and the .22 in the small of my back, I felt I was ready. I buzzed him in and stuck my head out the door so he’d know where to head for.
“Ms. Chin?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wing.” We’d spoken so far in English, so I kept it up. His accent told me it wasn’t his first language, but my bilingual phone message would have told him I speak Cantonese. I guessed we weren’t speaking that because he didn’t, and he wasn’t trying Mandarin because if I wasn’t fluent that might embarrass me.
Samuel Wing sat, pulling at his trouser knees in that way men have. He was thin, medium-height, fiftyish, gray hair, nice suit. Not a face I’d just seen on the block. Looking around, he said, “What an interesting office.” Actually, I have fairly standard, if battered, desk and filing cabinets, plus laptop, lamps, and Lucky Tiger Tofu Factory tear-off calendar. If you were an anthropologist from outer space this room might be interesting, but I wasn’t sure what Samuel Wing was getting at until, nodding with satisfaction, he said, “Very discreet.”
So it wasn’t the office, it was location, location, location. “I find my clients appreciate that. Can I offer you some tea?”
He seemed pleased to find this courtesy extended. Before I was old enough to walk I’d understood that no Chinese people could decently sit down together, for business, gossip, or companionable silence, without tea. Even Jack Lee, from the midwest suburbs, had felt inadequate when he’d realized he had no refreshments for guests. I’d been a little surprised not to have been offered anything by Dr. Yang, but maybe the rules were different for angry academics.
I scooped some oolong into a pot, poured water from the kettle, and while the tea steeped I brought out the Chinese-client cups: bamboo-painted porcelain with lids and no handles. They add a touch of elegance to my office. That I buy them by the dozen in the basement of Kam Man supermarket because I break them regularly was not Samuel Wing’s concern.
“How can I help you, Mr. Wing?”
“It is I, Ms. Chin, who can help you.”
I was perfectly willing to believe that and only slightly annoyed at his smug air, as though by turning the tables like that he’d made a clever pun.
“It’s come to my attention, Ms. Chin, that you have an interest in certain paintings.”
“I’m an art lover,” I said, swirling the tea in the pot. I poured for both of us.
He smiled. “Of course.” He lifted, sniffed, and tasted his tea, cradling the cup in one hand and shifting the lid aside with the other in a move my mother had made me practice my whole childhood. He sat in silence to permit the tea to occupy his thoughts and senses. “Quite good,” he said, as though he hadn’t expected that. Just because of the back-room-on-the-alley thing? Another sip, and then he replaced the lid and set the cup gently on the desk. “I’m speaking specifically, of course, about the paintings of Chau Chun. Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero.”
“Yes, I thought you might be.
“No, you don’t! You call the police.”
“Yeah, yeah. Who this guy? He dangerous?”
“I doubt it. Just a precaution.” Because, I didn’t tell her, someone already got shot at today.
I turned to the computer and searched the local databases for a Samuel Wing. I came up with four, none of them jumping out at me as possibly connected to this case. I archived them anyway, to recheck after I’d met him.
Of course, he might not be local.
Or his name might not be Samuel Wing.
I did a little more computer work, since I had the time. Precisely fifteen minutes after we’d hung up, here came the buzzer, and when I asked who was there, I heard, “Samuel Wing.” Between the panic button and the .22 in the small of my back, I felt I was ready. I buzzed him in and stuck my head out the door so he’d know where to head for.
“Ms. Chin?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wing.” We’d spoken so far in English, so I kept it up. His accent told me it wasn’t his first language, but my bilingual phone message would have told him I speak Cantonese. I guessed we weren’t speaking that because he didn’t, and he wasn’t trying Mandarin because if I wasn’t fluent that might embarrass me.
Samuel Wing sat, pulling at his trouser knees in that way men have. He was thin, medium-height, fiftyish, gray hair, nice suit. Not a face I’d just seen on the block. Looking around, he said, “What an interesting office.” Actually, I have fairly standard, if battered, desk and filing cabinets, plus laptop, lamps, and Lucky Tiger Tofu Factory tear-off calendar. If you were an anthropologist from outer space this room might be interesting, but I wasn’t sure what Samuel Wing was getting at until, nodding with satisfaction, he said, “Very discreet.”
So it wasn’t the office, it was location, location, location. “I find my clients appreciate that. Can I offer you some tea?”
He seemed pleased to find this courtesy extended. Before I was old enough to walk I’d understood that no Chinese people could decently sit down together, for business, gossip, or companionable silence, without tea. Even Jack Lee, from the midwest suburbs, had felt inadequate when he’d realized he had no refreshments for guests. I’d been a little surprised not to have been offered anything by Dr. Yang, but maybe the rules were different for angry academics.
I scooped some oolong into a pot, poured water from the kettle, and while the tea steeped I brought out the Chinese-client cups: bamboo-painted porcelain with lids and no handles. They add a touch of elegance to my office. That I buy them by the dozen in the basement of Kam Man supermarket because I break them regularly was not Samuel Wing’s concern.
“How can I help you, Mr. Wing?”
“It is I, Ms. Chin, who can help you.”
I was perfectly willing to believe that and only slightly annoyed at his smug air, as though by turning the tables like that he’d made a clever pun.
“It’s come to my attention, Ms. Chin, that you have an interest in certain paintings.”
“I’m an art lover,” I said, swirling the tea in the pot. I poured for both of us.
He smiled. “Of course.” He lifted, sniffed, and tasted his tea, cradling the cup in one hand and shifting the lid aside with the other in a move my mother had made me practice my whole childhood. He sat in silence to permit the tea to occupy his thoughts and senses. “Quite good,” he said, as though he hadn’t expected that. Just because of the back-room-on-the-alley thing? Another sip, and then he replaced the lid and set the cup gently on the desk. “I’m speaking specifically, of course, about the paintings of Chau Chun. Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero.”
“Yes, I thought you might be.
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