Hanging the Devil, page 6
“Funny you should ask.”
12
“Funny,” said the ghost. “I don’t remember hiring the helicopter pilot. Wasn’t that your job?”
He sat on a low couch in a dimly lit room, his long arms stretched across the red upholstery, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles. In the half-light of the nearby lamps he seemed to glow, and his eyes flashed red whenever he turned his head to look across the desk.
The man across from the ghost was barely visible through the fog of smoke curling toward the ceiling. He was on his third cigarette, and the meeting had only begun moments ago. Freddie Wang concluded a long time ago that his unseemly profession would put him in the grave before cancer could spread its fingers through his lungs. Somehow he defied the odds long enough to grow old, bitter, and suspicious.
“You blame your mess on me?” Freddie’s voice was a snake slithering through ashes.
“Stockholm was smooth as clockwork.”
Both men spoke Cantonese, but the ghost’s voice had a sepulchral chill that gave Freddie the creeps. He sucked the cigarette down to his fingers and used the butt to light another.
“You used a boat in Stockholm, in a city full of boats.” Freddie waved a hand dismissively. “Helicopters are too flashy.”
“The local help was more accommodating in Sweden,” said the ghost. “That’s all.”
“Help…help?” Freddie came halfway out of his chair. “Let me be clear, my albino friend. I am helping you, but I am not the help.” Freddie’s left eye was a milky cataract but his right was as black and clear as night. “As far as you’re concerned, I am this city.”
“You run the tongs, which are connected to the Triads.” The ghost smiled and his eyes flashed. “As far as you’re concerned, I am the Triads.”
Freddie felt another chill but didn’t back down. “Bullshit.” The word in Cantonese sounded like fi-wah, and Freddie punched the last syllable into a squawk to show his irritation. “I’ve heard about you—”
“—rumors,” said the ghost. “Whispers in the dark.”
Freddie shook his head. “You left your clan and became an independent operator. Dangerous business, with no house backing you.”
“I have the Middle Kingdom behind me,” said the ghost coolly. “I’m backed by Beijing.”
Freddie snorted. “What do communists care about lost art?”
“It wasn’t lost,” said the ghost. “It was stolen.” His long fingers traced a seam on the couch. “And we are stealing it back.”
“For profit,” said Freddie.
“For patriotism,” said the ghost. “Don’t be so cynical.”
“You sound like someone trying to sell me something,” said Freddie. “Sound like a capitalist, and I bet you’re getting paid plenty of money.”
“So are you, Freddie.” The ghost rubbed his hands together. “So how can we continue our arrangement—”
“—so nobody goes to jail?” Freddie blew smoke rings at the ceiling. “If you had blown the back door instead of going through a skylight, nobody would know you were there.”
“It worked in Norway.”
“You been outside?” Freddie cackled. “Norway is clean, the people are polite—this isn’t Norway. Police start investigating, checking security tapes—”
“—I’m not worried about the tapes,” said the ghost.
“My men were with you,” said Freddie. “Comes back to me.”
“Get them alibis,” said the ghost. “I’m more concerned about a witness.”
Freddie nodded. “The girl.”
“Find her.”
“Who’s going to believe her?” asked Freddie. “Another whisper about a Chinese ghost. The museum should make it part of the tour.”
“I don’t care that she saw me.” The ghost leaned forward and rested his long arms across his knees. “I care that she saw what I was holding.”
“They have the helicopter.”
“We burned it.”
“You should take what you have and leave,” said Freddie. “Fly to New York for your next job. My cousin is ready for you—security at the Met is a joke.”
The ghost shook his head. “I have to go back.”
“Security will—”
“—not be a problem,” said the ghost. “Robbed once, they think it’s over. Who would be so bold? We hit the Kode Museum in Norway three different times.”
“This…isn’t…Norway,” said Freddie. “It’s not even Sweden. You don’t want to listen, fine, but you’re taking a risk. Which means I’m taking a risk.”
