A Bitter Feast

by S. J. Rozan

  “And Yang’s still running dissidents for the State Department?”

  “I wonder. If I were them I’d think his cover was pretty well blown and I’d go looking for someone else. And if he really has to start dealing with the union, he hasn’t got so much use for illegals.”

  Bill poured himself a bourbon. “Did you guys tell Peter about Warren Tan and the bomb?”

  “No.” I looked into my glass at the ice cubes, watching the bubbles rise to the surface around them. “Not Peter, not anybody. What good would it do? It’s not like someone who didn’t do it is being blamed for it. And it’s hard enough for the Tans, losing Warren like that, but since he was two they’ve known it could happen. This way at least they can be proud of his memory.”

  Bill nodded slowly, sipping at his bourbon. “To me that sounds very Chinese.”

  “Well, I sort of can’t help it,” I said. “I am Chinese.”

  He peered at me. “No kidding?”

  I stuck out my tongue at him.

  “But why not tell Peter?” Bill asked. “Doesn’t he deserve to know?”

  “That was Mary’s call. She said he deserves not to know. I think she’s afraid it would break his heart.”

  “Some tough cop she turns out to be.”

  “She’s as tough as you are,” I valiantly defended my friend.

  “Uh-huh. Or you. And what about the tea? The Medical Examiner is ready to buy the idea that you people make tea out of something as poisonous as oleander?”

  I shrugged. “It’s hard to keep straight sometimes what’s good for you and what’s poison.”

  Bill put on a CD, a violin and piano playing together, the music, at first, a seamless whole; then each instrument took the lead in turn, and the other provided, effortlessly, it seemed, an accompaniment, sometimes a support, sometimes a counterpoint. I liked the music; it made me smile.

  Bill sat in the easy chair, drawing my attention to the platter of room-temperature Brie with three kinds of crackers. I narrowed my eyes but spread some cheese on a cracker and tried it. Perfectly ripe, perfectly aged.

  “My mother would have a cow if she saw me eating this,” I said.

  “Speaking of cows,” Bill said, “tell me about the fox and the tiger. You didn’t seem to like the story the way the late Duke Lo told it.”

  “‘The Fox Borrowing the Tiger’s Might,’” I named the story for Bill. “Duke Lo left something out.”

  “Which was?”

  “The reason the fox and the tiger went into the forest together, when all the other animals ran away. And the tiger thought they were all afraid of the fox, because the fox told him they were going to be? What they were really afraid of was the tiger, but the tiger didn’t know that. Well, the reason the fox made up the story about everyone being afraid of him was that the tiger was about to eat him. When the tiger saw all the animals afraid of the fox he didn’t eat him.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you think that worked in the long run? Sooner or later the tiger would have figured out he was the one the animals were afraid of. Then he would have gone out hunting for the fox again.”

  Bill’s eyebrows knit as he bit into a cheese-covered cracker. “I’m not sure this is a major point.”

  “Oh no? If Duke Lo was the fox and H. B. Yang’s the tiger, look who’s left standing.”

  I think he was about to admit I was right, but the buzzer on his stove went off. He put on an oven mitt—I didn’t even know he owned an oven mitt—and took the meat loaf out to rest while he turned on a flame to steam the carrots. The tomato-glazed meat loaf filled the room with savory scents. Bill began tossing the salad with a dark dressing full of herbs, and I started to look forward to dinner.

  A Note on Chinese Names

  In Chinese usage, the surname comes first. Most Chinese people have two given names, presented here with a hyphen; although not the modern way, it’s easiest on Western eyes. Many Chinese people in America have an American given name as well. When Lydia Chin speaks or thinks in English, she uses the English order and the American name: “Peter Lee.” Speaking in Chinese, she uses the Chinese order and name: “Lee Bi-Da.” Most Chinese people in this book follow this pattern of speech. The exceptions are recent immigrants, who even in English use the Chinese order of names. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by S. J. Rozan

  CHINA TRADE

  MANDARIN PLAID

  CONCOURSE

  NO COLDER PLACE

  A BITTER FEAST

  STONE QUARRY

  REFLECTING THE SKY

  WINTER AND NIGHT

  OVERWHELMING ACCLAIM FOR S.J. ROZAN

  A BITTER FEAST

  “Engaging, energetic Lydia is good company.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Rozan skillfully measures out the layers of double-dealing, keeping her plot just twisty enough to spin it out with consummate professionalism. If you still don’t know Lydia and Bill, you’ll never have a better chance to meet them.”

  —Kirkus (starred review)

  “Quite a brew indeed, and one that Rozan handles with skill and verve in the most complex plot she has yet written …what may be the best of this uniformly excellent, well-written, and entertaining series.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  NO COLDER PLACE

  “A mystery gem …taut and beautifully written.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “Rozan is a pro at designing a good mystery.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “The protagonists’ relationship and Rozan’s solid plotting ably carry this admirable series.”

  —Publishers Weekly “Best Books ‘97”

  “The unlikely match of energetic Lydia and world-weary Bill has helped establish this couple as an engaging, quixotic pair … This novel firmly establishes Rozan as a major figure in contemporary mystery fiction.”

