“They’re copies, you can have them, but you need to tell me why. Has someone offered to sell you these pieces?”
“No.”
“Then-”
“I have to make sure. I might be wrong. You will hear from me.” He stood, collecting all but one photo from his counter. He handled them as delicately as if they were jewels themselves.
“Uncle, you really need to tell me what you know about this.”
But Mr. Chen was through speaking to me. He carried the photos into his office and shut the door. I was left alone with the assistant and, smiling up from the counter, the black-and-white face of Wong Pan.
4
There’s no such thing as a quiet corner in Chinatown, but I found a sheltered doorway and called Joel.
“Hey, Chinsky! Hope you’re having better luck than I am.”
“I’m not sure. But a strange thing happened.” I told Joel about Mr. Chen. “He knows something, obviously.”
“Excellent deduction, Watson.”
“Give me a break. Are you going to call Alice?”
He paused, and I wondered if he was chewing his lip. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because I don’t have anything to tell her, because you didn’t push him.”
“Push him? He’d have totally clammed up if I’d pushed him.”
“And if he’d clammed up, you’d have what less than you have now?”
“Nothing, but I might have less than I’m going to get when he calls.”
“Or you gave him a chance to think about it and he isn’t going to call and you’re going to get nothing. Which is what you have now.”
“Oh, Joel, come on! He’s an old Chinese man. There was no way-”
“And you’re a young Chinese woman and you were being polite. Dangerous in our business, Chinsky. Anyway, forget it. I’ll call the client, she’ll at least see we’re wearing out shoe leather.”
“I was-” Drop it, Lydia, I ordered myself. While you’re at it, stop reminding yourself that Bill would never have suggested you’d mishandled an interview with an old Chinese man. I gritted my teeth and asked, “Okay, so how did you do?”