“There are more pieces,” said the ghost. “I’m not leaving without them.”
“Or what?” Freddie stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray. The pack was empty.
“Or I have to answer to the Devil.”
The name sounded like Moh-gway, and Freddie had heard it before. He was connected politically enough to know the myth was flesh and blood. A long arm that stretched all the way from Beijing through Hong Kong to the West. Long enough to reach all the way to San Francisco, grab Freddie by the neck, and strangle the life out of him.
“Go to New York and then return, get the other pieces on your way back to China, a month from now.” Freddie wanted to sound more reasonable than antagonistic, but it wasn’t in his nature. “They won’t expect that.”
The ghost shook his head, his eyes the color of blood. “I’m not done here.”
Freddie sighed and rummaged through his desk drawer for more cigarettes. “I’m not getting you another helicopter.”
“I won’t need one,” said the ghost. “Just find the girl.”
13
Sergey held the girl tightly, worried she might slip from his grasp.
He brought the paintbrush to her cheek and turned his wrist counterclockwise to draw a red oval beneath her eye. His knuckles were turning white as he tried to hold her steady. He didn’t want to repeat his mistake from yesterday, when he relaxed his grip and the girl fell and shot across the room before he could catch her.
The nesting doll wasn’t much wider than a soda bottle, but the girl painted on its surface had taken a week to design and two days to paint. This was a special order, and Sergey wanted to get every detail right. He set the girl gently on the counter next to the other dolls, their pear-shaped figures gleaming in the overhead light.
Authentic matryoshka were nesting dolls in traditional Russian dress, girls with rosy cheeks, each successive doll getting smaller and smaller as the color scheme of their clothes changed. Sergey imported them from a cousin who ran a shop in Sergiyev Posad in Vladivostok.
Sometimes they were just nesting dolls. Other times they were filled with carefully measured quantities of illegal substances. Synthetic drugs, black market pharmaceuticals, and the occasional homeopathic remedy banned by the FDA. Nothing dangerous, just lucrative enough to improve the store’s margins.
Special orders for locals, tourists, or visitors to the website—custom-crafted nesting dolls like this one—Sergey painted himself. He found it calming. Much more relaxing than dealing with his domineering sisters and extended family of gangsters.
When the bell mounted on the back of the door rang, Sergey wiped paint off his hands and put on his respectable shopkeeper face, but his expression broke into a savage grin when he saw who it was.
“Cape!” Sergey spread his arms in greeting. “Moy brat, it’s been a while.”
As Cape held the door, Sergey came around the counter and saw the woman. He instinctively glanced down to see if his fly was open. Paint stains on the pants but everything else was tucked into place. Sergey’s tendency to think incessantly about sex whenever he wasn’t painting often led to social missteps, and he didn’t want to embarrass his friend before he even said hello.
“Sergey,” said Cape, “this is Maria.”
Sergey shook her hand and led them back into the store. Maria was mesmerized by the matryoshka standing shoulder to shoulder on shelves, in the window displays, arranged on tables.
Maria noticed the dolls drying on the counter. “Those are so…interesting.”
Sergey gave an embarrassed shrug as Cape took a step forward to examine the dolls.
From left to right, the Mary Poppins story took shape, with a twist. Here were the children, Jane and Michael, the little girl glistening with wet paint on her cheeks. Then their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Banks, followed by Bert, the friendly chimney sweep. The largest nesting doll was Mary herself, wearing a white apron, from the scene when a songbird visits the nursery. All the figures were meticulously detailed, as if the dolls had stepped out of the movie, with one exception.
Underneath the apron it was readily apparent that Mary Poppins was topless.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Cape.
“You’d be amazed what people request.” Sergey sighed. “This one is for an online customer. Last week they ordered a Peter Pan set, only they wanted Tinkerbell, well, you know…”
Cape’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t.”
