Published 2013 by Seventh Street Books™, an imprint of Prometheus Books
White Ginger. Copyright © 2013 by Thatcher Robinson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © 2013 Maciej Toporowicz/Arcangel Images
Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Robinson, Thatcher, 1952-
White Ginger / by Thatcher Robinson.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-61614-817-1 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-61614-818-8 (ebook)
1. Buddhist women—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction. 3. Chinatown (San Francisco, Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O33376W48 2013
813´.6—dc23
2013022057
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to my wife and editor,
Susan Noguchi,
who never ceases to amaze me.
The knife arced. Light danced off the blade as it slowly rotated three hundred sixty degrees before dropping, hilt first, into the palm of her hand. A flick of her wrist sent the dagger sailing into the air again to pirouette gracefully. Her other hand held a Chinese cup made of fine, white porcelain. She lifted the vessel to her lips and breathed in deeply, the fragrance reminiscent of fresh mowed grass. As she sipped, hot green tea filled her mouth and ran down her throat. She sighed, the first caffeine of the day.
Outside, raindrops beat against the glass panes of the window to produce a lulling sound, like leaves fluttering in the wind. The knife continued to flip, a repetitive, mindless exercise in which the rhythm never wavered, a silent chant.
“You’re going to cut yourself.”
Lee’s warning was delivered with a frown. He sat on the sofa, dressed impeccably in tan slacks and a blue blazer, looking like a magazine model with high cheekbones, full lips, and an aquiline nose. Taller than most Chinese men, he stood six-two with broad shoulders and a small waist. Lee was her partner, her friend, and her protector. Mostly from herself.
She lifted her cup to acknowledge his admonishment. “I find it relaxing. Some people do crossword puzzles. I toss a knife. If I were doing a crossword puzzle you might have reason for concern. I’m not nearly as good with words.” A sad smile set her features as she looked up to meet his gaze. “And words, I’ve found, can wound more deeply than a blade.”
Her name was Bai Jiang, pronounced “by chang” with long vowels, a suitable moniker for a tall, willowy Chinese woman with a penchant for black leather and black jeans. Short, spiky hair, high cheekbones, and a surly attitude only served to enhance her tough image.
Her feet rested on her desk next to her computer. A screensaver flashed pictures of her daughter. At twelve, Dan had her father’s features, only softened. The girl was pretty, perhaps even prettier than her mother. Bai hoped she’d be smarter. Smart enough, at least, to avoid men like her father.
Lee interrupted her thoughts. “There was a message on the phone from Tommy. He wants to see you.”
“I know. I’m avoiding him.”
One eyebrow lifted as he leaned forward to study her. “Triad business?”
“Unfinished business,” she quickly replied, providing a smile to set him at ease. “Not to worry. Tommy and I are playing nice these days. He seems to be mellowing with age.”
“Maybe it seems that way because he’s your godfather,” he asserted.
He seemed unconvinced of Tommy’s benign nature. Tommy was Shan Chu, the head of the dragon, overlord of a local triad. Lee had good reason to be skeptical.
Her response was jaded. “Tommy’s everybody’s godfather.”
She’d been only four when a car bomb had vaporized her parents. At the time, her late grandfather Ho Chan Jiang had headed Sun Yee On, a Hong Kong triad expanding into U.S. markets. Tommy had been Fu Shan Chu, second in command. After the death of her parents, Tommy had treated Bai as if she were his daughter. That was to say, unlike a son, she was expendable.
The bell in the lobby dinged to let them know someone had entered their outer office. She snapped the knife out of the air as she came upright in her chair. Her feet met the floor while her other hand placed the fragile cup carefully on her desk. The knife was tucked into a sheath sewn into the cuff of her jacket where it would remain out of sight.
Her office was situated in the heart of San Francisco’s Chinatown, a second-story walkup. There wasn’t a sign on the door to indicate her occupation. Clients typically made an appointment. Their eyes met as Lee stood to walk across the polished hardwood floor toward the lobby.
“Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.
“No. You?”
She shook her head. “It’s probably a lost tourist.”
He opened a door and passed through to the lobby. A moment later, he returned to usher in a caller, a young, very wet Chinese girl. She stood just inside the doorway and dripped water on the shiny floor. Her head hung down to look sheepishly at the mess.
Bai’s brow furrowed in contemplation as she studied the young woman in silence. Black hair in sopping strands ran down the girl’s back. A too big, black leather jacket with metal studs hung from her shoulders to render her shapeless. Worn, soggy jeans, which had been strategically ripped, revealed brown goose flesh.
“‘He who is drowned isn’t troubled by the rain.’” Bai muttered.
The girl lifted her head and in a timid voice replied, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just something my grandfather used to say.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means sometimes being wet is the least of your problems.”
The girl looked like a drowned puppy. Bai fought an impulse to jump up and hug her. She had to remind herself strays were always trouble, regardless of the species. Her eyes narrowed at the thought.
