MANDARIN PLAID (Lydia Chin/Bill Smith series) (4 page)

“The music and the lighting, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, and also the shoes, and the accessories. And the makeup and the models. To pull it all together, to give your collection a ‘look.’ The way it works, the producer would study your work, then say we should use so-and-so and so-and-so, they’ll wear your things well. And we’ll put everyone in white patent leather army boots, we’ll use that with everything. Very pale on the makeup, with black-rimmed eyes for evening. Et cetera. You see?”

“I never knew that. I guess I thought the designer did it all.”

Genna smiled. “All I do is the clothes. Believe me, that’s enough.
Of course, you want to work with a producer who understands you. Someone who’s in tune with what you’re doing. I thought I’d found someone like that about six months ago, a producer named Wayne Lewis.”

“You thought,” I said. “But you were wrong?”

“I’m not sure if I was when I called him. I’d known Wayne from other jobs I’d had in the industry, although I hadn’t seen him in close to a year. I remembered him as the kind of person who inspires confidence. He always had an answer to everything. He could come on strong, but I wanted a strong hand running things, especially this first time. So I called him.”

“But it didn’t work out?”

“No, it didn’t. He came on even stronger than I remembered, and short-tempered, which was new, although he was always a little impatient. He was unreliable, never on time for meetings. He had some really good ideas, I thought, about the collection and the show, but he was so difficult to deal with that it wasn’t worth it. I was actually relieved when he quit.”

“When was that?”

“About three months ago. I think I might have fired him if he hadn’t. But one day he called and said he couldn’t work with us anymore, sorry, good-bye.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were that hard to work with.”

“I don’t think I am. But John can be difficult. He wants things to happen fast, and then he wants the next thing to happen. He loves action, not planning and details.” She smiled softly. “I think it’s one source of the trouble between John and his mother.”

“They don’t get along?”

Genna’s silky hair swayed as she shook her head. “And I’m the other reason. That’s why this has all got me so upset, Lydia. John’s mother thinks I’m after his money. She wants me out of his life. She absolutely hates it that he works here. He’s what they call in the business the ‘outside man,’ you know? He deals with all the
stuff
, so I can concentrate on design. Anyway, I’m hoping if my line takes off and I have money of my own, maybe she’ll feel better about me.”

“Is he … is it a problem between you that his mother feels that way?”

“Oh, no. John cares less about it than I do. He says let’s just get married, and the hell with her. But I don’t want to do it that way. My mother-in-law. I’d like to get along with her if I can. Am I making sense?”

I smiled. “To me.”

She smiled also. “I thought so, and I’m glad. Andrew and I have talked about it, and he gets it, but John just doesn’t.”

“I think,” I said, trying to be cross-culturally understanding, “that where he comes from, ‘mother-in-law’ carries a different meaning.”

“I guess so,” she agreed. “But anyway, that’s not why I asked you to come up. I’m sorry. I really don’t like it when other people assume their personal problems are interesting to me, and here I am acting as though mine are interesting to you.”

“But they are,” I told her. “That’s why I’m in this business. Everything about everybody is interesting to me.”

“Really? I’m not sure if that makes you lucky or unlucky.”

“Me either. But the more I know about you the more likely I am to be able to help solve your problem.”

“Well, I don’t think knowing what my future mother-in-law thinks of me is going to be much help in getting my sketches back. But what I wanted to talk to you about was Wayne.”

“Because you think he might be behind this.”

“He could. He’d know what to take, and he’d know this kind of threat would work, at just this point in my career. After all, it had to be someone in the industry. I didn’t think he hated me that much, but old wounds grow over time, don’t they?” Genna didn’t look at me as she said that.

“Have you had any contact with him since he left?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even get a call for a reference. I was kind of glad about that. I don’t know what I would have said.”

“Do you know where to find him?”

“I have his home address. He works out of his apartment.”

Genna got up to get the address for me. As she did, the studio door opened to admit three people in joking conversation. A thin, short-haired woman sipped something iced through a straw between her bright red lips. A broad-shouldered, goateed young man with
three earrings up the side of his left ear flopped down at the front desk. That must be Brad, I thought. And John Ryan, glancing into the conference room out of what seemed like habit, stopped when he saw us. The smile fell from his face. He stepped into the room. Softly he said to Genna, “They called?”

“No.”

The conference room had a sliding glass door; John pulled it shut.

“They didn’t call?”

“No.”

“Then … ?” John looked from Genna to me, obviously waiting for an explanation of my presence.

“I asked Lydia to come up,” Genna said. “I wanted to tell her about Wayne.” Her manner seemed defiant to me, almost defensive.

