Chinese Cooking for Diamond Thieves

by Dave Lowry

  “Oh,” Corinne said.

  Ms. Masterson took another sip of her tea. She put down the cup and looked at both of us.

  “Precisely.”

  39

  Rule #59: While there are many instances where it’s possible to see how one got into a particular situation, there are a lot more that just can’t be easily explained—if at all.

  Corinne called Sung the morning after our meeting in the alley behind the restaurant. He wanted to meet her that evening near the hotel where he was staying. Corinne told me; I called Ms. Masterson. Along with Mr. Cataldi, the three of us met at Co-rinne’s apartment.

  “Neither of you are working today?” Ms. Masterson asked.

  “Restaurant’s closed for lunch,” I said. “We’re having a new electrical box installed. So we asked for the whole day off.”

  “Plans for your day off?” Mr. Cataldi said, looking at both of us.

  “Yes,” Corinne said. “I’m assuming you’re going to want to go to the park where I’m supposed to meet Mr. Sung this evening.”

  Mr. Cataldi nodded.

  “I want to go with you so I can, uh . . .” She glanced at me.

  “Case the joint,” I said. “And me too. I want to go along to get a look at the place.”

  “I’m assuming you’re also going to want to go to the meeting with Sung this evening,” Ms. Masterson asked me.

  “I am.”

  “You have any objections to that?” Ms. Masterson asked Corinne.

  “Do I have a say?” Corinne asked.

  “Yes,” Ms. Masterson said.

  “I want him to come.”

  “Fine,” Mr. Cataldi said. “He goes with us this afternoon to look things over. You, though”—he pointed to Corinne—“stay.”

  Ms. Masterson spoke. “We don’t want to run into your Mr. Sung while we’re looking the park over, or anyone else who might know you.”

  “Mr. Sung’s seen Tucker,” Corinne argued. “Up close.”

  “Closer than Sung would have liked, from what you told me,” Ms. Masterson said.

  “We were just establishing the parameters of our relationship,” I said.

  “Which are apparently best defined, according to you,” Ms. Masterson said, “by strangling him and simultaneously threatening to crush his testicles.”

  “I hoped to capture his attention.”

  “At any rate,” Ms. Masterson said. “I’m willing to take the chance that we’ll be far enough away that should Sung appear, he won’t be close enough to recognize Tucker. I’m not willing to take the same chance with you.”

  “And . . .” Mr. Cataldi said.

  “And?” Corinne said.

  “And Tucker’s a laowai,” Mr. Cataldi said, “and don’t tell me we don’t all look alike to you Chinese.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You speak Mandarin.”

  “Only words I know, which I got from you, as I recall,” Mr. Cataldi said.

  “Only ones you really need.”

  I assumed Corinne was back at her apartment now, probably sleeping. Sleeping is what most restaurant people do on an unexpected day off. Ms. Masterson, Mr. Cataldi, and I sat in Cataldi’s car, in the park’s parking lot. It wasn’t quite raining. The clouds seemed to have convened on the matter and were mulling it over. Spatters struck here and there on the windshield. They made soft plops when they hit, barely audible. Even with the sprinkles, there were about a dozen cars parked in the lot around us. So we didn’t look all that suspicious, I thought, other than if someone had noticed the three of us sitting in our car, not doing anything, which didn’t seem all that normal for a park at midday.

  It wasn’t much of a park. A couple of acres set aside in a neighborhood of suburban strip malls, offices, chain restaurants, and hotels. It looked like once it had been part of a farm. Suburbia had crept in. On one side of the park’s grassy lawn was a sprawling complex of doctor’s offices. On the other side was the parking lot of the hotel where, apparently, Mr. Sung was staying.

  “Think it’s some kind of setup?” Ms. Masterson asked me. I thought she was being polite more than anything else in asking my opinion. I didn’t think an FBI agent really needed my input. Maybe she just wanted to have a little conversation to pass the time.

  “I don’t have a lot of experience with that,” I said.

  “I think we can pretty well assume that Sung is up to something,” Mr. Cataldi said.

  “I don’t really care,” I said. “I care that Corinne might be in danger.”

  Mr. Cataldi nodded. “Reasonable,” he said. “Can’t promise you she won’t be in any danger if she meets with him this evening. But you gotta figure it this way: we’re looking over the meeting place ahead of time. Gives us some idea of where we’ll want to be this evening when he wants to meet. We can be in a position to protect her if she needs it.”

  A motion off over by the hotel parking lot caught my eye. Someone, a thin woman in a bright red dress, had come out of a side entrance to the hotel and was crossing the lot, walking toward a car parked at the edge. I couldn’t see her face. From the straight black hair, I was willing to venture a guess she was Asian. She paused to glance around, searching, it seemed, for a car. I was right. Chinese.