“Are you the souxun?” the girl asked.
Souxun is pronounced “so-SOON” and translates to “people finder.” Bai found lost people whether they wanted to be found or not. A natural doggedness made her good at her job.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“I’m Yu.”
“Do you have a last name, Yu?”
“Yu Ma,” the girl mumbled.
“Jade horse,” Bai mused, voicing the English interpretation, “a pretty name. What can I do for you, Yu?”
Yu’s arms hung limply at her sides, like they were new and she hadn’t yet learned how to use them. Her words, when she spoke, came out in a rush. “Jia told me about you. She thinks you’re really cool. She talked about you like she knew you. She said that when someone goes missing in Chinatown, White Ginger was the woman to talk to.”
The girl looked up slowly, her eyes rounded in anticipation. Lips, painted dark purple, formed a tentative smile. Black mascara ran in tracks down the side of her face. Beneath all the makeup, she might have been pretty.
Her testimonial rendered Bai momentarily speechless. She wasn’t used to praise, let alone that much enthusiasm, so early in the morning. “I had no idea I was cool.” She glanced over at Lee to see if he ap
preciated how cool she was. “Why didn’t you tell me I was cool?”
He grinned and shook his head. “You hide it so well. Who would know?”
She raised her eyebrows and turned back to Yu while nodding in Lee’s direction. “You can see how being really cool can instill jealousy in those less fortunate. I prefer to be called Bai Jiang, by the way, not White Ginger. The translation of my name is dependent upon the dialect of Chinese being spoken, which, of course, you could care less about. All that aside,” she continued, “Jia who?”
“Jia Yan. Her mother owns the Far East Café.”
“Ahhh . . . I see.”
Mrs. Yan was a formidable woman with a reputation for being spiteful, the type of person who would spit in your coffee if she didn’t like you. She didn’t like a lot of people, Bai included. It seemed best not to take her malice personally since the woman showed contempt for pretty much everyone. Still, it’s difficult not to take offense when someone spits in your coffee.
A good Buddhist would have forgiven the slight. Bai considered herself, at best, a mediocre Buddhist. Plagued by anger issues and an inclination for what she liked to think of as “aggressive assertiveness,” her objective of achieving enlightenment had shown itself to be as elusive as the perfect weight for her height. Unprecedented growth seemed her only hope of reaching either goal.
As she contemplated her own many shortcomings, Bai remembered that Mrs. Yan had several children. She wasn’t familiar with any of them. “And how do you know Jia?”
“We’re best friends. Then, two days ago, she just disappeared.” The girl’s voice cracked and her eyes filled.
Yu’s distress managed to soften Bai’s initial reluctance. The only thing more heartbreaking than a stray was a weepy stray. She gestured toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat, Yu, and tell me your story from the beginning.”
Bai’s office was austere, the only furniture being her desk and the leather couch situated in front of it, both styled in blond wood and tan leather. The girl’s sneakers squished as she walked across the room to gingerly take a seat on the edge of the sofa.
When Yu spoke, her voice was just above a whisper. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. I saw Jia at school on Wednesday. We texted that night. When she didn’t show up for school, I tried calling her and texting, but she didn’t answer. I went to see her mother.” She hesitated again before her gaze drifted up to look at Bai. “But Mrs. Yan wasn’t home. Jia’s brother told me to mind my own business. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. Please. You have to help me.”
Bai leaned slowly back into her chair. “How old are you, Yu?”
“Fifteen.”
“And how old is Jia?”
“She’s fifteen. She’s a sophomore, like me.”
Bai turned to Lee, who rested with his back against the wall next to the door. “What do you think, Lee?”
He turned his head to look at Bai and shrugged. “It seems a small favor to ask. The Far East Café is only a few blocks away. What’s the harm in looking?”
Bai closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The thought of dealing with Mrs. Yan made her stomach churn. The woman spit out karmic poison like a PEZ dispenser. But then, if Bai didn’t take the time to find the girl, and it turned out something had really happened to her, Bai’d have only herself to blame.
Opening her eyes and turning reluctantly back to Yu, she said, “Fine. You win. Do you have a dollar?”
Yu looked from Bai to Lee and back again, obviously confused. “I think so.”
Bai’s hand snaked its way across the top of her desk palm up. “Give me the dollar. Please.”
The girl’s manner was uncertain. She slowly worked a bill loose from the pocket of her wet jeans and laid the soggy dollar on Bai’s outstretched palm.
Bai’s fist closed around the bill. “The dollar is payment for my services,” she stated with as much grace as she could muster. “We now have a contract. I’ll find Jia for you.”
Yu bit down on her lower lip but couldn’t hide her pleasure.
Bai noted the girl’s reaction and frowned. She couldn’t help feeling she’d been steered, roped, and trussed, the bill in her fist binding her more tightly than any knot. Her word had been given to a stray. And strays, she remembered, were always trouble.