“Wayne? Wayne Lewis?” John raised his eyebrows. “Well, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with that one, but go ahead. Do you need me? I have some calls to make.”

Genna shook her head. John kissed her, smiled at me, and left.

“He didn’t say it was ridiculous,” I told Genna after the sliding glass door was shut again.

“No. But he doesn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks Wayne is washed up. Burnt out and all talk. He doesn’t think he’d have the nerve to do something like this, or the creativity.” She sighed. “Maybe he’s right. I don’t know. I don’t know anything, except that I have a million things to do to get my show together, and less and less time to do them in. Let me get you Wayne’s address, and then I’d better get back to work.”

We went out to the receptionist’s desk, where the guy who must be Brad was typing on a computer keyboard, talking on a phone tucked onto his shoulder. You’re going to pull a muscle like that, I thought, as Genna flipped through a Rolodex. I stood in front of Brad until he glanced up from phone and keyboard and noticed me. “Lydia,” I mouthed, pointing at myself. Brad’s face lit in a warm grin. Without missing a beat, he half lifted from his chair and offered me his hand. After we shook he sat again and went immediately back to
talking and typing, with an apologetic shrug and a smile at me. I smiled back.

I took the paper Genna handed me and promised to keep her up-to-date on whatever I did. As the elevator drifted to the ground floor I mused over the fact that, while waiting for someone to call and ask for a second fifty thousand dollars in exchange for her whole future, Genna Jing seemed able to concentrate on doing a million things.

F
OUR

T
he address Genna had given me was in Greenwich Village, a nice walk from here on a spring day. I called the phone number, to make sure Wayne Lewis was in.

“Lydia Chin?” he said, when I introduced myself. His voice was raspy and his words quick. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I said. “But I’d like to come see you. I won’t take up much of your time. I’m in the neighborhood.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes, if it’s convenient.”

“Sorry. I’m on my way out. What’s it about?”

I’d planned carefully what I was going to say, and I said it. “I work for Genna Jing, Mr. Lewis. She has a problem she thought you might be able to help with.”

“Genna Jing? She wants my help?” He laughed a short, unpleasant laugh. “You have to be kidding. Tell her to forget it. As a matter of fact, tell her to go to hell.”

“It’s a fairly serious problem,” I went on. “Even if you don’t have a solution, I was hoping you might be able to suggest someone who would.”

“Why the hell would I? With all due respect, Ms. Chin, Genna’s
not my favorite person, and her boy toy Ryan even less. If they’ve dug themselves into a hole right before Market Week, I think it’s great.”

“They haven’t exactly dug this hole, Mr. Lewis, but they’re willing to pay to get out of it.”

“They’d have to pay a hell of a lot to get me to pick up a shovel.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?”

There was a long pause. “That must be one huge goddamn motherfucker of a hole.”

My mother would wash your mouth out with soap if she heard you talk that way to me, I thought.

Then she’d wash out my ears.

I said, “May I come discuss it with you?”

“In fact,” he mused, ignoring my question, “I bet that kind of money could get you out of a black hole. A blackmail hole. Don’t you think?”

“Not blackmail,” I answered. “Blackmail’s a crime, and crimes interest the police. This problem, on the other hand, can be solved without police involvement. Though I have to say that the police, from another angle, have become interested. If the problem isn’t solved soon, they may get more deeply involved than anyone might want.”

“You know, Ms. Chin, I’d almost think you were threatening me, if I had any idea what the hell you were talking about.”

“I’d like to come tell you, Mr. Lewis, and I’d like to do it soon.”

“Oh, would you? Well, you know, half of me wants to tell you that I really don’t give a shit what you’d like.”

“And the other half?”

“Wants to find a way to get in on this fifty thousand dollars, especially if it’s Genna Jing’s.”

“So, may I come over?”

“Please, be my guest. But not now. I have an appointment I can’t break. Say four o’clock?”

“That’s the soonest you can manage?”

“Lydia Chin. That’s a Chinese name, right?”

“Yes—”

“Amazing. And they say the Chinese, especially the women, are self-effacing and shy. Where the hell did a pack of pushy little dictators
get a rep like that? Four o’clock, lady. I’ll see you then, or not. Up to you. And don’t forget to tell Genna Jing I said to go to hell.”

Wayne Lewis hung up on me.

I called Bill.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“For your company? Always. Did they call?”

“No. And I meant for lunch.”

“You have to be kidding. It’s half-past two.”

“I haven’t eaten yet. I’m starving.”

“That’s too bad. I had a turkey club. Roast turkey, right out of the oven, you know that great oven smell? Crisp bacon, thick juicy tomatoes. Mmm. Lots of mayo. On rye. Did I mention the bacon? And for dessert—”

“That’s too bad. I was going to buy you dessert.”

