Neon Dragon mk-1

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Why? What is this place?”

  “Let’s not discuss it at the moment. Walk to the right up Harrison. I’ll meet you in the bar at the China Sea.”

  I wanted to tell him he sounded like a character out of an old Fu Manchu movie, but he was gone.

  I was the only one at the China Sea bar, sipping Tsing Tao beer until Harry slid onto the next bar stool.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Michael.”

  “Happy New Year, Harry.”

  I reached in my pocket and handed him the slip of paper that had fallen out of the fortune cookie. He lit a cigarette lighter and held it up to scan the symbols.

  “You want a beer, Harry?”

  He waved off the suggestion. “Where’d you get this?”

  “In a fortune cookie.”

  He gave me a look. “Fortune cookies are to make you Caucasians feel good about leaving a tip. Is this note serious?”

  “I suspect it is. Could we share the contents?”

  He relit the lighter for another look.

  “It’s a girl’s name. Ku Mei-Li. And an address on Beach Street. You know her?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s more. It says literally, ‘You help her, I help you.’”

  Harry looked at me in the mirror over the bar. “Help you what?”

  I took another sip of beer to sort out my own questions before answering Harry’s. It was an attractive quid pro quo. The quid was whatever in the world I could do for someone named Ku Mei-Li. The quo was particularly inviting if it meant that my little Red Shoes would give us a counter to Mrs. Lee’s damning identification.

  I took Harry by the arm and escorted him out the door and down Harrison. I’d given him a brief replay of the day’s events by the time we reached the corner of Beach Street.

  “So it comes down to this, Harry old pal. We find the address on Beach Street, and either I go in by myself with nothing but hand signals to communicate with heaven-knows-who, or you come with me, and we make sense of this little game.”

  We stopped. He pulled me into a doorway. I thought at the time he was taking us out of the cold, but he could have been avoiding the eyes of those who were standing in the window of the coffee shop across the street.

  “Michael, you have no conception of what goes on in Chinatown. You’re like everyone else who comes down here. You have dinner, buy some noodles, whatever, and breeze right back out to Caucasianville. You can’t see it, because you don’t know what to look for.”

  “See what, Harry? I’m willing to look. Tell me.”

  He looked at me and just shook his head.

  “It’s too much to tell, and too cold to do it here. What can I say, Mike? You want me to wade into a net of organized crime so effective that it has this community almost paralyzed with fear. It’s so effective that you don’t even know it exists.”

  I pulled the collar of my coat up around the back of my neck.

  “Suppose it exists, Harry…”

  “It exists.”

  “Like I said. Suppose it exists. I don’t have a lot of choice. I got a name, I got an address. That’s a hell of lot more than I had going for me before I came down here. I’ve got to follow it up. I don’t think time is on my side. The question is, do you go with me?”

  “This place you’re going is a brothel, Mike. For Chinese. Not outsiders. It’s protected by a youth gang that could write the book on violence. You could at least pick a better time than the middle of the night. Alone.”

  “I didn’t pick the time, Harry. And maybe I’m not alone.”

  I forced a goofy smile and stepped out into the street. I was walking, but I was listening hard. My heart came down out of my throat when I heard Harry’s footsteps catching up.

  7

  Harry said nothing. I could tell by the set of his chin that the wrong word from me could break the momentum, and any word was the wrong word.

  He took the lead as we passed five doorways. The sixth was chipped and grimy and hung at an angle that only time and neglect could effect. The glass was caked with decades of pollution. There was not a clue as to what was on the other side. That would not ordinarily raise the hair on the back of my neck, but that combined with Harry’s gripping the doorknob for the duration of an interminable deep breath gave me the galloping creeps.

  When he was mentally set, Harry stiffened his posture, gave me a nod, and pushed open the door. I could see that it led to a hallway the width of the door and just as decrepit. Straight ahead about ten feet the rutted floor bent upward in a flight of well-worn wooden stairs. The light inside was dimmer than the neon glare in the street. Harry held the door open for a second and looked back.

  We caught sight of them at almost the same moment. Three of the young stone faces I had seen in the window of the coffee shop on the corner were moving down the sidewalk in our direction. Harry gave me a “you couldn’t listen” look. There are times, however, when the only way to retreat is to go forward. We moved inside and closed the door.

  About the time we hit the first step, I looked up to see the top landing consumed with the bulk of the first Chinese I’d ever seen who topped six feet four and a conservative two hundred fifty pounds. Whatever notion I had of making it past the top of the stairs died in a lump that I couldn’t swallow.

  Harry never lost a beat. He trudged up the stairs as if he were coming home from a day’s work. I felt a cold draft from behind and turned around. The three faces glared up at us from the bottom of the steps behind us. They were well under twenty, and closer to the Chinese proportions I expected, but the bulges under their coats in the neighborhood of their right arm sockets kept me close to Harry’s heels where the odds were better.

  I stuck, in fact, close enough to Harry to be able to whisper.

  “You were always a friend, Harry, but right now you’re my life insurance.”

  Harry’s eyes never left the top of the stairs, but I could hear the whisper.

