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throwing open the inner door. The portly man we’d seen in the gallery could be found now leaning over a table, or rather, leaning over a young Asian woman who was seated at the table. His thick hand rested on her shoulder, thumb gently rubbing the back of her neck. He wore black slacks and a dark blue band-collared shirt buttoned up to his double chins. His clothes fit him so well, despite his bulk, that they’d clearly been made for him. The young woman, in a demure long-sleeved dress, seemed to be trying mightily to click through photos on a laptop, not reacting to his touch or the closeness of his mountain of flesh. I caught a sheen of perspiration on her brow. Both their heads turned sharply when the door flew open, hers in hope, his in anger.
    “Dammit, Caitlin!” he roared. “I said no interruptions!”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Haig.” The assistant trembled. “He wouldn’t—I couldn’t—they didn’t—”
    “No, I vouldn’t and she couldn’t and ve didn’t,” Bill agreed, striding forward, hand thrust out. “Vladimir Oblomov,” he beamed. “Heppy to meet you.”
    Haig obviously didn’t share Bill’s delight. Staring at Bill, Haig said, “Caitlin, go. We’ll talk later.”
    “I really am sorry, Mr. Haig. I—”
    “Go!” He waved Caitlin off like a bad smell. She faded meekly out the door. After another few moments of eyeball-chicken with Bill, Haig took his hand off the young woman’s shoulder and growled, “You, too. Get out. This work is shit.”
    She looked up at him, not comprehending. “But, Mister Haig.” Her English was heavily Mandarin-accented. “You say you interested.”
    “In you, honey. Not in this crap you do. Last night was fun but the magic’s gone. Get lost.”
    “But my paintings—”
    “Won’t be shown at this gallery. Eco-humano-we-are-the-worldo? Are you serious? Unfortunately I think you are. Beat it.” The young woman sat openmouthed. “Your English doesn’t include ‘beat it’? ” He turned to me. “Tell her what it means.” Taken by surprise, I said nothing, barely managing to keep my own jaw from dropping. “What the hell’s the matter with you people? What is this, Chinese Don’t Talk Day? You, honey. Leave.”
    Uncertainly, the young woman stood, her face ashen. “I come all way from China because you say—”
    “I said I’d give you a shot. I did. It’s over. Leave and I’ll do something for you: I’ll forget your unpronounceable name. Hang around and argue, I’ll remember it and you’ll never show anywhere in New York, not even in the grade Z galleries that specialize in this shit. Never, honey. Ever.” A two-second pause. “Why are you still here?”
    Her cheeks flushed scarlet. Blinking fast, she gathered up her laptop and her handbag and made a stumbing exit. As she passed I could see tears glazing her eyes.
    Haig surveyed us. He took obviously displeased note of Bill’s open shirt, his rings and chains. I used the time he spent staring at Bill to breathe, lower my blood pressure, and unclench the fist that wanted to punch his lights out. After he’d made his point, he turned his small, devouring eyes from Bill to me. I forced myself to stick my hand out. “Lydia Chin. I work with Mr. Oblomov when he’s in town.”
    Haig’s smirk said he knew exactly what my work involved. While his damp, fleshy hand groped mine, Bill, uninvited, pulled a chair up to Haig’s worktable. After forever, Haig’s fingers opened and I found myself wondering how soon I could wash. Bill, blissfully uncaring, craned his neck to see the prints spread along the table. He picked one up to have a look. Though he held the purple-and-green extravaganza only at the outermost edges, Haig still snapped, “I’m sorry, I have to ask you not to touch that. If you want to see something I’ll be glad to show it to you.”
    Bill’s eyes met Haig’s. Slowly he put the print down. “Forgiff me.” He gave a thin smile. “Sometimes I forget American