  —Booklist

  “This [is] the sharpest, clearest, most purposefully focused of her four Smith/Chin mysteries.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A sharp, funny, and sexy detective.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A new and absorbing voice …This is a series to watch for.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “Bill Smith and Lydia Chin have a chemistry between them that is as exciting and electric as any I’ve ever read. Combine that with S. J. Rozan’s sharply drawn portrait of the dark underbelly of New York and you’ve got a book you won’t put down.”

  —Steven Womack, author of Way Past Dead

  “Rozan’s intriguing tales and compelling characters make this series a continuing delight. It’s truly entertainment with an edge.”

  —Flint Journal

  Here’s an excerpt from S. J. Rozan’s latest book

  STONE QUARRY

  Now available from St. Martin’s/Minotaur Paperbacks!

  It can be a treacherous road, State Route 30, especially rain-slick in the twilight of late winter, but I know it well. I sped along its badly-banked curves faster than legal and faster than necessary. I was heading for Antonelli’s; I had plenty of time. I drove that way just for the charge, pushing the road, feeling its rhythm in my fingers, its speed in the current in my spine. Water hissed under my tires and my headlights reflected off the fat raindrops that splattered the blacktop in front of me.

  Years ago, 30 carried a fair amount of tourist traffic, but even then it was people on their way to somewhere else. Now that the state highway slices through the northern part of the county and the Thruway wraps around it, no one passes through Schoharie anymore unless they mean to stop, and not many have a reason to do that. The tourist brochures call this countryside picturesque. If you look closely, though, you’ll see the caved-in roofs and derelict silos, the junked cars and closed roadside diners with their faded billboards. These rocky hills were never good for much except hunting and dairy farming. Farming’s a hard way to mak
e a living, getting harder; and hunters are men like me, who come and go.

  The hiss of water became the crunch of gravel in the lot in front of Antonelli’s. I swung in, parked at the edge. I had Mozart in the CD player, Mitsuko Uchida playing the B-flat Sonata, and I lit a cigarette, opened the window, listened as the music ended in triumph and the exhilaration of promises fulfilled.

  Then I left the car and strolled over to look across the valley. I was early. City habits die hard.

  Hands in my pockets, I let my eyes wander the far hills, asked myself what I was doing. Work wasn’t what this place was about, for me. But on the phone, when Eve Colgate had called, I’d heard something: not her words, clipped and businesslike, but the long, slow melody under them. Raindrops tapped my jacket; a tiny stream ran through the gravel at my feet, searching for the valley.

  Unexpectedly, I thought of Lydia, her voice on the phone when I’d called to tell her I was coming up here, would be away awhile. There was music in Lydia’s voice, too; there always was, though I’d never told her that. She wasn’t surprised or bothered that I was leaving. Over the four years we’ve known each other she’s come to expect this, my sudden irregular disappearances and returns. In the beginning, of course, I never told her when I was going, didn’t call when I got back. Then, we just worked together sometimes; if she needed someone while I was gone, there were other PIs to call. But at some point, and I couldn’t say just when, I’d started calling, to let her know.

  The rain was ending. Wind rolled the high black clouds aside, revealing a sky that was still almost blue. The air was full of the smell of earth and promise, everything ready, tense with waiting. Soon spring would explode through the valley and race up the hills, color and noise engulfing the sharp silence. I stood for a while, watched tiny lights wink on in the windows of distant homes. When the sky was dark I turned and went inside.

  The crowd in Antonelli’s was small and subdued. A golf tournament, all emerald grass and blue sky and palm trees, flickered soundlessly from the TV over the bar. A couple of guys who probably thought golf was a sport were watching it. A few other people were scattered around, at the bar, at the small round tables. None of them was the woman I had come to meet.

  I slid onto a bar stool. Behind the bar, Tony Antonelli, a compact, craggy man whose muscles moved like small boulders under his flannel shirt, was ringing up someone’s tab. He looked over at me and nodded.

  “Figured you were up,” he said, clinking ice into a squat glass. He splashed in a shot of Jim Beam and handed it to me. “Saw smoke from your place yesterday.”

  “Big help you are,” I said. “Whole place could burn down, you’d just watch.”

  “Happens I drove down to make sure your car was there, wise ass. I oughta charge you for the gas.”

  “Put it on my tab.” I drank. “How’s Jimmy?” I asked casually.

  Tony turned, busied himself with glasses and bottles. “Still outta jail.”

  I said nothing. He turned back to me. “Well, that’s what you wanna know, ain’t it? Make sure all your hard work ain’t been wasted?”

  “No,” I said. “I knew that. How is he?”

  “How the hell do I know? He don’t live with me no more; he moved in with some girl. If I see him I’ll tell him you’re askin’.”

  I nodded and worked on my bourbon. Tony opened Rolling Rocks for two guys down the other end of the bar. He racked some glasses, filled a couple of bowls with pretzels. Then he turned, reached the bourbon bottle off the shelf. He put it on the bar in front of me.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It ain’t you. I oughta be thankin’ you, I guess. But that no-good punk pisses the hell outta me. He never shoulda came to you. He gets his ass in trouble, he oughta get it out.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “How come you never gave him a break, Tony?”

