A Bitter Feast

by S. J. Rozan

  Oh, well. Time was a-wasting. If Joe Yee and Cao Zhi discovered the missing men were missing, and with them the missing kilos, they might go to Joe Yee’s pal H. B. Yang, who’d go to Duke Lo, all of which might spoil my attempt to get Duke Lo’s voice on tape saying “Yes, that dope is mine.” Mary, I was sure, would understand and approve of my decision not to wait for Bill, which I would tell her about as soon as all this was over and she’d gotten so many NYPD points for hauling in a fish the size of Duke Lo that she couldn’t possibly yell at me.

  So I zipped over to my office, waved at the Golden Adventure ladies, stuck my palm recorder in my pocket, and dashed across Chinatown from my office way beyond the old western border to Zhen Rong, way beyond the eastern one.

  When I reached the building on East Broadway I stood for a moment, just looking. It seemed, in the almost-faded light, a little droopy, worn out perhaps from the crowded, noisy, immigrant life going on in the apartments upstairs, cooking and TV, children doing their homework at the kitchen table, bachelors living eight to a room, families working toward the dream of moving out to a better place, and families moving in for whom this was a better place.

  I took a breath and went in.

  The front room was more sparsely populated than it had been yesterday, but otherwise it was the same: men drinking tea and whiskey, playing cards, smoking cigarettes. Some of the men were the same, and obviously recognized me; some were not, and stared. My heart was pounding harder than it had yesterday, and I was alone, but otherwise I was the same, too.

  I bowed the bow I had used the first time, glancing around quickly to see who was there. Finding the face I had hoped to find, I spoke to the man in the easy chair, the older man who had silently guided Bill and me into Duke Lo’s inner sanctum.

  “I’m Chin Ling Wan-ju,” I said in English, reminding him. “I was here yesterday, to see Lo Da-Qi.”

  His eyes fixed on mine, the man didn’t respond at first, then he nodded.

  “I would like to see him again,” I said. “I have something of interest to discuss with him.”

  A few of the other men whispered to one another, and I heard a snicker from the corner. The eyes of the man I was speaking to flashed over there, and the snicker stopped. Silently, he stood and walked to the back, opening the door in the wall and then closing it behind him, as he had done yesterday. I waited under the watchful eyes of a dozen Fukienese men, not looking at any of them. When the door in the wall opened again and the silent man beckoned me in, I was more than ready to go.

  Duke Lo sat this time not in the easy chair, but behind his hefty desk. The drapes once again hung closed across the window and the air was overfull of the scents of old cigarette smoke, tea, and leather upholstery. The silent man closed the door and left us. Duke Lo smiled a smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. He waved me to a seat opposite him. He did not stand.

  “Lydia Chin, to see you again so soon,” he said brightly, speaking in English as we had the first time. “Certainly, I am a fortunate man!”

  I took the chair across the desk. “Perhaps,” I said, “we are both fortunate.”

  “I hope so, I hope so.” Duke Lo rubbed his hands together, then settled them both on the desk. “But where is your husband?”

  “He’s busy,” I told him. “He sends his regrets. He’s sorry he wasn’t able to join me in this visit.” I was sure that once Bill found out where I was that would be true, and it gave Duke Lo the idea that Bill knew I was here.

  “I’m sorry also.” Duke Lo took a cigarette from a gold case, lit it without offering one to me. “I would like to know him better.” He dropped his match almost gleefully into a brown glass ashtray. “The husband of Lydia Chin, what an interesting man he must be!”

  If you lay it on any thicker I’ll need a shovel, I thought. Well, time to get down to business.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’ve met a lot of interesting men recently.”

  “Have you?” Duke Lo’s eyes behind his glasses were pleasantly open and expectant. “Really, have you?”

  “Oh, yes. I met three men just today, for example. Living in such a strange place. And with such fascinating possessions.”

