The Finder

by Colin Harrison

  But Victor had a bad feeling. The strange phone call telling him that the caller knew what he did. The also very strange phone call for Richie from "his cousin." Richie had never mentioned a cousin! The way Richie had been acting, like he knew something was up. The way some of the Mexican workers looked at Vic. He didn't like it. He got the feeling there was a problem.

  But the worst thing was the light in the bedroom last night. He was right about that, too. Somebody had been in the house. Cleaning up with Clorox, fucking around with the vacuum cleaner. After he left with Sharon and before he came back. He could smell the Clorox. He'd gone over everything carefully before putting Richie in the bag. Found the basement door cut open. That was the clincher. Somebody had been there, checking Richie out, doing something no good, knew about what had happened.

  Which is what Vic wanted to talk about with Ears now, in a general way. The baseball-field bleachers were the best place to meet again. In the open air. Safe, low-key. So he'd put in the call that morning, and now Ears appeared at the edge of the grass, shielded his eyes, and shambled slowly toward the bleachers. A big man with big ears and hands and knees. A gut that exploded. Fat-bango, your stomach is huge. The kielbasy and pasta and beer and steaks and clams marinara sloshing around in there like his stomach was a washing machine, with a little porthole window like Victor's mother's machine used to have. He'd put a cat in there once as a kid, and when it was dead, he cut off the head and slipped it into a kid's lunch box at school. Nice. You used to be a nice boy, his mother had said, but they both knew she was lying. I was never nice, Vic reflected, I never had the chance.

  Now Ears climbed the bleacher steps.

  "Hey."

  "Fucking knees," said Ears, sitting down. "Since when do I come to you?"

  "Since I asked."

  "Let's say we ran into one another."

  "You can say anything you like."

  "What's the problem, why the attitude? I know I got to pay you tonight."

  "Someone's on to me, Ears."

  "Who?"

  "Don't know. Your guy?" said Victor.

  "Not my guy. If it was my guy, you'd be dead by now."

  "Thanks a fucking lot."

  "Those girls actually died."

  "I guess they did," Victor said.

  "But just two Mexican girls."

  "You seen Richie around?" asked Victor. "He missed work."

  "Nope."

  "So I think whoever set this thing up is, like, getting anxious about it. Afraid it's going to come back to them."

  Ears shrugged. "You think that, why?"

  "Like I said, somebody is on to it."

  "What's that got to do with your dear old friend Ears?"

  "I want you to tell me who set this up."

  "Originally? I don't know. It came down from above. The moon, the stars."

  Victor stared at him. "Who spoke to you, Ears?"

  "You know I don't have to answer that."

  "I got my theories."

  Ears shrugged.

  "Some guy is hunting me. How did he find me? Somebody is setting me up. Maybe he wants my gas station for himself, you know what I'm saying?"

  "Hey, Victor, this is sounding, what, a little wacko, you know?"

  Victor sat still, not answering. Maybe Ears knew something, maybe he didn't. Somebody was nosing around. Not a cop, but someone else. Somebody working for somebody. Somebody you never heard of, Victor, which is exactly what you always were afraid of. Seemed to know his way around. Not good. Victor didn't like it. He had a feeling that Ears knew exactly what was going on, too. Whack Victor, grab the gas station for himself. Send the killer back to Florida or wherever he came from. Untraceable. Unsolvable, now that Richie was gone. It all made sense now.

  "Know what?" Victor said.

  "Yeah."

  "You're right, I'm fucking wacko. Paranoid."

  "There you go." Ears nodded. "I told you, don't worry."

  "Anyway, we got a little date tonight."

  "I'll have the cash. Some nice girls there tonight, too."

  "What time, ten, eleven?"

  "Hell, I can go late. Wife and kids are at her mother's."

  "Midnight?"

  Ears stood to go. "I'll see you then."

  Victor shook his hand. Firmly, no bullshit. With a nod of the head. So Ears could relax. Solid. Reaffirming trust.

  And the last time I'm ever going to do that, Victor thought.

  17

  I like New York, realized Chen as he walked past horse carriages waiting at the edge of Central Park for tourists. Now I understand why people visit here, even people from China. New York was not as good as Shanghai, of course, but everyone knew that. New York was old, now, losing strength, and Shanghai would soon be the world's greatest city. Want proof? New York hadn't even rebuilt the World Trade Center and it was many years since it had been destroyed. In Shanghai, the government would have rebuilt those buildings in a year and made them bigger. But of course that was expectable now, for China's economy was growing three times faster than any other country's and would be the leading global power within ten or fifteen years. Especially since America had wasted so many resources in the war in Iraq. And kept borrowing money, weakening the dollar year by year. He knew that some people said that Russia would come back up, because it had oil and because global warming would strengthen its agriculture, but he had been to Moscow and St. Petersburg and it seemed to him that Russians were weak and drank too much. They had problems with drugs, too. He had also been to Paris and London and Berlin and Rome, among other places, and it was his objective, well-educated opinion that these cities were slowly dying and could in no way compare to Shanghai. But of course the real reason was that Asians were smarter than whites. All the tests proved it! The Americans knew this, too, which was why they wanted Asian immigrants. To lift the average. To compete with China!

