were drinking coffee, crushing out cigarettes in ceramic ashtrays, and listening for sounds. Gianni felt tired yet strangely
easy. Now there was just the waiting. But that could be minutes, hours, or even days.
They took turns dozing.
Once, asleep in her chair, she showed a soft, child’s face. Until some passing dream made it change and her features became
harsh, sensual, those of a woman with product to sell. Then this mask, too, cracked and a smooth-faced girl of eighteen showed
herself to Gianni, skin almost luminous, a Chinese virgin with everything good still ahead.
Her eyes slowly opened.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “Watching a woman sleep is more intimate than seeing her naked. Now you know all my secrets.”
Gianni breathed her fragrance in the air around her. It teased the edges of memories just beyond his reach.
“But I know all about you, too,” Mary Yung said. “Over the years, I’ve looked long and hard at every painting you’ve ever
done. You don’t hold back a thing.”
“What would be the point?”
“It’s always safer to keep something in reserve.”
“I don’t paint to stay safe.”
In the early dawn Mary Yung was pacing again, and Gianni watched her silhouette move back and forth across the windows.
“Maybe they’re not coming,” she said.
“They’ll come. But it’s daylight now, so they won’t be breaking and entering. They’ll be ringing the front doorbell. That’s
what we have to be ready for. Do you have it all straight in your head?”
“Yes.”
She made orange juice, toast, and coffee for breakfast. Gianni ate four slices of toast. He was hungrier than he had expected.
Now, as they talked, they had become just plain Mary Yung and Gianni.
Then they began the waiting again.
8
A T 9:10 A.M. a car rolled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage.
Mary Yung and Gianni watched it from behind the living-room curtains, a blue Chevrolet sedan with a high antenna and yellow
fog lights that cut through the dark-gray morning and steadily falling rain.
A couple of men got out, and Gianni recognized them as the two who had torn apart his loft. Then a third man appeared, carrying
an attache case.
Two weren’t goddamn enough, thought Gianni, and a vein was suddenly pulsing in his neck.
He touched Mary Yung’s shoulder and felt her warmth. Then he left the living room and took his position in the study.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later Gianni heard Mary Yung’s footsteps in the entrance hall and the front door being opened.
Enclosed in his own stillness, Gianni listened to the double charade: the phony agents, playing out their polite ritual of authority… Mary Chan Yung, projecting surprise and concern.
Then Gianni heard them all entering the living room, where the delicate part would be to get the three men seated with their
backs to the door and Mary Yung facing them.
How much suddenly depends on this woman.
Still, using her own subtle blend of charm, deference, and sexuality, Mary Yung seemed to be doing just fine.
And the men?
Without seeing them, Gianni could almost sniff their heat at the prospect of interrogating a woman like Mary Chan Yung. And
that was before they were even exposing her flesh to their dirty little toys. You had to be born to stuff like this.
I’m ready for the sonsofbitches.
He waited for Mary Yung’s signal. As soon as the three agents were properly settled on the couch with their backs to the door,
she would ask if any of them had a cigarette, and Gianni would be off on her words. Mary’s own revolver was tucked just under
the edge of her chair cushion and would be in her hand the instant Gianni appeared.
Their worst-case scenario was that one of the men would suddenly decide to leave the living room and search the house. If
that happened, Mary Yung would warn Gianni by going into a fit of coughing. Then she would pull her gun and cover the agents
until Gianni came in and disarmed
easy. Now there was just the waiting. But that could be minutes, hours, or even days.
They took turns dozing.
Once, asleep in her chair, she showed a soft, child’s face. Until some passing dream made it change and her features became
harsh, sensual, those of a woman with product to sell. Then this mask, too, cracked and a smooth-faced girl of eighteen showed
herself to Gianni, skin almost luminous, a Chinese virgin with everything good still ahead.
Her eyes slowly opened.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “Watching a woman sleep is more intimate than seeing her naked. Now you know all my secrets.”
Gianni breathed her fragrance in the air around her. It teased the edges of memories just beyond his reach.
“But I know all about you, too,” Mary Yung said. “Over the years, I’ve looked long and hard at every painting you’ve ever
done. You don’t hold back a thing.”
“What would be the point?”
“It’s always safer to keep something in reserve.”
“I don’t paint to stay safe.”
In the early dawn Mary Yung was pacing again, and Gianni watched her silhouette move back and forth across the windows.
“Maybe they’re not coming,” she said.
“They’ll come. But it’s daylight now, so they won’t be breaking and entering. They’ll be ringing the front doorbell. That’s
what we have to be ready for. Do you have it all straight in your head?”
“Yes.”
She made orange juice, toast, and coffee for breakfast. Gianni ate four slices of toast. He was hungrier than he had expected.
Now, as they talked, they had become just plain Mary Yung and Gianni.
Then they began the waiting again.
8
A T 9:10 A.M. a car rolled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage.
Mary Yung and Gianni watched it from behind the living-room curtains, a blue Chevrolet sedan with a high antenna and yellow
fog lights that cut through the dark-gray morning and steadily falling rain.
A couple of men got out, and Gianni recognized them as the two who had torn apart his loft. Then a third man appeared, carrying
an attache case.
Two weren’t goddamn enough, thought Gianni, and a vein was suddenly pulsing in his neck.
He touched Mary Yung’s shoulder and felt her warmth. Then he left the living room and took his position in the study.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later Gianni heard Mary Yung’s footsteps in the entrance hall and the front door being opened.
Enclosed in his own stillness, Gianni listened to the double charade: the phony agents, playing out their polite ritual of authority… Mary Chan Yung, projecting surprise and concern.
Then Gianni heard them all entering the living room, where the delicate part would be to get the three men seated with their
backs to the door and Mary Yung facing them.
How much suddenly depends on this woman.
Still, using her own subtle blend of charm, deference, and sexuality, Mary Yung seemed to be doing just fine.
And the men?
Without seeing them, Gianni could almost sniff their heat at the prospect of interrogating a woman like Mary Chan Yung. And
that was before they were even exposing her flesh to their dirty little toys. You had to be born to stuff like this.
I’m ready for the sonsofbitches.
He waited for Mary Yung’s signal. As soon as the three agents were properly settled on the couch with their backs to the door,
she would ask if any of them had a cigarette, and Gianni would be off on her words. Mary’s own revolver was tucked just under
the edge of her chair cushion and would be in her hand the instant Gianni appeared.
Their worst-case scenario was that one of the men would suddenly decide to leave the living room and search the house. If
that happened, Mary Yung would warn Gianni by going into a fit of coughing. Then she would pull her gun and cover the agents
until Gianni came in and disarmed
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