  “It’s the other way, Michael. You’re my life insurance.”

  I neither understood that nor found it comforting.

  Harry kept climbing. I took it that the ploy was bluff, rather than fight or even cut and run. Considering that they had us boxed in like a runner between first and second base, it was the only option that might possibly not involve suffering.

  I think I jumped when a burst of guttural Chinese came out of the hulk at the top of the stairs. Harry took three more steps without acknowledging the temper tantrum. He was two steps from the top, and close enough to make it possible for one swipe of the side of beef our host used for a right arm to send us both to the bottom of the stairs. Fortunately, he chose to listen instead.

  Harry’s nose came up to about his navel. To his credit, Harry never succumbed to the indignity of looking up. His voice was calm, deliberate, and pure business.

  I couldn’t imagine what he was saying in his native tongue. The three of us seemed to hang in suspended animation. I saw those lethal arms poised for a strike that would have decapitated Harry and sent me halfway to Chelsea. I said a few words to the Lord and braced for whatever came in my direction.

  When Harry finished, there was a pause for a few electric seconds that seemed longer than the bar examination while King Kong looked at me like something he could put in an egg roll. I had no idea what Harry was saying with astounding composure, but it had a most desired defusing influence. When Kong spoke again, it was with deference, and it sounded like a question. Harry gave him a few clipped words, and he backed out of our way. I heard the door behind us open, and when I looked back, the gang of three had vacated.

  With Kong receding into the passageway, I could see a short, plump Chinese woman of what I guessed to be something over fifty years standing by the first door to the right. She was decked out in a green silk-brocade sheath that did not need a lengthy slit to reach her hips. Fifty pounds and thirty years previously it might have been becoming. At this point, her wearing of the uniform of the profession seemed a
s pointless as a baseball manager wearing cleats.

  I assume she had followed the exchange, because she was all grins and welcome in English, more or less.

  “You most welcome. Come in. Come in.”

  Harry and I finished the last few stairs and followed her into a room that would have worked as a sumptuously decorated living room in any home in Brookline. Chinese red was the predominant color in fabrics that could have adorned a silkworm’s museum. The lighting was dim, the music was lush, and the aroma would make a water buffalo amorous.

  She spoke in a tinny voice, strained through a grin that suggested that she was at our service.

  “How we please you, gentlemen?”

  Introductions seemed out of place. Since Harry had accomplished the impossible in getting us this far, I took it from there. The object of the moment seemed to be to get alone in a room with Mei-Li with as little explanation as possible. I came directly to the point.

  “Mei-Li.”

  That did it. The toothy grin opened as her head went back.

  “Ah. Excellent choice. Very beautiful. And you, sir?”

  For the first time that night, Harry was stuck for an answer. The best he could do was, “I’m with him.”

  I have no idea what that suggested to the honorable madam. Whatever it was, it did not upset her sensibilities. The grin was a fixture, but nothing even registered in her eyes.

  “So. Please follow.”

  She opened a second door and welcomed us to a room that made the first room look like a freshman dorm. She closed the door behind us. I assumed that she went to hustle up Mei-Li.

  I looked at Harry, but not before taking in the essence of our surroundings.

  “I take it the clientele here is not off-the-street.”

  He exhaled as if it were his first breath since we came out of the cold. He was smiling, but shaking his head. The message he was sending was something between conflict and frustration.

  “You can’t understand. There’s just no way.”

  I came close enough for a whisper to work below the level of the music.

  “I’m willing to learn, Harry.”

  Something caught in his throat that made his voice sound like gravel.

  “You still don’t get it. The people they serve here have more wealth and power in their own world than you could dream of.”

  “Drugs?”

  Harry edged closer and dropped his voice below the level of the music. His hands went up in a gesture.

  “Tip of the iceberg. Drugs are big, but this empire runs on everything illegal. Extortion big time. Illegal alien smuggling. Slavery, prostitution, those two go hand in hand. Police corruption. That’s a commodity they can sell to other organizations in other states. You beginning to get it?”

  “What I don’t get is how you know about it. You’re not into this.”

  For a fraction of a second I was tempted to end that last sentence with a question mark. I decided to go on faith. It probably saved our friendship.

  “You don’t have to be a part of it to know about it if you’re Chinese. There isn’t any Chinese I know, no matter how far out of Chinatown, who doesn’t have family or friends who are being victimized.”

  Questions were running wild in my mind, but there was one I had to get in before that door opened. I whispered this one.

  “What in the world did you say to that ape on the stairs?”

  “I used the two words they fear more than death.”

  “Which are?” He was dragging it out. I didn’t blame him.

  “Immigration Service.”

  “The hell you did! You told him you’re an immigration officer?”

  “No. I told him you are.”

  I took a deep breath while I counted the number of years following disbarment I could get for impersonating a federal officer. Then I considered what could happen if any of these bozos compared notes with the crowd at the Ming Tree restaurant where I was known as Bradley’s defense lawyer. I figured disbarment and jail time would be the good news.

  “One question. If this place is populated with illegal aliens, how come they let us in?”