  He walked along the southern edge of the park toward the Time Warner building. Later he would do some shopping at Saks. He had three girlfriends, each the same size, and he'd decided just to get three of everything and give one of each to each girl. Of course, anything you could buy in New York you could buy in China, but they would be excited to see the Saks box and wrapping paper.

  Chen stopped at a park bench and pulled out his phone, which worked in America, of course. You could get that, you just had to pay more. He dialed Ray Grant's house, and a woman answered.

  "Ray Grant, please."

  "The older Ray Grant can't come to the phone," she said. "I assume you mean the younger Ray Grant."

  "Yes, that is correct," he said, being careful about his pronunciation.

  "Just a minute please."

  "Hello?" came a male voice.

  "Ray Grant?"

  "Yes?"

  "This is Chen."

  "Well, hello there, Chen. I don't remember giving you this number."

  "I am calling to hear from you how you are finding Jin Li."

  "I am working on things," said Ray.

  "I expect you will find her. I am now waiting."

  "I told you I'm working on it."

  "When do you expect to be finding her?"

  "Soon."

  "That is good. I need her for my business work."

  "I'm sure she misses working for you."

  "My men almost found her. She was living in a building filled with papers and old stuff."

  "Sounds like you're doing fine without me."

  "No, no. I want for you to find Jin Li."

  "I want to find her, too."

  "Maybe my men come to help you find Jin Li."

  "I don't need them."

  "They are hate you, and if I say to do it they will come get you, or come hurt your father."

  "That would be a very bad idea."

  He remembered the injuries to his men. They feared this Ray Grant now, he knew. "I will call you in two days. I want you to be a successful finder of my sister by then. Do you understand? Two days, I call."

  R
ay Grant hung up.

  When Chen returned to the apartment in the Time Warner building, his men were in the living room watching television. They stood immediately when he came in.

  "Boss, you had a delivery while you were out," one of his men said.

  "What is it?"

  The man shrugged. "The building guys say we have to give them very big tip so we did. One hundred dollars for each man."

  "Get it."

  The men pushed in an enormous wooden crate on wheels. Made of fine lumber, nearly fifteen feet long and six feet high, it carried elaborate markings written in both English and Chinese about how to dismantle it, as well as the tools necessary attached to the crate itself. The box itself was a piece of expert carpentry. The men set to work on it and a few minutes later the crate's sides dropped away to reveal a huge and magnificent bull with horns, ferocious eyes, and flared nostrils, one hoof lifted and long tail raised in aggressive passion.

  The bull was plated in gold. Such a thing must have cost, what-hundreds of thousands of dollars?

  A tasseled rope hung around the bull's neck, holding an elegant silk pouch.

  "Bring me that bag," Chen ordered.

  The pouch was removed and handed to him. He excused everyone, then opened the bag and removed a note written in flowing Chinese calligraphy on elegant yellow stationery with a blue border. The stroke work had been performed at a very high level. At the bottom was a New York address and phone number.

  The note read:

  Mr. Chen,

  Imagine my pleasure when I heard that you were in New York. I have admired your recent accomplishments in China but have always been too shy to tell you. Please accept this modest gift as my way of welcoming you to New York, where we often hope for a "bull market." This term may not be well-known to you. It means we hope there is optimism in stocks and business. Of course China right now is enjoying its own "bull market." I am sure you are very proud of your country. I would deem it a great honor if you would be my guest to dinner so that we might discuss mutually beneficial opportunities.

  Yours sincerely,

  William Martz

  Chen ran his hand along the raised backbone of the sculpture. He had to admit he was impressed that a New York businessman had found him, and so quickly. This was the way international business should be done, with a token of respect and graciousness. He would find out who this Martz was and whether the man was worth any of his time. The gift of the bull suggested the answer was yes.

  18

  Every city has bad places. And this is one of them, Ray thought as he drove right into the Victorious Sewerage yard, the smells of excrement and diesel exhaust coming in his window. He hopped out of his truck and walked up to the construction trailer set in the back. The sign said, BEWARE OF DOG. He pulled open the door. A middle-aged secretary looked up. She had a lot of makeup on, considering where she worked.

