"Just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time," Wheeler aw-shucked.
"God, and right after your brother dying. Pres was such a first-rate guy . . . talented, unassuming, brilliant. First that, now this. Tough break, Wheeler," Luther commiserated.
"Yeah," Wheeler said, feeling both sadness and relief over his brother's death.
Why should there be any relief?
" 'Nother Scotch, Ramon," he said, trying to drown his self-contempt.
By noon, he was alone at the table in the dining room. He'd had plenty of offers to join members for lunch, but had already grown tired of his own humble hero bullshit and his leg was killing him. The morning's pain pills had worn off and, like a moron, he'd left the bottle of Percocets his surgeon had given him at the hospital.
That was where she eventually found him. Tanisha arrived at the club dressed in a rayon blouse and two-year-old mini-skirt. It was what she had grabbed at two-fifteen in the morning when she heard Ray had been killed. She was carrying an imitation leather bag and had on her old sling-strap faded red shoes. Older women in expensive dresses and single-strand pearls played bridge in the lounge to the left of the door. They turned to study the apparition in the club lobby.
"Can I help you?" the W. C. C. Assistant Manager said, rushing out from behind his desk near the entrance to cut off her vile intrusion. He was thin and geeky, with glasses.
Tanisha turned to face him. His narrow face showed consternation.
Homegirl alert! We have niggers in the entry!
"I'm Detective Williams. I need to talk to Wheeler Cassidy. I understand he's here." She badged him.
"Oh, I see ... of course . . . about the shooting."
"Right," she said, wishing she'd gone home to change before coming up here. She had a few really great designer knock-offs that looked stunning on her.
"Mr. Cassidy's sitting in the dining room. Allow me to escort you," he said politely, but with a subtle ring of accusation, as if he suspected she was going to swipe an ashtray unless he herded her in personally.
As they walked into the dining room, Tanisha saw Wheeler sitting alone at a corner table. The Assistant Manager led her to him, then left, and Tanisha put her purse on the adjacent chair.
"I'd stand but my leg might buckle. Have a seat, Detective."
She looked around. More than half the faces in the room were turned toward her. "Did I do something?"
"Yeah," he said, going back to his salad. "You had the balls to come in here without your maid's uniform on."
It was a racial remark, but she could detect no racism in it. He sounded more hurt by that fact than she was. It was usually impossible for Whites to enter this emotion-filled terrain. Only those who were truly color-blind could avoid the subtle potholes. Again, there was such self-loathing in his delivery that it made her wonder about him. He was a boat full of tippy emotions. "I'm sorry to intrude on this enclave of upper-class American gamesmanship, but I have a few more questions," she said.
"You mock me," he said, and looked up from his salad and held her steady gaze. In his eyes was a complete lack of judgment.
She looked down at a notepad she'd been carrying in her hand. "Mr. Cassidy, you and I both know that something very strange is going on," she said. "And until I figure it out, I'm going to be asking questions."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
"I don't think the three people in Prescott's house were connected to Angie Wong," he said, "if that's what you're talking about."
"That's also what you said about Angie's death and your brother's. I've ordered an autopsy. Your mother is trying to block it. I can take her on and I'll win. It won't even be a contest. Angie Wong is now a high-profile media-hyped homicide. Whichever muckety-muck in the Department got Prescott's autopsy waived as a favor to your mother must now know he made a boo-boo. With the press involved, he's gonna have to crawl under his desk. Still, it serves nobody to have a public debate about it. Maybe you could talk to her. . . ."
This was mostly horseshit. She'd been removed from the case by Captain Verba. The only reason she was here was she thought Wheeler Cassidy might be holding something back and she figured A1 Katsukura wouldn't get around to back-checking him for a day or two. She was risking her job following up on it after being benched. She wasn't sure why she was gambling everything over this . . . probably a mixture of desperation over what was happening to her and Ray Fong's shocking murder. There was definitely a lot of anger. Was it because of the unkept promise she'd made to her dead sister, or the violated corpse of Angie Wong? She wasn't sure.