“Of course not.” Sergey shook his head. “We have standards. No kids, no animals in compromising positions, and—”
“—no naked fairies?” asked Maria.
“Da,” said Sergey. “This is a family business.” He retreated behind the counter.
“Speaking of the family business,” said Cape. “I need your help.”
Sergey’s eyes darted to Maria. “Do you trust her?”
“She hasn’t tried to kill me,” said Cape.
“That’s a good sign,” said Sergey. “Your judgment must be improving.”
Maria looked bemused. “How do you two know each other?”
“He saved my life,” said Cape and Sergey simultaneously.
Sergey nodded and added, “We both got shot by the same person.”
Maria laughed. “That’s a story I’d like to hear.”
“And I would love to tell it to you,” said Sergey. “I was very heroic.”
Cape said, “Maria is with Interpol—”
“—unfortunately,” said Sergey abruptly, “I am not at liberty to discuss my past adventures.” He turned to Cape with alarm and whispered, “Why are you, and your extremely well-dressed friend from Interpol…the international criminal police organization…in my store?”
“Relax,” said Cape. “Maria is with the art crimes division.”
“Potryasayushchiy!” Sergey rubbed his hands together. “That is not the family business.”
“We’re looking for someone,” said Maria.
“Who?”
“A pilot.”
“A dead Russian,” said Cape.
Sergey listened as Cape told him what happened at the museum. He wondered how Cape knew so much about a crime that only happened hours ago but didn’t want to ask questions in front of the elegant policewoman. He trusted Cape, who could have turned Sergey and his sister, Eva, over to the police long ago, but anyone tied to the Russian mafiya was rarely in the same room as someone from Interpol—unless that room happened to be a prison cell.
Sergey decided to save his questions for another time.
“My guess is the pilot wasn’t part of the heist.” Cape paused as if choosing his next words carefully. “They hired him to fly them in, but intended to kill him after the job was done. Once they crashed, there was no reason to wait.”
Sergey saw where this was going. “The helicopter must have been stolen—”
“—or borrowed,” said Maria. “Either way, he knew he was flying to a robbery.”
“So he was bought,” said Cape, “or blackmailed.”
“Or was already a criminal,” said Sergey. “You sure he’s Russian?”
“No,” said Cape.
Sergey drummed his fingers on the counter. “What do you want, exactly?”
“An introduction,” said Cape. “We’ll trace the helicopter, but that’s a dead end if it was stolen. The better angle is to identify the pilot and work backward.”
“Khorosho.” Sergey nodded as he glanced at his handiwork.
Mary Poppins smiled beatifically and gave him an encouraging look of approval. Sergey felt a sudden craving for a spoon full of sugar. He made a mental note to rent the movie tonight and buy his girlfriend a white apron.
Cape watched him but didn’t say anything.
Sergey looked up from the counter and sighed.
“If I give you the name of someone I know, it can come back to me…or my sister. And some of my second cousins and uncles are not as gentle as our side of the family.”
“I understand.” Cape fingered a scar on his neck as if tracing a memory. “I met some of them, before I met you.”
Sergey rubbed the dried paint on his fingers. “But if I give you a name that everyone knows…and a place…that might get you somewhere.”
“Without leading them here,” said Cape.
“A place?” asked Maria.
“In the Richmond District,” said Sergey. “Many Russian immigrants there. Most are families chasing the American dream, but a few are exploiting it—and their neighbors. Those men you can find at a certain restaurant every Tuesday night.”
“Today is Tuesday,” said Maria.
“Why Tuesday?” asked Cape.
Sergey chuckled. “Russian gangsters are obsessed with America’s Got Talent. The place has a wide-screen TV and great sound system. They bought it for soccer games, but on Tuesday night it’s Simon, Heidi, and Howie.”
“¡Maravillosa!” Maria clapped her hands together. “This is a wonderfully strange city. What is the restaurant called?”
“The Red Tavern,” said Sergey. “On Clement Street in the Richmond.”