  Before Duke Lo could answer me the door opened and a young man came in carrying a teapot and cups on a lacquered tray. There were no sweets this time. Duke Lo watched the young man set the tray down and leave. He turned to me. “Please,” he said. He reached for the pot, poured two cups of tea, and handed one to me. “Please, have some tea while you tell me about these interesting men. What is the strange place they live in?”

  “Oh,” I answered, sipping my tea, which was as flat and unexceptional as the tea yesterday had been, “it was strange but foolish. Nothing worth the attention of such a busy and distinguished man as yourself.” Gosh, Lydia, I thought, you’re throwing it around here with the greatest of ease yourself. “But their possessions are a different matter. Fascinating.” I put my cup back in the saucer in my palm. “Sadly,” I said, looking into Duke Lo’s eyes, “I think they’ve fallen on hard times. They seem very interested in selling some of their things.”

  “Selling some things?” Duke Lo’s eyes twinkled, but not, it seemed to me, in the way of Christmas lights. “That could be sad, certainly. Or”—his face became thoughtful—“or it could mean better fortune for them than they might have expected.”

  Good. That was the first hurdle overcome; he was willing to talk about it, anyway.

  “It’s hard to tell the outcome at the start,” I agreed. I put my half-empty teacup back on the tray. Duke Lo made no effort to pour me a new cup of tea, so I picked up the pot and did it for myself. When I was done I put the pot down, settled back in my chair, and sipped. “These men,” I said, “they have one item in particular that they’re anxious to see once again in the hands of its former owner.”

  “Is that true? What is this item?” Duke Lo sipped at his own tea, cigarette still going in his other hand.

  “It came here on a ship,” I said. “One of these interesting men was on the same ship. But it isn’t clear to them who the thing belongs to.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. They’ve been told, I have to tell you, that it’s yours. That such … turtle’s eggs … would be in possession of an item that was once yours,” I said, sipping my new cup of the dull tea—how far you do go for your art, Lydia, I patted myself on the back mentally—“is something I find hard to believe. I told them it’s more likely to belong to the man who owned the ship.”

  Duke Lo laughed, sharp and loud. “The man who owned the ship? They would certainly be fools to believe that.”

  “That’s what one of them told me. He said he thought it was a business arrangement, that the man who owned the ship was paid to transport goods—for you—the same way he was paid to transport people. That you paid for its crossing but the item is yours. I said, however, that you and the ship owner must be partners in this importing enterprise.”

  Duke Lo laughed again. As quickly as his laugh had started, it stopped. “Partners! The ship owner is a fool.”

  “Well,” I said, “but people sometimes go into partnerships with fools. If he’s useful to you—”

  “A man stupid enough to be useful without even knowing it, why would I make a man like that my partner?”

  This is H. B. Yang we’re talking about here, I thought, but I focused on a different problem. “Without knowing it? I don’t understand.”

  “The fox borrowing the tiger’s might,” Duke Lo said with a smug little smile.

  I almost spit my tea across the room, but in a supreme display of professionalism I maintained my control. My mother would have been proud.

  “Please,” I said, swallowing, “I still don’t understand.”

  “Oh, Lydia Chin, showing your lack of traditional knowledge!” Duke Lo wagged his finger at me. “The fox and the tiger went through the forest together. All the other creatures fled, yes, they fled. The fox had the way cleared for him by his as
sociation with the tiger. The tiger, formidable but never smart, did not understand what a service he had done for the fox. But why would the fox explain?”

  That wasn’t how I’d heard it, I thought, but okay.

  “Lydia Chin,” Duke Lo said briskly, “enough games. Tell me where to find this item.”

  “Maybe it isn’t yours,” I said. “Shouldn’t we make clear what it is, to make sure we’re both talking about the same thing?”

  He paused, and smiled. “Maybe it is not mine,” he said, relaxing back into his chair. “No, maybe not. But perhaps I want to be generous. Perhaps I’d like to help these men, men you say are in a bad position—although if they are, I’m sure it’s a result of their own disloyalty and stupidity. Ah, but this is America.” Duke Lo smiled again, in a way that made me want to pull my jacket more tightly around myself. “And a hound that bites his master, though he cannot be trusted, can be useful in other ways.”