  “Off to the right,” I said. Ms. Masterson and Mr. Cataldi both shifted their heads.

  “Aha,” Ms. Masterson said.

  “Aha?” Mr. Cataldi said.

  “That could be just one of the many Asian American citizens of the greater metropolitan area of the St. Louis environs,” Ms. Masterson said. “Or one of the many visitors who come to this fine city each year and are staying as guests at the hotel. It could also be—what’s the term you guys used?”

  “Gong-gong qi-che,” I said. “The public bus.”

  “Public bus?” Mr. Cataldi asked.

  “Everyone’s ridden her,” Ms. Masterson said. “I’ve gotten an interesting education in some aspects of Chinese culture.”

  “Corinne said that Sung had recently acquired a young female friend,” Ms. Masterson said.

  “Wanna bet that’s her?”

  “Looks the part.”

  “She could be his niece,” I said.

  “Remember last night when you said you tried to be optimistic?”

  “I do.”

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve just gone from ‘optimistic’ to ‘absurdly naive.’”

  The woman, whoever she was, found her car, a small, tan four-door, started it, and backed out of the parking space. We watched her go.

  “Would it be a good idea to follow her?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Ms. Masterson said. “But then again, we’re just guessing she’s with Sung. And it is possible there could be more than one person of Chinese ancestry staying in a hotel in St. Louis.”

  Mr. Cataldi shifted in his seat and pulled a small plastic-bound notebook from his hip pocket. He flipped it open and started writing. It was the first time I’d seen either of them ever write anything down. Cops on TV shows write things down all the time.

  “Got the plate,” he said. “We’ll call it in to the local cops. Chances are it’s a rental.”

  I sat back and stared at the park. Ms. Masterson and Mr. Cataldi talked a little about the layout. Except for the line of trees at the rear of the park that were too far back to be of any use, there didn’t seem to be any place they could hide to watch during the meeting with Sung. Both the benches were out in the open.

  “Maybe I ought to be your sweetie this evening,” Ms. Masterson said. Mr. Cataldi nodded. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I did know, no matter what, that I was going to be with Corinne that evening.

  40

  Rule #29: Like wine and cartoon characters, the best insults in Mandarin are the oldest.

  “Has anyone ever pointed out to you that you are sort of a violent person?” Corinne asked me. We were driving along Olive Street, toward the park where she was supposed to meet Sung. It was after five, still light out. The clo
uds had gotten thicker, but the rain had never developed past those few fat plops of earlier in the afternoon. The air was soft; the atmosphere had that kind of dreamy quality when the day’s almost done.

  “So far, in the short time I’ve known you, you’ve punched out a guy on the street in Buffalo, beat up a couple of other guys in front of my apartment, and now you’ve assaulted my ex-boss. And come to think of it, all of them are Chinese,” she added. “You’re violent and a racist.”

  “I worked over Mr. Cataldi,” I said. “You weren’t there for that.”

  “Sorry I missed it,” she said. “So you have issues with Italians too?”

  We stopped for a red light. It was rush hour. There was a lot of traffic, and we were hitting most of the lights. It didn’t matter. We didn’t have far to go, and we had plenty of time. My stomach was rolling. I wondered if Corinne was scared. She was good at hiding her emotions. Back at Forest Park getting chased by Eyebrows and the Curl, I’d been scared. Then, though, it was the kind of scared like when you’re going down a ski slope, one that’s too fast for you, one that you’re hoping you’re going to survive long enough to get to the bottom. That kind of scared is more about making it through the immediate moment. The sort of scared I felt now was more like when you actually take a fall on that hill and you feel something give, in your knee or in your ankle or your elbow, and you sprawl there in the snow, not moving, knowing something is wrong, something that could just be a little sprain or a twist or something that could be your elbow or your knee or your ankle, which is now bending in a direction it has never bent before; knowing that sooner or later, you’re going to have to try to move, and then you’re going to find out, and you’re going to have to live with the consequences, whether they are just an ice pack and a couple of aspirin that evening or spending some time in the emergency room counting the holes in the ceiling tiles while the doctor tries to be reassuring. The kind of scared I was now was the scared of knowing there were a lot of variables here. Too many to control. I didn’t know what Sung was up to. I didn’t know if he’d have somebody else, somebody from the Flying Ghosts, along with him. I didn’t know if Ms. Masterson and Mr. Cataldi would be close enough to step in if things got dangerous. I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it if they didn’t. And mostly I realized that, for the first time in my life, I was scared not so much for what might happen to me but what might happen to somebody I cared about. That was a new kind of scared. I wanted more time to think it through.

  The light changed. We moved forward again.

  “I’m not really a violent person,” I said.

  “I know. I was just trying to get your attention.”

  “What were you going to do with my attention once you’d gotten it?”