“And what is the name that everybody knows?” asked Cape.
Sergey took another look at the Banks family and their magical governess, but they kept their own counsel. He’d have to take the next step on his own.
Step in time, step in time. Never need a reason, never need a rhyme.
“Maksim Valenko,” he said to Cape. “This is a name that everyone knows, but nobody says out loud.”
“Like Voldemort?”
“Exactly like Voldemort.”
“I always wanted to be Hermione,” said Maria.
Cape raised a hand. “Harry.”
Sergey shrugged. “Ron.”
Maria arched an eyebrow. “Who wants to be Ron?”
“He’s good at chess,” said Sergey defensively. “I like chess.”
“So I whisper Valenko,” said Cape, “and dementors appear and drag me off to Azkaban prison?”
“Much worse,” said Sergey. “The Russian mafiya shows up and breaks your legs.”
“Swell.”
“Unlike Voldemort,” said Sergey. “Valenko still has a nose, which he sticks into everybody’s business. So if your dead pilot was connected, he’d have ties to Valenko.”
Cape extended his hand and shook Sergey’s. “Anything else?”
“Don’t tell my sister about this.” Sergey jutted his chin at the naughty nanny. “She thinks I’ve matured.”
“I was never here.”
“I don’t even know your sister,” added Maria.
Sergey leaned close to Cape and lowered his voice. “I like this Interpol of yours.”
“She’s not my Interpol,” said Cape. “She’s—”
“—Isabella Maria Diaz y Angelos,” said Maria. “And it was encantado—lovely meeting you, Sergey.”
Sergey blushed and asked, “Were you ever a governess?”
“Time to go,” said Cape.
Before they reached the door, Sergey called out, “I know you don’t like guns, but if you’re going to see Valenko, you should bring a weapon.”
“Don’t worry,” said Cape. “I’m going to bring a friend.”
14
“You don’t bring a friend to a meeting with your boss.”
Peng pretended he didn’t hear Yan, but as they stepped off the curb, she punched him in the shoulder. Peng took another step and stopped in the middle of the street.
He turned to Yan and put his hands on her shoulders. His fingers were long and delicate. Yan always thought that Peng might have been a pianist if he wasn’t a painter and sculptor.
“You’re not a friend,” he said. “You’re a coworker.” Seeing the look on her face, he added, “Sorry, you are a friend, a very good one, but for the purpose of this meeting, you are an impartial coworker who can speak of my integrity.”
“Not your best apology.” Skepticism bent the corners of Yan’s mouth. “Why should Niu listen to me? He’s a dumb ox who runs an assembly line, and I am a lowly painter.”
“You’re the best background artist on the line,” said Peng. “Nobody paints trees like you can, and Niu would be furious if you left. Our paintings would look like cheap knockoffs without your brush.”
“They are cheap knockoffs,” replied Yan. “That’s the point. Why buy a real Van Gogh when you can buy an oil painting that looks like Van Gogh painted it himself, but which costs less than a poster? Look, it’s a good business, and I’m not claiming to be a capitalist, but—”
“—shhhh.” Peng looked to see if anyone was walking nearby. The village of Dafen was part of the Special Economic Zone of Shenzhen, what the government called a SEZ, but it was still China. “You always talk before you look, it will get you in trouble one day.”
Peng glanced at the streetlight and the camera mounted below. He knew there was another camera five meters behind them, but the middle of the street should be a dead zone for audio surveillance. His mobile phone was turned off, so they should be fine, as long as a passing car didn’t turn them into roadkill before they finished their conversation.
Dafen still had the feel of a village though it had grown exponentially since Peng was a child. A crowded jumble of factories, apartment buildings, and small shops, with most storefronts open to the street, their colorful creations propped in the windows or displayed on the sidewalk to entice passersby. Yet none of that charm was the basis for Dafen’s cultural significance.
More than half the world’s oil paintings came from this one village.
