The Partner Track: A Novel by Helen Wan Read Free Book Online

snort. He glared at me, threw his hands up in the air, and shrugged. “Look, lady, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. So just get out of my face.”
    “I’m talking about when you called me a chink back there, you fuck. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”
    He paused for a second, then put his hairy hands on his knees and laughed. “You’re crazy.” And then he stood up. He was much bigger than he’d looked sitting down. I felt a hot rush of panic, but I stared him down until he turned his back on me and pretended to busy himself with a row of postcard-size prints.
    For the first time I got a real look at what he was selling. They were amateurish, cartoonishly bad pictures—portraits, I suppose—of dogs and women. Sometimes alone, sometimes together in the same scene. The dogs were all cast with human characteristics: dogs driving taxis, dogs selling newspapers, dogs drinking beer, dogs playing football. Ironically, none playing poker. I almost laughed.
    The women in his paintings were all nude and large-breasted. What a surprise. I glanced down at the biggest watercolor, the one closest to me. It showed a voluptuous blond woman, naked and spread-eagled on a motel bed. A dog was lying next to her, smoking a cigarette.
    He saw me eyeing it. “Oh, you like that one, eh? Yeah, it’s one of my personal favorites. Five hundred dollars,” he said, his lips twisted into a mocking smile. He was enjoying himself. He looked me languidly up and down, his eyes lingering on my breasts. “But for you—eh, I’ll let you have it for an even twenty,” he said with an exaggerated wink. “I got a special discount today for the pretty Chinese girls.” He jerked his chin roughly at me. “You’re Chinese, right?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Or is it Japanese? Or Korean?” He smirked and waved dismissively. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter. You people all look the same.”
    BAM!!!!
    I’d plunged the pointy tip of my alligator pump all the way through the painting. Reflexively, I’d bent my knee and drawn my foot all the way back, then snapped my leg sharply out and forward, making contact at the precise angle I’d perfected so many soccer practices ago. I still had damn good aim. Pretty decent form, too. Coach would have been proud. I’d landed my kick in the dead center of the canvas, leaving a large, ragged hole. I’d taken out the cigarette-smoking dog completely, and half of the naked woman, too.
    The man dropped to his knees in front of his painting, waving his arms and yelling. “What the fuck? What the fuck! ”
    I was dazedly inspecting my right shoe, which, impressively, wasn’t damaged—see, that’s why you pay for top quality—when the guy threw his ruined canvas onto the ground and came toward me. His face was red and shiny.
    I tried to back away, but my legs refused to obey me, and I remained rooted to the spot.
    The sidewalk artist took two lurching steps toward me.
    “Easy, buddy,” I heard a gruff male voice say.
    I whirled around to see Ted Lassiter standing directly behind me. He pulled a money clip from the pocket of his perfectly draped gray suit. The sidewalk artist suddenly looked unsure of what to do, and Lassiter took advantage of his momentary arrest to peel a single twenty from a thick wad of bills. He crumpled it into the other man’s palm. “I believe this was your going rate.”
    The sidewalk artist looked too bewildered to respond.
    Lassiter turned to me with a broad grin. I grinned right back at him.
    As we crossed Lexington Avenue, Lassiter clapped me on the shoulder, in exactly the same way he’d greeted Marty Adler at our first meeting.
    “Come on, Slugger. We’re late.”

 
    FOUR
     
    I padded into my kitchen and opened the stainless-steel fridge. The immaculate shelves stared back at me, empty save for a carton of orange juice, a takeout container of chicken tikka masala, an ancient Chobani yogurt, and— bingo! —a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The