by S. J. Rozan
“What?”
“You sell things down the river. When you get arrested you get sent up the river.”
“What if the river’s like the Hudson and flows both ways?”
“Hmm. Good question.” Bill poured me more red wine.
“Stop,” I told him. “Don’t waste that. I’m going home with you anyway.”
“Just trying to ease the pain of your day.” He moved the bottle to his own glass.
“I don’t think a bottle of wine will do it. Unless I could break it over Tim’s head. Or maybe Ironman’s.” I speared some linguine. “And Mel Wu! Who’d have thought it? My brother’s got a crush on a tall Chinese American social justice attorney.”
“Why not? She’s pretty, smart, self-possessed, classy—”
I stopped the pasta on its way to my mouth. “That’s why not! Tim hasn’t dated anyone except vacuous giggly little blondes since he asked Sophia Wong out in third grade and she turned him down.”
“Mel Wu speaks his language. Law book.”
“True.” I ate that pasta forkful and another, then sighed. “I actually feel sorry for him. Not even counting Mel, here are two things he really cares about, Chinatown and Harriman McGill, on opposing sides with him in the middle.”
“Kind of like you, with me and your mother.”
“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit there.”
“I’d be happy to come over to her side, you know.”
“Don’t take it up with me. I’m just the net.” I gave him a sharp glance. “Don’t take it up with her, either.”
He shrugged and drank some wine. Our ground rules are established. I know he doesn’t love the situation, but it’s the best I can offer right now. He knows that, and he changed the subject.
“Well, at least about your brother firing you, I wouldn’t worry too much. We still have three clients.”
I looked at him. “Mel, Nat, and Ironman. The same case, and they all want different things.”
“Or three different cases, all centering on the same building.”
“Does it matter which?”
“I’m not sure. It’s an issue of perspective, I guess.”
I sipped my wine. “I wonder if Mel knows.”
“About your brother’s crush?”
“Now that you mention it, I do wonder that, but no. I wonder if she—or Nat—know about the buried treasure.”
“Know where it is?”
“Or short of that, know whether it exists. Or short of that, know about the rumors that it exists.”
He put his glass down and said, “Go ahead. Ask her.”
“You mean call her? When we’re having a romantic candlelit dinner?”
“I’d rather you call her now than for her to still be on your mind later.” He gave me a melodramatically significant leer.
I rolled my eyes and took out my phone.
“Hi, Lydia. What’s up?”
“Hi, Mel. How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine. Is this a check-up call? Thanks, but I’m really okay. Though I was going to call you anyway. To set up a time to go see Mr. Loo in the morning.”
“Any time’s good for me. Whatever works for you. But no, I’m glad to hear you’re doing all right, but I wasn’t calling to check up. I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
Given what had happened when I was with Ironman Ma, that wasn’t the best expression to use, but she probably wasn’t thinking about that. “I’ve been hearing from a couple of sources there might be something valuable buried in the Li Min Jin building. Do you know anything about that?”
“Buried? You mean physically, like pirate treasure?”
“Probably not that, but yes.”
“I never heard that. What’s it supposed to be? Who’s supposed to have buried it? My uncle?”
“It’s not clear. Apparently it’s a rumor going back years. But you don’t know about it?”
“No. I wonder… Could that be what Mr. Chang’s message was about?”
“I thought about that, too. Maybe Mr. Loo can shed some light.”
She laughed. “Shedding light isn’t Mr. Loo’s specialty. If it’s something he can say with a scowl, he’ll be more likely to tell us. How about eight thirty? We can meet at Fay Da and have coffee first.”
“Perfect. See you then.”
Bill waited expectantly, then frowned when, instead of pocketing the phone, I tapped another number.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t suggest you hold office hours.”
“One more. Hi, Nat,” I said when Nat’s voice arrived in my ear. I asked her the same question I’d asked Mel. Her answer was similar.
“Buried treasure? Come on, you’re kidding.”
“No. It’s just a rumor but a well-established one. Going back years.”
“What’s it supposed to be?”