Now the Manager came over to the table. He was a tall, handsome man with a gorgeous smile who turned the full force of his personality on them. "I've finally been able to get that private dining room you requested, Mr. Cassidy. If you and your guest would like to move in there, I can have your order transferred."
"This is fine. Could you excuse us, please?" Tanisha said to him.
"Could I do what? I beg your pardon," he said softly.
She put her badge case on the table, open and face up, then shoved it across to him. "And I beg yours, toots. Now run along."
He hesitated, re-evaluated, then walked away. She put her badge back in her purse.
"You'll never be offered a chance to join our little club if you behave like that," he said, deadpan.
"Listen, Chuck, I'm in absolutely no mood for your bullshit," she said, letting her anger and remorse spew out on him. "Now, you either start dealing with me or we're gonna have this conversation downtown." Another bluff.
She watched him closely, then he smiled at her. It was a lovely smile, beautiful actually.
"Listen, Detective Williams, my leg is killing me. I don't think I can even drive. I'll make you a deal. ... If you'll take me back to Cedars-Sinai and run in and see if you can find the Percocets I left there, I'll cooperate with you fully. Until then, with this leg throbbing, I can't think about anything else."
"Let's go," she said. She couldn't help herself . . . she was beginning to like him.
He lumbered up, grabbed his crutches, and they headed out front.
She gave the skeptical valet her ticket. In a few moments, her listing, coughing little Mazda rumbled up. They left in a cloud of black exhaust and baffled stares.
On the ride to the hospital, they said nothing. She parked in the big lot across the street, went inside, and got his meds, which they were holding for him at the admitting desk. When she returned to the car, she handed him the bottle through the passenger window and watched as he swallowed one dry, then looked up at her.
"Do you think Pres was doing something illegal?" he asked.
"I don't know, Mr. Cassidy," she replied. "Those three guys who got shot were all illegal aliens. I've got a trace going on one.
He had a street name tattooed on his arm, 'China Boy.' According to the gang name index, that makes him one of two people we have records on in L. A. He's either Bob 'China Boy' Chin or he's Lewis 'China Boy' Lee. From the preliminary description on the arrest report, my guess is he's Bobby Chin. I'm having his picture e-mailed from Records and Identification. I also have a print run started. Maybe it will turn an address and we can go through his house, find out what those three were up to. I should know more in an hour or so."
She assumed that Ray had already done all that and that's what might have got him killed. She also knew A1 Katsukura would be all over that angle and had already decided to stay away from it to avoid suspension. Both China Boys, Lee and Chin, had arrest records for extorting money from Chinese businesses. She continued, "Neither Lee nor Chin had immigration or citizenship papers, and once arrested, they applied for diplomatic asylum, which was granted within twenty-four hours. Both were allowed to stay."
"Allowed to stay?".
"Yeah. It's a big scam in Chinatown. You got an hour sometime, I'll run it down for you. Basically, these illegal, non-English-speaking immigrants have lots of American political juice. It comes from
the Chin Lo Triad, which basically owns them. There are I. N. S. guys on the pad who write up favorable 'Request for Asylum' reports or just supply counterfeit green cards. We've got Chinese illegals with rap sheets that look like shopping lists wandering around with diplomatic asylum provided by our federal government. The whole system on Chinese immigration has been bribed and compromised."
She was still standing at the passenger side window, looking down at Wheeler, who suddenly seemed troubled. "I. N. S.?" he asked, and she nodded. "My mother's gonna kill me," he said softly.
"What have you got, Mr. Cassidy?" she said, watching him closely.
Prescott's old Mercedes had not been moved. It was still squatting on the third level of the Century City parking garage where Wheeler had left it. They got out of Tanisha's car and she looked on in amazement while Wheeler, balancing awkwardly on his crutches, pulled out his penknife, popped the chrome strip off the door again, then reached through the hole underneath and clicked the lock mechanism up.
"You're also a car thief?" she said.
"I used to steal cars from my friends and park them in funny places, like fraternity living rooms or courtyard fountains," he said without humor. Then he got in the front seat, opening the passenger door for her. As she settled into the Mercedes beside him, he again hot-wired the car. The engine purred to life, powering up the radio, then he ejected the tape from the dash sound system. He started to reach for it, and she stopped him.
