Read MANDARIN PLAID (Lydia Chin/Bill Smith series) for Free Online Page B

women, are self-effacing and shy. Where the hell did a pack of pushy little dictatorsget 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