A call to San Francisco’s Police Department didn’t yield any clues to Jia Yan’s whereabouts. No one had reported her missing. After a moment’s hesitation, Bai picked up the phone to call her contact in Child Protective Services. The call was a long shot, but if there’d been trouble in the Yan household, Jia might have been put into juvenile detention, which would explain her inability to communicate with the outside world.
When John Fong answered, Bai again went through the events leading to the girl’s disappearance.
“There’s nothing in the system on a Jia Yan,” John informed her.
“Do you have any incident reports on the Yan household, anything that might indicate a problem?”
“Nothing, Bai, but that’s not unusual. The Chinese community is pretty tight-lipped.”
She thanked John and ended the call to lean back in her chair and brood.
Lee walked into the office to perch on the edge of her desk. “I got Yu’s contact information and told her we’d call when we have news.”
Bai nodded in acknowledgment. “Jia hasn’t been reported missing, and she’s not in the juvenile system. It seems I don’t have any choice but to go to see Mrs. Yan.”
“You’d better be careful. She won’t like your interfering in her affairs.”
Bai snorted. “For reasons that remain a mystery to me, the woman has failed to embrace my every attempt to befriend her. Nonetheless, I’m going to ask nicely. I’m going to use my uncanny guile to ferret the truth out of her. As you well know, I’m a ferreting fool. She won’t stand a chance against my awesome interrogation techniques.”
He stood and turned to face her. “I think I’ll go with you.”
“Do you think I’ll need assistance dealing with one matronly woman?”
“No, but I suspect it might turn into a brawl, and I don’t want to miss out.”
The corner of Bai’s mouth twitched up. She wasn’t entirely sure having him along was necessary, but the determined look on his face told her she didn’t have much choice. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to have you tag along. Just don’t start anything.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t think I’m the one you have to worry about.”
She stood to brush past him and into the lobby where she grabbed an umbrella from the stand next to the door. Lee stopped to lock the office behind her as she stepped down the stairs from the second-story landing. Pushing past the heavy glass door at the entry, Bai walked into the pouring rain and chaos of Chinatown.
The pavement beneath her feet shed water in tiny rivulets while vendors unloaded goods from double-parked vans. Hand-trucks, loaded with boxes, forced their way through the crowd like barroom bruisers. Voices trumpeted as people yelled over the din of rain and traffic. To the uninitiated it might seem like bedlam. To Bai it was home.
Despite the foul weather, people crowded the sidewalk. She was jostled as she struggled to open her umbrella. An elbow nudged her from behind to send her careening into a man wearing a garbage bag like a Mexican serape. She bounced off wet, black plastic and turned, angrily. A tug at her elbow caused her to turn again. Lee gently took the umbrella from her hand to open it as he steered her into the crowd.
They walked north on Grant as far as Sacramento Street before stopping at a red light. They stood behind a swarm of pedestrians as umbrellas bumped each other and jockeyed for position. Waiting at the edge of the crowd, next to the Hoshun Deli, Bai spied Cantonese roasted ducks hanging in the window, a gallows row of greasy delicacies.
She made a beeline over to press her face and hands against the glass.
“What now?” asked Lee.
She detected a note of impatience in his voice and turned
her head to stare at him. “The ducks, they’re talking to me.”
He shook his head and looked away. “I know I’m going be sorry I asked.” A lengthy pause revealed his inner struggle. “All right, I give up. What’re they saying?”
“They’re saying, ‘Forget that salad you were planning to have for lunch. Bite into my crisp, spicy skin. Taste my sweet, tender flesh while succulent fat rolls down your chin. And don’t worry about it. You look good carrying a few extra pounds.’”
When Bai turned to gaze at Lee, his expression seemed doubtful. He peered at her with his lips canted to the side. “Those are some long-winded ducks.”
“Ducks are charmers. There’s no doubt about it. And, sure, maybe they’re a little chatty, but that’s part of their charm. It certainly doesn’t detract from their allure. Just look at them. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
He pointed to a rack of barbecued pork. “I suppose the cha shiu ribs’ve got something to say, too.”
She turned to stare at the ribs, their surface a bright red but burned black around the edges. They glistened enticingly. She could almost smell the caramelized sugar through the glass. When she spoke, her voice was wistful. “Pigs are aggressive and very direct. The ribs just say, ‘Eat me. You know you want me.’”
Food had always conversed with her; since she’d turned thirty the conversations had become more intense, more confrontational. She craved fat and sugar.
Lee dismissed her comments with a wave of his hand. “Your spareribs sound a lot like a man I know.”
She glared at him.
“Pigs and men do seem to have a lot in common,” she said with disdain. “You certainly know how to ruin a girl’s appetite.”
He took her hand in his. She smiled, convinced he’d seen the error of his ways.
“It’s for your own good,” he said as he pulled her forcefully away from the window. “You’ll thank me later.”
She balked. “I might thank you later,” she said as she turned to face him, “but I want you to know I’m not feeling it right now.”
“Think of this as an intervention.”
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