"Prints," she said. "Remember?"
He cocked a skeptical eye at her. "This is Pres's car. It'll just have his prints. He used this mike, here, to dictate letters while he drove." Wheeler picked up a headset mike which had a plug that attached to the car tape deck. "Had this rig custom-designed so he could drive and fire off a legal letter at the same time. Pres never wasted a minute."
"Mr. Cassidy, this is a murder investigation. Let's do it my way." Then she pushed the cassette back in with her fingernail and hit "rewind." It went back to the beginning and stopped, then she hit "play."
"Angie, I want this to go out immediately to Hong Kong," his brother's voice said, mixed with the sounds of traffic and engine noise. "Once you've typed it, destroy the tape. This will be keyed to ten and sent hand-delivered by security courier in a locked mail container."
"What's with this James Bond shit?" Wheeler muttered.
"Hold on, I'd better pull over while I read this so I don't transpose a number," Pres said after a horn blared. There was a click and the tape started again. This time, no background sounds.
"Dear 16-10/15-2/12-1. ... My worst fears are now coming true. I have been recontacted by the 12-2/15-6/11-9. This time they were much more insistent. I warned you about the level of volume we have engaged in the last two years. There is only so much damage control I can do before I am totally compromised. I do not intend to stand for federal indictment if it should come to that. I have made my position abundantly clear to 16-9/16-16/11-5 in Los Angeles, and all he does is continue to threaten me. I don't need to remind you, I am one of the few in this country who is exposed and I don 7 intend to sink by myself. Stop. New paragraph, Angie. I have made all of the direct contacts with 12-9/17-7/15-23. I'm becoming very frightened. I never expected a plot of this dimension. If this comes out, we're all finished. I am listing, under code, the last group of animals who have been fed. The following have received what is due them: d 34-13/66-9/12-5 (22), d 88-12/12-8/22-6 (12), d 66-15/3-55/8-22 (8), d 1-88/9-77/7-6 (71), r 77-8/99-20 (12), r 78-88/5-3/22-6 (16), r 22-4/5-33/2-9 (53). New paragraph, Angie. The payments from Hong Kong have increased but still have not kept up with the flow. Stop. Our friend should be notified that 9-2/6-15/12-1 has indicated he will continue to process the documents. Stop. All of our contacts at I. N. S. will remain intact and John will continue to process the account on your end. However, I must caution our friend in Hong Kong against continuing to increase the flow in all three divisions. At this level of activity, he will surely have political trouble at the highest level of the U. S. government. Stop. New paragraph, Angie. Lastly, I regret to inform you that, as of this date, I will no longer be able to continue to participate. Stop. I have been making all of the above arguments to the White Fan here, but have basically been ignored. I have no other choice but to withdraw from the equation. New paragraph, Angie. I wish you well and hope all is successful, and that everything we worked for will eventually happen as planned in mid-'98. Please make no further contact, as my decision is final. Sign that with the usual closing, Angie, and get it off immediately. Then erase this tape and shred the file."
They sat there in the car for a long moment, Prescott's voice echoing in their ears.
"The fuck was he doing?" Wheeler finally said, not looking over at her. "What's with all those numbers?"
"1 don't know. I'll get somebody in Cryptology downtown to take a look at it."
"Wait a minute . . . take a look at what?"
"At the tape." She started to reach for it, and he blocked her hand with his.
"Don't you need a warrant?"
She stopped and looked at him. "You aren't going to turn into a problem for me, are you, Mr. Cassidy?"
Wheeler didn't say anything, just looked at her with concern for his brother's reputation.
"He's dead. And Ray Fong is dead. We can't hurt your brother now. I need to know what this is all about."
"Maybe it's not about anything," Wheeler said.