  "Hey, I'm looking for Richie," he said.

  "Haven't seen him."

  "But he works here."

  "I don't know where he is. Let me call." She picked up the phone. "Victor, there's a man out here… looking for Richie." She nodded, hung up. "What's your name?"

  Ray didn't answer.

  The secretary didn't like this, he knew. She picked up the phone. "Victor, maybe you should get out here now, you know?"

  The door behind her desk swung open and out stepped a man taller and older than Ray, muscular and lean, a thumb inside his belt. He had thick black hair and was chewing cinnamon gum. "Yeah?" he said to Ray.

  "I'm looking for Richie."

  "He ain't here." He stopped chewing, frowned. "You call earlier?"

  We're recognizing each other, thought Ray. That's what's happening. "No. Where is he?"

  "Don't know. Should have reported to work."

  "You know a girl named Sharon?" Ray ventured.

  The receptionist watched Victor's eyes anxiously.

  "Mister, we're busy here and it's time for you to leave." Victor took a step forward. "What's your name again?"

  Ray shook his head. "Can't give you that. But I can tell you Sharon says she had a great time with Richie the other night. A great time. Hot. A smoking hot time."

  Victor's mouth was frozen. He didn't blink, studying Ray, his body, his stance.

  "What d'you mean?"

  "Richie will know. Ask him."

  Victor twisted his head as if looking at a bad TV picture. Ray watched as his chest rose and fell more quickly, the subtle enlargement of his pupils, his brain juicing him up for a fight.

  "One more part of the message, if you don't mind."

  "Yeah?"

  "Tell Sharon's boyfriend he needs to work on his golf game."

  Victor nodded coldly. "I see."

  "Just tell him that."

  Ray gave the secretary a polite smile and stepped quickly out of the office, alert to any movement behind him, and opened his truck. In the rearview mirror he could see Victor standing in the trailer window, talking into a walkie-talkie. Almost immediately a man stepped out of a shack nearby and hopped into one of the huge tank trucks. A blast of diesel smoke shot from his stack as he started up. But Ray was too quick for him, already had the pickup truck in third gear and gunned it across the gravel, slamming over the ruts, toward the turnout to the avenue. The green truck bolted for the same spot, but Ray got there first, even as the truck's bumper crushed the back panel of the red pickup, kicking it sideways. Ray fishtailed forward through the gap into the avenue, almost hitting an ice cream truck tinkling its mechanical ditty, and moments later was way down the avenue, gone but not forgotten.

  He dropped the truck at his father's and walked to the subway with his old fireman's equipment bag. The train would be the fastest way to get to the East Side of Manhattan this time of day. Sitting in the rocking car, he studied the subway map, his eyes drawn to the World Trade Center site. It always made him feel strange taking the subway so close to what had happened. He'd never gone back, never stood at the site and thought and remembered. Something about the ceremonies and political speeches had made him uneasy. The pile had burned for one hundred days. A lot of the firemen and construction workers who worked the site were getting sick now, had breathed in all sorts of terrible stuff, pieces of plastic and bone tissue and chemical compounds no one had ever seen before. I don't think I've dealt with the whole thing, Ray thought. Maybe I just ran away. Maybe I felt guilty about Wickham. Things got a little foggy after he was released from the hospital. His memory wasn't even perfectly coherent. He'd lost weight, some of the skin grafts had to be redone, and his leg hurt still. He'd taken a leave from the fire department. And also attended forty-six funerals, some of them with his father. He felt guilty for not going to work; the department told him that he would always have a job. The FD desk shrinks made him come in six times, handed him a lot of printed materials. His personal shrink was a woman in her fifties with tired eyes. She wore no makeup. "Frankly, I feel like just drifting away," Ray finally told her.

  "Why don't you?" she said.

  "Well, the guys-"

  "The guys will understand," she said. "And if they don't, who cares?"

  He sat there in silence.

  "Let me tell you something, Ray Grant Jr. I've read your whole file, of course. The FD doesn't want you back right now, not like this. You're deeply traumatized. By 9/11 itself, then by being trapped, then by having your partner die on top of you. Yes, I know about that. We don't know if you're a busted fireman. We don't know what you're going to do when it comes right down to it. And you know what? Neither do you. You don't know much right now. My suggestion is that you go on official indefinite leave. You're not disabled, although we could probably get some kind of mental health exception, though I don't recommend it. You could take a leave and when you felt you could come back, you could take the physical again, retrain and recertify, then get assigned to a company. The union will make sure that happens. But you need to drift away, as you put it."

  He nodded uneasil
y. "You've seen a lot of guys like me?"