“Maybe cash, maybe diamonds. You never heard this?”
“Never. Do you think it’s true?”
“I have no idea. Do you?”
Silence. Then, “No. It’s ridiculous. Who’d bury things in the walls of a building these days? You know what I think? I think it’s probably just some of the tong members trying to account for Uncle Meng’s attachment to the place. He could’ve moved to some glam penthouse whenever, or at least taken Jackson’s offer now, but he never did. Some of those lamebrains are so unsentimental and greedy themselves they think everything’s about money, for everybody.”
I didn’t point out that Jackson Ting’s offer was much newer than the rumors. “Okay. I just wanted to be sure that now that we’ve heard this, you don’t want me to do anything differently.”
“You mean, about getting Mel to sell Jackson the building? Because it might have buried treasure? Oh, for God’s sake, are you kidding me? If Jackson knocks the building down and finds Aladdin’s lamp, good for him. As long as he leaves me alone!”
Bill waited for me to slide the phone back into my pocket. “You done?”
“I’m all yours.”
“I fear that will never be true, but I’ll take what I can get.” He signaled for the check. “You didn’t mention to either of them that Tan Lu-Lien might have a hand in the buried treasure.”
“No. I wanted to know what they knew about it, not tell them things.”
“They’re your clients.”
“So’s Ironman. You don’t find me telling him the time of day. And so,” I said as I gave the waiter my credit card, “is my brother.”
“He fired you.”
“He didn’t ask for his dollar back. That contract’s still valid.”
“That’s legally debatable. But is that why you’re such a big spender, buying me dinner?”
“It’s my case. You’re my partner. It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can think of a couple of other things you can do, too.”
24
Morning dawned bright and early, and so did I. Bill rolled over and sighed.
“Quiet,” I said. “Stay asleep, see if I care. I’ll call you later.”
He opened one eye. “You want me to come along?”
“When you’re so adorable lounging here in bed? Actually, I think Mr. Loo would be more on guard with you there than with just me and Mel.”
“You’re going to play the we’re-just-girls card, aren’t you?”
“We sure are. See you later.”
I raced home, showered, and dressed in respectable black slacks, a pearl gray sweater, and a black wool jacket. I’d considered a red blouse—a power combination, and red’s a lucky color for Chinese people—but you can’t power dress and play I’m-just-a-girl at the same time. I let my bi on its delicate gold chain hang outside the sweater, pulled on ankle books with small heels, took a shoulder bag instead of a backpack, and headed out to Fay Da to meet Mel.
She’d beaten me there and managed to score a table, not the easiest thing to do at what, for my money, is Chinatown’s best bakery. Plus it was the
table in the window.
“Hi,” I said. “Let me just get breakfast.” At the counter I picked up a sesame ball and a cup of milk tea. I slid into the chair opposite her. She wore a navy pantsuit with a pale blue blouse, and she was a couple of bites into a taro mini—vanilla sponge cake wrapped around sweetened taro paste.
“I love these things,” she said. “Mom used to bring us here to pick up treats for Uncle Meng. I thought it was funny because he lived around the corner. Why didn’t we bring him cookies from the bakery in Scarsdale, that he couldn’t get every day? She said no, he liked Chinese sweets, and we couldn’t go empty-handed. To this day I can’t visit anyone without a bakery box.” She lifted a Fay Da box from the chair beside her. “For Mr. Loo.”
I grinned and sipped my tea. “In my family it’s oranges. Or pomelos, or tangerines. You don’t have citrus, you don’t go.”
She smiled as she drank her coffee. “Tell me about your family. I realize I hardly know you.”
“And yet we’ve shared so much. Dead bodies, gangsters, tattooed ladies…”
“All the more reason.”
“Okay.” I took a bite of my sesame ball, leaning over the plate to avoid getting errant seeds on my sweater. “I was born here in Chinatown, youngest of five and the only girl.” I gave her a quick Chin family history: immigrant parents, Ma’s work as a seamstress, Ba’s restaurant, his death. My brothers and their families. My career, my partnership with Bill.