"That seems to be your standard response to everything. Let me give you a few more maybes. . . . Maybe that file, whatever it was, didn't get shredded. Maybe that's what those Bamboo Dragons were looking for in Angie Wong's house and your brother's bedroom. Maybe they found it or Ray got it and got killed for it. Maybe half-a-dozen other things happened. Don't make me write a buncha paper on this, 'cause if you do, I'll make no effort to conceal what I find when I find it. If you help me, and your brother was slipping, I'll try and downplay it." Again she was bluffing. If he or his mother made one phone call to Rick Verba, I. A. D. would scoop her up and take her away in a gunny sack.
Wheeler sat in his seat and listened to the tape deck hissing. Then he shut it off. "Was Prescott really doing something illegal?" he finally said, his voice so small it surprised her.
She looked at him and tried to judge the moment. "It sure looks that way," she said.
"What was he doing? What's your guess?"
"It sounds like something to do with illegal immigration-- maybe bribing I. N. S. officials. We can't tell for sure until we break that number code."
He turned his head and looked at her. "So all of this ... all his wealth--his legal success was just bullshit?"
"You tell me. He was your brother."
They sat and listened to the motor purr.
"Can I take the tape?" she said.
He reached out and hit a button. The little tape ejected from the dashboard, sticking its tongue out at them. Tanisha reached into her bag, got a tissue out of a package, pulled the tape out, and wrapped it up. Then she put it in the side pocket of her purse.
"He was my little brother. He looked up to me once. I was supposed to protect him. Instead of getting drunk, I should have been paying closer attention," he finally said.
They both sat in silence inside the luxury Mercedes and wondered what on earth Prescott Cassidy had been doing.
Chapter 13.
Snakehead
Fu Hai stayed in the small concrete smelting shack until night, then got out and moved cautiously into the city of Guangdong. The February night was exceedingly cold, and his clothes were thin and gave him almost no warmth. He had decided not to sleep but to keep moving all night. He had heard that the police in Guangdong searched the parks and doorways for peasants from the provinces. He would never allow himself to be captured and sent to another hell-hole like Khotan.
Guangdong was a madhouse of activity. Even in the late evening, cars from Europe and Japan roared down the streets, honking their horns. Police patrolled everywhere in their bright gre
en uniforms. He marveled at the new architecture going up everywhere. He could see the wealth and power, feel the vibration of economic growth. He realized that he stood out terribly. One look at his shabby clothes and haircut and the police would know he didn't belong.
Fu Hai was soon spotted by a policeman, who yelled at him from the other side of the street. He ran and the policeman chased him, blowing the gold whistle around his neck. Fu Hai dashed downhill toward the vast Pearl River. Halfway to its bank, Fu Hai spotted a "honey cart" full of human excrement. The night soil collector had gone into a latrine to empty the trench, and Fu Hai realized instantly that dressed as he was in peasant clothes from the provinces, he could easily pass as the workman who managed the cart. He grabbed the old worn handle of the reeking conveyance, turned it around, and began pushing it back up the hill, toward the pursuing policeman, who ran right past Fu Hai without even looking at him.
Later that night, he abandoned the cart and found his way across the bridge over the bay to Shamian Island. He moved down the crowded street to the huge Ching Ping Market. Even though it was almost midnight, the market was still buzzing. Fu Hai gawked in wonder at what he saw there. Headless haunches of skinned dogs hung from hooks out in the open, still dripping blood onto the sand. Cats, not yet old enough for slaughter, meowed loudly from tiny cages. The vendors had all painted their booths the same deep shade of green, and Fu Hai marveled at the vast array of products on sale there. Everything from badgers, to monkeys, to rare pythons in circular wire-mesh cages. There were hard-shelled pangolins, which were armadillo-like beasts whose ground scales were thought to be good for rheumatism. The cages that contained the hapless animals were only a few inches wide. He saw aquariums full of colorful, grotesque, celestial telescope goldfish with their eyeballs at the ends of long swiveling stems that came out the front of their heads. Fu Hai continued to wander, not sure what he was looking for. He had been told that one might find a Snakehead in the Ching Ping Market, but he didn't know whom to ask. Which of these people could he trust to tell that he was a traitor to the Revolution, looking to escape China?
Riding the Snake (1998) Page 11