“Buy me coffee, and I’m your man.”

I wasn’t sure the investment was worth the return, but I told him where to meet me, and hung up.

New York right now is flooded with new coffee bistros, lots of glass and chrome, tiny spotlights, and huge photographs of gritty urban scenes. There are so many that they can’t possibly all last. In the meantime, you can get a good cup of coffee, or, more to the point as far as I’m concerned, tea, on almost every block in some neighborhoods. The Village is one of those.

The place I’d picked was playing classical music, something with sweet violins and a fast-moving piano, as I settled myself at a window table. I don’t know much about music, but it sounded good to me. If I really wanted to know what it was, I could ask Bill when he came in. If I really wanted to ask him.

I ordered goat cheese with roasted peppers on a baguette—much better than a turkey club, any day—and a pot of mango tea. The waitress had a ring through her nose. Her midriff was bare so I could see the crown of thorns tattooed around her belly button. She had a very nice smile and brought my tea right away.

I was drinking it, wondering if I could avoid my brother Andrew completely until after the thieves called again and I had a chance to do this right, when Bill arrived.

“So,” he said, “what’s new?” He kissed my cheek. I let him, which I thought was fair of me.

“You mean, since I got shot at this morning? Nothing much.”

“They haven’t called? Have you talked to Genna?”

“As a matter of fact I just came from there.”

“Where?”

“Genna’s. She asked me to come up. Actually she wants me to model for her.” I stretched the truth for him.

“Model what?”

“Nothing I’d let you see, so wipe that grin off your face. And what she really wanted was to give me the name of our suspect.”

“She has a suspect?”

The nose-ringed waitress brought Bill’s coffee. He glanced at her tattoo with what may, I suppose, have been scholarly interest; he has a big fancy one himself, on his left arm. I narrowed my eyes at him until he was through looking.

The waitress left. Bill tried his coffee. “I thought they said they had no idea who was doing this.” He didn’t mention my narrowed eyes.

“Well, Genna does. A guy named Wayne Lewis. He’s what they call a show producer. He used to work for her. She says John thinks it’s ridiculous, which is why she didn’t tell me yesterday. I even got the feeling that’s why she wanted me to come when John wasn’t there, so he wouldn’t get all bent out of shape when she did tell me. But a funny thing happened.”

“What?”

“John came in while we were talking. She told him why I was there, sort of with a chip on her shoulder, but all he said was, ‘Well, I think you’re wrong.’ Then he kissed her and went away to do some work. He didn’t seem annoyed or exasperated at all.”

“Maybe she’s wrong about him. People often assume other people will react in ways they won’t. Like if someone sees a man examining a woman’s tattoo they might think he’s interested in the bare skin all around it.”

“Who would think that? But I had the idea that they’d already talked about Lewis being our guy, and she knew how John felt.”

“Maybe he’s reconsidered.”

“Maybe.” I put down my teacup. “Anyway, if Genna’s wrong about John maybe she’s wrong about her suspect. But I called him.” I recounted my conversation with Wayne Lewis.

“What do you think?” I asked, when I was done.

“I think he sounds like a nasty creep.”

“Which Genna more or less said.”

“But I don’t know if he sounds like our man.”

“No, me either.” I finished my tea and gestured to the waitress for our check. She smiled the nice smile again and brought it over. “He didn’t deny it hard enough,” I said to Bill, opening my wallet. “But he also didn’t jump on the offer. Unless he’s a superquick thinker and a really subtle strategist, I think he might be just what he sounds like.”

“A guy looking for a way to cut himself in on a free lunch.”

“Exactly. But I thought you might want to come along and check him out.”

“I sure do. You mean,” he said, as the waitress came and took my ten dollars, “you’re not sticking me with the check, like the last two times?”

“I assumed you’d kill me if I did.”

“Well, you’re right about that. But then you make wrong assumptions so rarely.”

In order to preserve his illusion I didn’t tell him about the assumption I had made, on the way up to Genna’s, that he and I were about to get canned.

“There’s something else,” I told Bill, as we strolled through the narrow Village streets beneath trees that were just starting to unfurl bright green leaves. “About Genna.”

I had phoned Genna before we left the bistro, to find out if the thieves had called again, and to tell her we were on our way to Wayne Lewis’s. She told me there had been no call. I promised to let her know as soon as we’d met with Wayne.

“What about her?” Bill asked.

“I’m not sure. It just struck me that she wasn’t nearly as upset today as I would have expected her to be. She’s pretty well focused
on her show. I mean, I know it’s the biggest thing in her life right now, but I think I’d be kind of distracted if someone with a gun had taken my borrowed fifty thousand dollars and someone else was about to call any minute now and ask for more.”