“He seems like a great guy,” she said.
“He is, a real prize. Don’t ever let on I said that.”
“My lips are sealed. But isn’t your mother after you to get married and have children?”
“To Bill? It’s taken her years to stop chasing him with a broom every time he comes near me. Besides”—I drank some tea—“she already has four grandchildren, two of Ted’s and two of Elliott’s. And a wedding to plan, Andrew’s. He’s marrying his boyfriend in the spring.”
“And your mom’s good with that? She’s an open-minded woman.”
“She really likes Tony. The boyfriend. He can cook.”
Mel laughed. “But she still has two unmarried children to worry about. You and Tim.” She sipped her coffee, smiling a little, not looking at me.
Oh my God. Was she fishing?
“I don’t know what bothers Ma more right now,” I said exploratorily. “That I’m seeing Bill, or that Tim’s not seeing anyone.”
“Probably that one,” she said in an offhanded way. “Nothing for her to look forward to.”
“She keeps trying to set him up with sweet young women. Chinese, of course. But I think they’re a little too sweet, because it never takes.”
“Really,” Mel said, more a pensive comment than a question. “Well.” She brightened. “Shall we go?”
* * *
We went. Beefy was manning his station at the Li Min Jin building door. When I asked, in Chinese, for Mr. Loo, he spoke into a cell phone. He clicked off, said—also in Chinese—“He’ll be right down,” and stepped aside to let us in.
I translated sotto voce for Mel. True to Beefy’s word, a moment later a door opened on the second floor, and Mr. Loo made his way down the stairs. His pace was unhurried, but I got the feeling he was holding himself back so he’d seem not particularly interested in us. This was a guy in the running for tong leader. He must have been torn between not wanting to appear to be at Mel’s beck and call just because she was the landlady now and demonstrating he could expeditiously take care of whatever business we outsiders had and get us out of the building fast.
“Wu Mao-Li,” he said. “Chin Ling Wan-Ju.” Going on in English, he said, “I’m happy to see you.” His scowl contradicted that, unless what I was looking at actually was Mr. Loo’s happy face. “I understand you were looking for me yesterday? I apologize. I was out on business.”
And what business might that be, I didn’t ask.
“Thank you for taking time today, Loo Hu-Li,” Mel said, handing him the bakery box. He nodded, took it from her, and gestured us to follow him. He didn’t take us upstairs but went to the back of the building and opened a door behind the elevator. It led into a dark room furnished with heavy upholstered chairs and low tables, arranged into two sitting areas. Mr. Loo flicked a switch, and fluorescent lights flooded the room with their unflattering glow. Waving us to chairs, he crossed to a sink counter against the wall that held a plug-in kettle and various canisters of teas and boxes of teabags, plus the usual trimmings—a carton of milk, a diner-type sugar container, a few spoons, and sugar substitutes in a rainbow of little packages.
Mr. Loo plugged the kettle in and reached into a cabinet, extracting three mismatched mugs. He didn’t ask us what we wanted—or if—but unwrapped green teabags from New Kam Man. He opened the bakery box and put it on the low table, revealing a variety of pastries. A step down, I thought as the water boiled, from Tan Lu-Lien’s formal hospitality in the same location a few floors above. Or from Big Brother Choi’s elegant private quarters at the top.
This must be where the tong brought visitors to whom they wanted to give an unspoken but emphatic sense of their own unimportance. The opposite of what you got—equally unspoken, equally emphatic—in Harriman McGill’s reception room.
Mel and I waited in silence for the brief time the kettle took to boil, which Mr. Loo allowed to happen though the tea was green. He poured water in the mugs and handed us each one. Mine was from the Canal Street branch of Citibank.
Mr. Loo sat, and only then did he ask, “How can I help you, Wu Mao-Li?” He turned with exaggerated courtesy. “Or you, Chin Ling Wan-Ju?” Translation: What the hell is this PI doing here?
“I’ve asked Chin Ling Wan-Ju to accompany me when I come to this building,” Mel said. “So I won’t be alone.”