  “I told them you’re a good INS agent.”

  “Meaning?”

  The knob turned on the door as Harry whispered the last few words.

  “Meaning I told them you’re on the take. They may not love you, but they sure as hell want to please you.”

  The ramifications of that were beyond computing. I had about two full seconds to dwell on it before my senses were sent into overload.

  There’s striking. There’s astoundingly beautiful. And then somewhere beyond that there’s Mei-Li. The woman that came through that door carried poise, radiance, and charm to a level I’d never experienced off of a movie screen.

  You could say it was the cascade of midnight hair flowing to the waist of a lithe body that moved with an almost choreographed grace. Or it could have been the exquisite facial features that expressed elegance without intimidating the male ego. It could even have been the packaging of form-fitting turquoise silk from alabaster neck to floor.

  Whatever it was, it was stunning, in the literal sense of that word-until I realized that it was empty. It was a picture carefully assembled for one purpose. She was a prostitute. The whole fragile image was created to carry off a relationship no deeper than a onesided sex drive. I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere beneath that perfection there must be a human being as carefully hidden as any blemish that lay beneath the makeup. If she was in there, she was the one I had to reach to keep my end of the fortune-cookie bargain with Red Shoes.

  She closed the door and bowed, respectfully, from the waist. The smile she carried across the room was beautiful, but prerecorded. I don’t suppose that mattered to most of the men she found waiting in that room.

  If she was surprised to find my round eyes meeting her almond disks, there was no clue in her features. I met her halfway across the room. The problem was an opening move. There was no way to tell whose headset or video monitor was playing the Mei-Li and Michael Show, so a little misdirection seemed in order.

  I took her hand while we locked smiles. The bed area consumed the third of the room to the left, and the “getting acquainted” area took up most of the rest. There was a dark corner of dead space off to my right. It seemed the least likely to spawn any action that would be worth recording, and probably the least likely to be the focus of any hidden camera.

  I led her slowly to what I hoped would be off-camera. She followed in step. I think as long as I played the John, she’d have dutifully followed me to Taiwan. The question was how to reach the girl inside who made her own choices. I decided, When in doubt, fly direct.

  I kept my voice so low that it could only have been picked up if she were wearing a microphone.

  “Mei-Li, do you read Chinese?”

  Her voice was higher than I expected.

  “Of course.”

  I handed her the note that Red Shoes had delivered with the fortune cookie. She scanned it while I read her eyes. The best I could hope for was a flash of gratitude for the rescue she’d prayed for. The worst was what I saw. Nothing. The shell was intact.

  She handed back the note without a quiver.

  “What does this mean?” The little high-pitched voice gave up nothing but mild curiosity.

  “I was hoping you might tell me. Do you have any idea where I got it?”

  “No.” It peeped out like half a syllable, as if I’d asked if she knew the capital of Montana. I was leery about tipping too much information, and I was getting precious little in exchange.

  “Mei-Li, no one can hear us. I can help you if you need it. Are you in any kind of trouble?”

  She seemed perplexed by the question, but peeped out, “No.”

  “Are they keeping you here against your will?”

  “No.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  “Are you in any kind of danger?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  Each little peep carried more of the implication, “and how stupid of you to ask.”

  Considering what it cost Harry and me in lost heartbeats to get there, plus the need to keep the only hope of help for young Bradley alive, I was beginning to swim in frustration.

  Then it occurred to me that she might have tensed up because of listeners. I took her hand and mouthed the words, “If you need help, squeeze my hand.”

  I could have been holding a dead mackerel.

  I could feel trip-hammers pounding on the nerves behind my eyes. An overwhelming sense of defeat flooded over my mind. For some reason, it welled up into anger. I dropped her hand and got a grip on her arm. I moved her back to the far wall. I knew it was the anger driving me, but I let it. I was spitting the whispered words between my teeth.

  “Listen to me, girl. If you’re not telling the truth, you’re playing with people’s lives. The girl who wrote that note could have been killed for it. She did it for you. That man over there came through three punks and a sumo wrestler to get here. So did I. You probably won’t understand this, but there’s an innocent boy who could be convicted of murder if I don’t get some answers. Now what’s the game?”

  I stopped when I heard Harry spit out “Mike!” from across the room. I realize my voice could be heard beyond our little corner. I waited for an answer.

  Nothing. She was still the porcelain doll. There was no expression whatever in her eyes. She just shook her head. Her voice was dead calm.

  “I’m sorry. There is no trouble. You were kind to try to help me.”

  That did it. The steam was gone. I knew I was running on empty. I apologized for what had probably been an absurd scene from her point of view and motioned Harry to the door. I put a twenty in her hands for the inconvenience, although at that moment, I felt more inconvenienced than she was. Someone was playing ping-pong with me, and whether it was Red Shoes, Mei-Li, or both, I was fresh out of clues.

  The corridors were empty when we made our way down the stairs. It was a relief. I wasn’t up to the kind of gauntlet we ran coming in. The door creaked open to a gust of fresh snowflakes that had camouflaged the grit of one of Boston’s oldest sections.