  “In what ways?” I couldn’t help asking.

  His eyes became ice above his smile. “He can be cooked for food.”

  Oh, I thought. Maybe I’d better mention that to the truculent Yuan Lee.

  Duke Lo went on. “So, whether the item is mine or not, yes, yes, I’d like to help. As to what exactly it is, let me be surprised! I like surprises very much, very much—as long as they are pleasant ones.”

  Duke Lo waited, his eyes glittering behind his glasses.

  So much for getting someone in this room to say “heroin.” He wasn’t going to mention the word, and he’d be suspicious if I tried to bring it up again.

  “That’s kind of you,” I said. “I’m sure the men will be pleased. But they do have one fear.”

  “Have they? What is their fear?”

  “They are superstitious men,” I said apologetically, “and they have strange beliefs. They think that this item is protecting them. They’re worried that if they give it up—if, for example, you obtain it—then they will be in danger.”

  “Ah. No, I think they are quite wrong. I feel sure, in fact, that giving up this item is the only safe path for these men. Although it certainly matters who they give it to.”

  “And giving it to you will guarantee their safety?”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” I said. I wasn’t sure I personally would take Duke Lo’s guarantee to the bank, especially in view of the idea of cooking the hounds, but we both knew what I meant. “When you say ‘help,’” I asked him, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

  Duke Lo appeared to think about it. “Where is this item?”

  “Actually,” I said, lying through my teeth, “I don’t know. They’ve moved it. They were worried about its security, you understand.”

  “Its security?”

  “The authorities,” I said portentously, “would also be interested in it, if they found it.”

  “Would they?” he asked, as if this idea were new to him. “In that case, please satisfy my curiosity: why haven’t you, Lydia Chin, gone to the authorities? Doing that would no doubt put them in your debt. Given your profession, that might be valuable. Yes”—he nodded,—“it might.”

  “Given my profession,” I said, “it’s hard to make a decent living. That kind of debt is, you’ll pardon me, worthless. A sound business relationship with Lo Da-Qi, on the other hand, could be something quite valuable. Especially”—my teacup rattled as I put it on the desk—“in view of the current, shall I say, changing situation here in Chinatown.”

  He smiled again. “I understand. I do understand. Lydia Chin: remarkable!” He rolled his cigarette out in the brown ashtray. “About the item: you don’t know where it is?”

  “Not now, no. In fact, I don’t know where the men are, either.” I continued to lie like a rug. “They got tired of the interesting place they were living in, you see. But,” I ad-libbed, thinking furiously, “we discussed this situation. If you’re interested in regaining the item, perhaps you would be good enough to offer a reward for their trouble in preserving it for you. Out of your generosity, of course. I might find a way to convey your offer to them.”

  “Of course.” His smile said he’d been expecting this. “Do they have a figure in mind?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” I said without blinking. “They understand the item is worth far more than that, but they aren’t greedy. They will be pleased to see it back in your hands.”

  He didn’t blink either. “Thirty,” he said.

  I pursed my lips as if in thought. “Thirty is very low,” I said. “The men might not believe that the rightful owner of the item would treat it so casually, to offer so little. They might begin to worry that it wasn’t really yours.”

  “Ah. Well, I wouldn’t want them to worry, no, I wouldn’t. Perhaps, then, yes, perhaps forty. Ten thousand each for the men for returning the item to me. Ten thousand for you, Lydia Chin, for your trouble.” His glittering eyes rested on mine. Twenty-five percent. Quite a go-between’s fee. I had a rug merchant’s urge to negotiate, to try to force him up just to see if I could, but, I reminded myself, the money wasn’t actually the point here.

  “All right,” I said, trying to seem a little greedy, a little intimidated. “I’m sure the men will agree.”

  At that point an inspiration hit me. I was helpless, powerless to resist it, even though I knew as I spoke that Mary would surely kill me. “The men,” I said, “will give the item to me and I’ll bring it to you. Not here, of course.”