“I hope you know you’d be perfectly safe here.”
“I’m sure I would.” Mel smiled, looking not quite sure of anything, probably a look she’d worked on in a mirror because it was unnatural to her. “But Chin Ling Wan-Ju is my friend’s sister, and I’m grateful she’s willing to come along.”
“My friend’s sister,” not “Mr. Gao’s semi-granddaughter.” Smart move.
Though, I reflected, Tim was the only one of my brothers Mel had met. He’d be interested to know he’d been promoted to friend. If I decided to tell him.
“Whatever makes you feel comfortable, of course,” Mr. Loo said. “Now please tell me, why did you want to see me?” Translation: Let’s get on with it.
“First, I wanted to offer my condolences on Chang Yao-Zu’s death. You two knew each other for so many years.”
“Yes, we did.” A sorrowful cast softened Mr. Loo’s resident scowl. “I was here when Yao-Zu joined the Li Min Jin. In fact, I was here when your uncle came from Hong Kong, as well.” Another two or three seconds; then the edges of Mr. Loo’s features hardened once more. The sorrow might have been genuine, but I was willing to bet the softness was about as real as Mel’s diffidence. “Thank you for your sympathy. Whoever broke in and committed this outrage will be found and dealt with.”
“By the police, I’m sure you mean.”
A tight smile. “Of course.”
“And that’s what you think it was?” Mel asked. “A break-in? From outside?”
“The window was open, its latch damaged. No one not known to the guard came through the front door, and the building’s rear exit can’t be opened from the outside except by key. In addition, anyone coming in the rear would find himself in the basement. To reach Choi Meng’s living quarters, he’d have to pass through the entry hall. The guard saw no strangers. Everyone in the building at the time of Chang Yao-Zu’s death was a Li Min Jin member.” Translation: That this crime had been committed by a Li Min Jin member, by a sworn brother, was unthinkable. “Except the two of you, of course.” Loo smiled like ice cracking underfoot. “And the large man with you.” Turning to me: “Your partner, I understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “His name’s Bill S
mith, which I’m sure you know already.”
“I do.”
“But Mr. Loo,” said Mel, maybe to head off a fencing match, “who would dare break into a tong’s building? That’s madness.”
“Under most circumstances, yes. But we may erroneously be seen as weak in this brief period, between the death of Choi Meng and the election of a new leader. Looking back—though it was done out of respect for your uncle—it may have been a mistake not to station a security man in his living quarters.”
“Mr. Chang was there.”
“He wouldn’t have been expected to be. Those quarters were entirely private during Choi Meng’s lifetime. We were attempting to keep them that way.”
Mel might have been thinking, as I was, that the fact that the apartment was empty was more likely to have been known to Li Min Jin members than to Chinatown’s cat burglars, but she didn’t say so. “So you think,” she asked, “that whomever we’re talking about, he wasn’t after Mr. Chang, per se? He was there to burglarize my uncle’s apartment?”
“Whomever” and “per se” in one sentence, in conversation with a gangster. Oh, Tim, this is the woman for you.
“I can’t be expected to know what would be in such a person’s mind,” said Loo.
Give yourself some credit; you’re such a person yourself, I thought, while Loo sipped his tea and then went on.
“But this can’t be why you’ve come,” he said to Mel. “To ask me my ideas about the crime?” He sounded as though if it were why we were here, he’d be both annoyed and relieved.
“No, Mr. Loo, of course you’re quite right. In addition to offering my condolences on Mr. Chang’s death, I’m very much hoping you can answer a question for me. Mr. Chang had been planning to give me a message from my uncle. Something, he said, Uncle Meng had wanted me to know but hadn’t wanted to write down. Mr. Chang never had the chance to tell me what it was. I’m so hoping that you know.” She looked at him with innocent eyes.
He looked back at her with guarded ones. “A message from Choi Meng? No, I don’t know what it would be. Do you know what it concerned?”
“I don’t have any idea. He’d never mentioned anything like this to you? Or Mr. Chang hadn’t?”