front of me. “He must spend hours combing it—there’s never a hair out of place. The mustache is so enormous, you hardly notice his nose.”
This did not match the description of Napis as I remembered him, but, with my car in sight at the curb outside, I wasn’t about to start asking questions. Monty helped me carry the cat carriers out to the sidewalk, and I pulled the iron-framed door shut behind us.
“I’d never be able to grow one,” Monty said thoughtfully. “They’re too itchy—and I don’t know how Frank manages to eat with his.” Monty drew a quarter-sized circle on the tip of his chin. “But I’ve been thinking about growing a micro-beard right about here.”
I opened one of the backseat doors to the Corolla and shoveled the two cat carriers inside. Monty was still carrying on about facial hair as I climbed into the driver’s seat.
“I saw that Leidesdorff plaque you told us about—the one over in the financial district with his picture on it. It’s got me thinking about extending my own sideburns a bit. Not full on lamb chops, mind you, more of a thin line here around the jaw area.” He stood admiring his face in the dusty reflection of the Green Vase’s windowpanes.
“Good night, Monty,” I said, closing the driver’s side door and turning the key in the ignition.
“THIS IS QUITE the setup you’ve put together here,” I said, surveying the scene on the sidewalk outside the Green Vase the following afternoon. Ivan was scheduled to come by to review our proposal before the board meeting later that evening. Monty had prepared a tea service for the occasion.
A white china tea set had been laid out on a round plastic table. Delicate pink roses detailed the rim of each cup as well as the handle of the hot water pot.
I pulled out a seat as Ivan walked up.
“My lady,” Ivan said, pushing my chair in with an amused look on his face.
“Thank you kind sir,” I replied as Monty leaned over to pour steaming water into my cup.
Monty presided over the tea service, directing the small symphony of cups and saucers. Our conversation had turned to that night’s board meeting when an elderly Asian man tottered up to the table and greeted us.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a slight dip of his head.
The man was frail, his body rail thin. A baseball cap, one size too large, perched on his large protruding ears, while a pair of dark trousers swallowed up his entire lower half. He leaned towards me, his thin lips parting to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m looking for Oscar’s niece?”
“That’s me,” I volunteered, standing up to introduce myself.
“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Monty called out, waving from his chair on the opposite side of the tea table.
The paper-thin skin on the man’s pallid face stretched tensely, but he smiled again and bowed slightly in Monty’s direction. “My name is John Wang,” he said to me, emphasizing the pronounciation of his last name. “Mr. Carmichael,” he paused, nodding in Monty’s direction, “stopped by my flower shop the other day.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, making the connection. “Where he got the vase. It’s a perfect fit for my store.” I motioned to the gold writing on the front of the new door.
“Yes, this is nice,” Mr. Wang said as he looked over at the entrance, studying it carefully with alert eyes that seemed to take in every detail. He turned back to the tea table. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he said kindly, his reedy voice scratching. “Your uncle was my friend.”
“Thank you,” I replied gratefully. There was an oddly comforting, grandfatherly way about him, despite the sweaty tobacco aroma exuding from his clothes. A well-used pipe poked out of his shirt pocket.
“Your uncle wanted you to have this,” he said, pulling a flat, rectangular package out of his back pocket and handing it to me.
I turned the package over in my hands. It was less than an inch thick and covered with a brown paper
This did not match the description of Napis as I remembered him, but, with my car in sight at the curb outside, I wasn’t about to start asking questions. Monty helped me carry the cat carriers out to the sidewalk, and I pulled the iron-framed door shut behind us.
“I’d never be able to grow one,” Monty said thoughtfully. “They’re too itchy—and I don’t know how Frank manages to eat with his.” Monty drew a quarter-sized circle on the tip of his chin. “But I’ve been thinking about growing a micro-beard right about here.”
I opened one of the backseat doors to the Corolla and shoveled the two cat carriers inside. Monty was still carrying on about facial hair as I climbed into the driver’s seat.
“I saw that Leidesdorff plaque you told us about—the one over in the financial district with his picture on it. It’s got me thinking about extending my own sideburns a bit. Not full on lamb chops, mind you, more of a thin line here around the jaw area.” He stood admiring his face in the dusty reflection of the Green Vase’s windowpanes.
“Good night, Monty,” I said, closing the driver’s side door and turning the key in the ignition.
“THIS IS QUITE the setup you’ve put together here,” I said, surveying the scene on the sidewalk outside the Green Vase the following afternoon. Ivan was scheduled to come by to review our proposal before the board meeting later that evening. Monty had prepared a tea service for the occasion.
A white china tea set had been laid out on a round plastic table. Delicate pink roses detailed the rim of each cup as well as the handle of the hot water pot.
I pulled out a seat as Ivan walked up.
“My lady,” Ivan said, pushing my chair in with an amused look on his face.
“Thank you kind sir,” I replied as Monty leaned over to pour steaming water into my cup.
Monty presided over the tea service, directing the small symphony of cups and saucers. Our conversation had turned to that night’s board meeting when an elderly Asian man tottered up to the table and greeted us.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a slight dip of his head.
The man was frail, his body rail thin. A baseball cap, one size too large, perched on his large protruding ears, while a pair of dark trousers swallowed up his entire lower half. He leaned towards me, his thin lips parting to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m looking for Oscar’s niece?”
“That’s me,” I volunteered, standing up to introduce myself.
“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Monty called out, waving from his chair on the opposite side of the tea table.
The paper-thin skin on the man’s pallid face stretched tensely, but he smiled again and bowed slightly in Monty’s direction. “My name is John Wang,” he said to me, emphasizing the pronounciation of his last name. “Mr. Carmichael,” he paused, nodding in Monty’s direction, “stopped by my flower shop the other day.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, making the connection. “Where he got the vase. It’s a perfect fit for my store.” I motioned to the gold writing on the front of the new door.
“Yes, this is nice,” Mr. Wang said as he looked over at the entrance, studying it carefully with alert eyes that seemed to take in every detail. He turned back to the tea table. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he said kindly, his reedy voice scratching. “Your uncle was my friend.”
“Thank you,” I replied gratefully. There was an oddly comforting, grandfatherly way about him, despite the sweaty tobacco aroma exuding from his clothes. A well-used pipe poked out of his shirt pocket.
“Your uncle wanted you to have this,” he said, pulling a flat, rectangular package out of his back pocket and handing it to me.
I turned the package over in my hands. It was less than an inch thick and covered with a brown paper
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