  He looked around his inner sanctum and smiled. “Not here?”

  “No. Bill would never permit it.” I gave him a shamefaced smile and wished I had the ability to blush becomingly on cue. “He feels East Broadway is a dangerous street to cross if you’re carrying a package. Also,” I went on, tossing my head, “if we’re going to do business together, I would insist that you allow me to honor you with a feast on the occasion of our first transaction. Not at Happy Pavilion, of course; I wouldn’t dream of making you feel responsible in any way for this event.”

  Duke Lo, still smiling, nodded at this delicacy of feeling on my part. “Where, then?”

  “At No. 8 Pell Street,” I said.

  His smile grew broader. He poured himself a cup of tea and held the pot out, offering to top off mine. Pouring for himself before his guest was so rude that I was tempted to match his rudeness by refusing his offer, but I held myself in check, smiled sweetly, and put my cup under the spout.

  Duke Lo would understand why I was unwilling to make the exchange at Happy Pavilion, his territory. He also knew the standing of No. 8 Pell Street, as did everyone in Chinatown who needed to know these things.

  “This is not necessary,” he said, offering the standard demurral. Under most circumstances this would indicate a becoming modesty on his part, though now there was also a reassurance involved I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to buy.

  “Oh,” I said, “but I insist.”

  “Very well,” Duke Lo answered. “This is most generous of you. Will I have the honor of meeting your three interesting friends at this feast?”

  “They, unfortunately, won’t be there. Bill will, though; he will absolutely insist on coming.” I knew how deeply that was true. “And please invite any of your associates you like, to make up our party.” That was to let him know I was not about to front-load this feast with bodyguards or henchmen of my own; that I was inviting his people to be the majority of our party would imply to him that I really did want to just do business.

  Duke Lo smiled some more, his eyes glinting, and told me again how unnecessary and hospitable this was. I smiled also, and repeated that I insisted. He asked me, as the host, what day and hour I had in mind. I wanted to say “Breakfast!” but restrained myself and suggested lunch the following day, twelve o’clock.

  “Ah!” Duke Lo said, smiling a last, dazzling smile of delight. “High noon!”

  So that was how we set it up. Things all fine and dandy between us, Duke Lo and
I parted company, he remaining in his curtained, carpeted hideaway and me stepping gratefully back out to the traffic-swept, pedestrian-choked, breezy nighttime streets of Chinatown.

  Blocks away, back near home, I took myself to a little tea shop I know and got a cup of tea, drinkable tea, jasmine tea. I wondered, as I selected a red bean bun to go with it, and then a couple of almond cookies to go with that, what was wrong with Duke Lo that he drank such lousy tea. Then it occurred to me that his usual visitors were probably men, and like men everywhere trying to outmacho one another, he probably served them whiskey or rice wine. Tea was most likely reserved for older men who appreciated the propriety of it, and for the occasional upstart woman like me.

  Well, I’ll show you who’s an upstart, your dukeship, I thought as I felt my jasmine tea flowing directly into my veins. It jolted my tired body into a sense of alert readiness, though I knew that wouldn’t last long. And speaking of alert readiness and outmachoing each other, I bit into the red bean bun and while I was enjoying the warm, sweet chewiness I checked my beeper.

  Bill had called, from home.

  I moved my operation from the front to the back, to the phone booth there. It’s the old-fashioned kind of phone booth, with a door that closes and a little shelf for your tea and cookies and the pile of extra quarters you’d just gotten with your change. I moved in, shut the door, sipped my tea, and weighed my quarters in my hand. Bill or Mary? Mary or Bill?

  I called, Bill answered.

  “Duke Lo?” he demanded as soon as he knew it was me. “Did you really go see that guy again?”

  “I tried to find you,” I protested, to head him off. “I left a message so you’d know where I was. It had to be quick, that’s all. And I told him you knew I was there. He seemed to be very impressed with you.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure he was. We’ll work this out another time: obviously, you survived. What happened?”