“Or else ruin your career.”

“Or else that.”

“You know what else I’d like to know?” Bill asked. “Just because I want to?”

“What?”

“Where she got that fifty thousand dollars.”

I looked at him in the dappled sunlight. “She borrowed it. John was angry that she’d maxed out her credit.”

Bill didn’t answer. I was quiet for a while also, thinking.

Wayne Lewis lived in the ground-floor apartment of a house on a street near the river. When these were private houses the ground floors were the kitchens. Only service people came there; they were lowly spots. Now they were highly desirable garden apts., quiet st., West Vil., near riv. & trans.

It was just after four when we turned the corner, the hour in the spring when the sun sparkles in yellow-orange glints off the water as it starts inching lower over Hoboken. The early flowers in peoples’ window boxes swayed happily in the breeze, and the fronts of the brick houses all glowed honey-colored.

The other thing that glowed was the red and blue lights on the police cruisers and the orange ones on the ambulance in front of Wayne Lewis’s house.

Bill and I stopped short at the end of the block. We stepped back a little, as out of sight as we could be and still see what was going on. Not that anyone was noticing us. All the cops—about half a dozen—were watching the EMS techs roll a covered gurney across the sidewalk and load it into the back of the ambulance.

Where they’d brought the gurney out of was the ground-floor apartment.

“Do you know any of them?” I whispered to Bill.

“The cops?” He searched down the street, shook his head.

“Then wait here.” I popped a piece of chewing gum in my mouth, slipped on my sunglasses, and sauntered down the block.

It was a quiet neighborhood. Cops and ambulances had brought people out. I surveyed the crowd, settled on two teenage girls in baggy pants and untied basketball shoes.

“Hi,” I said. I grinned a laid-back, gum-chomping grin as I came up beside them. “Like, what’s happening?”

“Guy got killed,” one of them told me. She said it with an I’m-a-big-city-kid-I’ve-seen-it-all-before toss of her head that her wide eyes, fixed on the gurney rolling into the ambulance, disputed.

“Killed? For real?” I popped my gum with a loud crack. My mother used to hate it when I did that as a kid, but I kept at it because it’s something none of my brothers ever figured out how to do. “You mean, like, someone killed him?”

“Shot him,” the girl agreed. “Three times.” She cocked her finger into a gun, stuck it in her friend’s ribs, went, “Pow pow pow.”

Her friend slapped her hand away. “Come on, Geri, that’s not funny!” They both giggled.

“Who?” I asked. “Did you guys see it?”

“Uh-uh.” Geri sounded disappointed. “We heard the cops talking.”

The door slammed shut on the ambulance with a final clang. I said, “Geez. Who was he?”

“Some guy,” Geri said. “He lived down there. His name was Wayne something.”

“Who killed him?” I asked. “Did they get the guy?”

“Uh-uh. Some lady upstairs called the cops ’cause she heard the shots, but I guess the guy figured he was good to go.”

“Yeah, like he’s really gonna hang around and wait for them,” the other girl drawled sarcastically.

“Well, he could’ve.” Geri was defensive. “Like if he was a psycho or something.”

“Yeah, like if he was you.”

The girls shoved each other and giggled again.

“So did, like, anybody see him?” I asked. “The guy who did it?”

Both girls shrugged; neither answered.

“I knew him,” Geri’s friend suddenly said, not looking at anyone. “That Wayne guy. I used to see him, like, walking his dog. I wonder what’s gonna happen to the dog?”

The two girls looked at each other. For the first time they seemed upset.

The door to the ground-floor apartment opened, letting out a man with a wary walk and a bad suit. I figured he must be the detective on the case.

“Geez,” I said to the girls. “Wish I could hang, but I gotta go. See ya.”

“See ya,” they answered absently, watching the ambulance pull out and the cops rearrange themselves.

I sashayed back up the block to where Bill lounged on someone’s front stoop, looking down, out, and oblivious. I walked right past him. As I rounded the corner he rose and ambled after me, as though a pint of cheap wine was calling him home.

He waited until we’d made another turn and were headed east before he caught up with me. By then I’d gotten rid of the gum. I took off the sunglasses when he fell into step beside me.

“It was Wayne,” I said, not waiting for him to ask. “He’s dead.”

Bill said nothing for a minute, then asked, “How?”

“Someone shot him.”

We reached Seventh Avenue before either of us spoke again. Traffic stopped at the light and then went. Pedestrians crossed this way and that way, cut in front of the traffic, and hopped up to the curb. Store windows glittered in the late sun. A woman singing to herself walked a huge white dog past us as we stood on the corner.

“Damn!” I said suddenly, softly, and about nothing.