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
“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
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