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Gwai Ying Shung had a very distinctive style. Unmistakable, if you know what you’re looking at.”
    “And boychik knows?”
    Nick made a comically insincere attempt at a modest shrug.
    Bill winked. “Did you tell da pretty girl? Vat she hed pictures of?”
    “Of course not. She’s too dumb to know, why should I tell?”
    “But your boss, he’s seen dem? Meester Bexter, or Meester Haig?”
    “There’s no Baxter,” Nick said smugly. “Doug Haig bought him out years ago.”
    Bill nodded. “And Haig has seen dese paintings?”
    “On that girl’s phone, absolutely. But you mean, did he go out there, wherever the open studio was? How would I know? I certainly wouldn’t have gone. There’s no question these pictures are fakes.” With a curled lip, as though the artist had made a career blunder, he said, “Chau’s dead.”
    “Dey could be real, chust old,” Bill suggested. “From da old days.”
    “Oh, yeah, right.” Condescending to connect the dots for the muscle-brained mobster, Nick explained, “If you happen to have a pile of vintage Chaus, and you’re some bridge-and-tunnel freak who wants to make it in the art world, you sell them. Get a studio in Manhattan. Where someone who matters might actually see your work. Trust me.”
    “Vell, maybe you don’t sell dem iff you love dem?”
    Nick looked at Bill as though he’d said the Easter Bunny was hopping through the door. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
    Bill’s eyes flared. Nick shrank back. Then Bill relaxed. “Yess, of course,” he said soothingly. “You must be right. Terrible rotten fakes. But I vant to see dem anyvay, dah?” He looked at me, as though for confirmation, and then back to Nick before I could answer because what did he care what I thought, anyvay? “I appreciate your help, boychik. Now I tink ve go talk to Meester Haig. Dat vass him, in da beck, dat fetso?”
    So Bill had noticed the round guy, also, his proprietary air and how he’d disappeared. Nick panicked. “Yes, that’s him, but you can’t tell him! You can’t tell him I told you! If he does care—if the paintings are real—”
    “Den vat? He vouldn’t vant to sell dem to me, make fet commission?”
    “He doesn’t have them.”
    Bill stopped. “Oh? How do you know det?”
    “He may be negotiating with the owner but if he had them I’d know, I’d have accessioned them.”
    “Maybe dese paintinks are so important, da big boss accessioned dem himself?”
    “No! He doesn’t know how to use the computer. He won’t learn. He thinks it’s beneath him.” Nick allowed himself a superior smirk. Then he remembered why we were talking about this. “But please, you can’t—”
    “Oh, hush, hush. Vy so upset? Ve don’t say nothing. Ve say ve’re looking, not ve found. Don’t vorry, boychik.”
    With that Bill turned and headed back. I threw Nick a commiserating look and hurried after.
    “I think we’re supposed to wait until the guy in the front calls the guy in the back,” I whispered as we crossed the gallery.
    “Oh, I promise you, he did,” Bill said.
    He was right. Before we reached the rear office another emaciated assistant, this one a harried-looking young woman, came trotting around a wing wall. She established position in front of the opening and, though she looked like a mild breeze could blow her over, she didn’t move. Bill walked right up to her and grinned.
    Nervously, she said, “Mr. Oblomov?”
    “Dah, dat’s me.” Bill winked at her. “Leetle Neeky gafe you a ring?”
    Her uneasy smile faltered but didn’t fail. “Mr. Greenbank said you wanted to talk to Mr. Haig. I’m sorry, Mr. Haig’s in a meeting. I can give you an appointment—no, stop! Wait, you can’t go in there!”
    Bill had wrapped his hands around her arms and slid her aside. “Sure ve can, sveetie. Meester Haig, he can’t vait to see us.”
    Bill, with me trotting behind, strode through the outer office—presumably, hers—and gave a perfunctory two knocks before