  Tony snorted. “I was too busy feedin’ him! What the hell you see to like in that kid, Smith?”

  I grinned. “Reminds me of me.”

  “You musta been one godless bastard.”

  “I was. Only I didn’t have a big brother like you, Tony. I was worse.”

  “Yeah, well, he should’n’a came to you. And don’t think you’re gonna pay that candy-ass lawyer you brought here. I told you to send me his goddamn bill.”

  “Forget it. He owed me.”

  “That’s between you and him. I been bailin’ Jimmy’s ass outta trouble for years; I got no reason to stop now. I don’t like the kid, Smith, but I’m family. You ain’t.”

  I looked at Tony, at the sharp line of his jaw, his brows bristling over his deep-set eyes. “No,” I said slowly. “No, I’m not.” I poured myself another drink, took the drink and the bottle to a table in the corner, and sat down to wait for Eve Colgate.

  Another bourbon and a cigarette later, the door opened and a tall, gray-haired woman stepped into the smoky room. No heads turned, no conversations stopped. She looked around her, reviewing and dismissing each face until she came to mine. She stayed still for a moment, with no change of expression; then she came toward me, contained, controlled. She wore a down vest over a black sweater, old, stained jeans, muddy boots. I stood.

  “Mr. Smith?” She offered her hand. Her grip was sure, her hand rough. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Sit down.” I held a chair for her.

  “Thank you.” She smiled slightly. “Men don’t do this much anymore—help ladies into their seats.”

  “I was born in Kentucky. What are you drinking?”

  “Tony keeps a bottle of Gran Capitan under the bar for me.” The skin of her face was lined like paper that someone had crumpled and then, in a moment of regret, tried to smooth out again. Her blunt, shoulder-length hair was a dozen shades of gray, from almost-black to almost-white. I went to get her drink.

  Tony gestured across the room with his eyes as he poured Eve Colgate’s brandy. “You know her?”

  “Just met. Why?”

  “I meant to tell you she was askin’ about you, coupla days ago. Wondered about it, at the time. She don’t usually talk to nobody. Comes in alone, has a shot, leaves alone. Maybe sometimes she talks cows or apples with somebody. She ain’t—I don’t know.” He shook his head over what he didn’t know. “But she’s got money.”

  “My type, Tony.” I picked up her brandy from the bar.

  “Hey!” Tony said as I turned. I turned back. “You ain’t workin’ for her?”

  “Nah. She just thinks I’m cute.”

  “With a puss like you got?” Tony muttered as I walked away.

  Eve Colgate’s mouth smiled as I put her drink on the scarred tabletop. Her eyes were doing work of their own. They were the palest eyes I’d ever seen, nearly colorless. They probed my face, my hands, swept over the room around us, followed my movements as I drank or lit a cigarette. When they met my eyes they paused, for a moment. They widened slightly, almost imperceptibly, and I thought for no reason of the way a dark room is revealed by a lightning flash, and how much darker it is, after that.

  I smoked and let Eve Colgate’s eyes play. I didn’t meet them again. She took a breath, finally, and spoke, with the cautious manner of a carpenter using a distrusted tool.

  “I’m not sure how to begin.” She sipped her brandy. If I had a dollar for every client who started that way I could have had a box at Yankee Stadium, but there was a difference. They usually said it apologetically, as if they expected me to expect them to know how to begin. Eve Colgate was stating a fact that I could take or leave.

  “I called you on a matter difficult for me to speak about. I don’t know you, and I don’t know that I want you closely involved in my—in my personal affairs. However, I don’t seem to have many options, and all of them are poor. You may be the best of them.”

  “That’s flattering.”

  She looked at me steadily. “Don’t be silly. I can’t pretend to welcome the intrusion you represent. I’m too old to play games for the sake of your pride, Mr. Smith. I may need you, but I can’t s
ee any reason to be pleased about it.”

  I couldn’t either, so I let it go.

  She went on, her words clipped. “However, things are as they are. At this point, Mr. Smith, I’d like to know something more about you. All I have up to now are other people’s opinions, and that’s not enough. Is this acceptable?”

  “Maybe. It depends on what you want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you what I do know. I know you bought Tony’s father’s cabin ten years ago. You come up here irregularly, sometimes for long periods. Tony says you’re moody and you drink. Other than that he speaks very highly of you. I understand you helped get his brother out of serious trouble recently—and went to considerable trouble to do it.”

  “The kid deserved a chance. He was in over his head in something he didn’t understand. I bought that cabin twelve years ago. I sleep in the nude.”

  She looked at me sharply over her brandy. Her movements were small and economical. In contrast to her eyes, her body was composed and still.

  “And are you always rude to your clients?” she asked.

  “More often than I’d like to be.” I refilled my glass from Tony’s bottle. “I’ve been a private investigator for sixteen years, twelve in my own shop. Before that I was carpenter. I’ve been to college and in the Navy. I drink, I smoke, I eat red meat. That’s it.”

  “I doubt it,” said Eve Colgate. “Have you a family, Mr. Smith?”