  “Later.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. It didn’t seem a good time to pursue it. I changed the subject.

  “You’re clear on everything?” I asked her. “We’ll listen to whatever he has to say, but you’re not going anywhere with him. We stay in sight, out in the open, where we can be seen.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her nod. “I still think he’s going to be in a tizzy when you show up with me.”

  “Let him tizz,” I said. “If he’s telling the truth, what difference does it make if I’m there when he gives you the money he owes you?”

  “Yeah,” Corinne said. “Somehow I’m not thinking we’re going out to dinner tonight on that money.”

  Sung was sitting on one of the benches we’d seen earlier in the day. He had his back to us. Two young mothers were perched on an exercise sit-up stand, watching their kids over at the playground, who were getting in a last little bit of play time before it got dark. There was a pair of miniature bulldozers with scoops mounted on short metal poles stuck into the ground, with hinges so the scoops could be swung up and down. One of the kids carefully levered the handles to drop the bucket down and bring up a shovelful of the rubber crumbles that covered the ground. With the arm of the bulldozer fully extended, he maneuvered it around slowly, deliberately, and dumped the whole bucket on the head of the other kid. The mothers were talking and didn’t notice this at first. Then, when they did, they both reluctantly stood up and went over to referee.

  We’d parked in the lot and were coming up behind Sung. We were only a couple of yards away from him when he turned. He looked at Corinne, then at me.

  “I thought I asked you to come alone,” he said in Mandarin.

  “Seemed like a nice afternoon for a walk in the park,” Corinne said. At just that moment, there was a low rumble of thunder far off. Maybe rain was coming after all. “We both work pretty hard at the restaurant. Nice to take a day off and go for a walk . . . after you give me my money and the explanation you mentioned.”

  “You’re not very good at following directions.” Sung was wearing a pair of gray slacks and a cheap gray nylon windbreaker zipped up over his shirt. He had on black socks and tan leather shoes. Just like the night before, when I’d braced him out behind the restaurant, his hair was carefully combed, oily and slick. It looked like he spent as much time on it as Mr. Leong. Though he had a lot more to work with.

  I glanced around. One of the mothers was still brushing rubber chips out of her kid’s hair. The other was bent over, lecturing her kid. I couldn’t see Ms. Masterson or Mr. Cataldi anywhere. I heard a car door slam, then another immediately after. I glanced over toward the hotel parking lot. Two men, both Chinese, had gotten out of a car and were walking in our direction. Both wore dark suits with dark ties. One was short, in his fifties, I was guessing. Even at a distance, I could see his suit was tailored. He walked like a man who controlled things, who was accustomed to getting done what he wanted done, efficiently and definitively. The other man was taller, much thicker. And younger. In his late twenties. His suit didn’t fit nearly as well. His hair was cut short, sticking up, like a marine drill sergeant’s. He carried himself with an economy of motion. He didn’t swing his arms wide or amble. He carried himself like he was going from Point A to Point B as directly as possible, and woe betide anyone who got in his way. He carried himself like he wasn’t unfamiliar with physical contact.

  Corinne and I had come around to the front of the bench facing Sung. I stood so I could see both him and the line of trees along the back of the park. That’s where I was hoping the cavalry would be coming from. Corinne stood next to me. Sung saw us looking at the pair coming up behind him. He swung around again to see them. Then he swiveled back. He stayed seated. The pair came up to us and stopped, maybe five feet away, facing us, with Sung sitting between us. They looked at me, at Corinne, and didn’t say anything. Neither of us said anything. One of the kids skidding down a plastic slide over at the play area whooped. The man with the brush cut whose suit didn’t fit well—he had to be the bodyguard. The boss was Mr. Expensive Suit. Whose name, it turned out, was Ping. Sung swung around on the end of the seat and turned his head to look at Ping.

  “Mr. Ping,” Sung said, speaking English suddenly, “this is my assistant Wenqian.” He opened his palm and lifted it in Corinne’s direction. He didn’t seem to remember I was even there. Or care.

  “Wenqian,” he said. “This is the man we stole from.”

  “Oh?” Corinne said. That was all. Her voice was flat, emotionless. I knew she didn’t want to give Sung or Ping the satisfaction of sounding outraged. Or incredulous.

  “I have spoken to Wenqian,” Sung went on, like he was delivering a lecture. “I have explained that I have returned the diamonds that I took from our inventory, the diamonds that Mr. Ping and his . . .” He paused, searching for the word.

  “Consortium,” Ping offered. It was the first thing he said. He said it in English. His pronunciation was precise. He was probably fluent.

  “His consortium owned,” Sung went on, still in his lecturing-to-slightly-dull-children voice.

  “Owned?” Corinne said. “How did they own the company’s inventory?”

  “I entered i
nto a business relationship with Mr. Ping,” Sung said. “He—”

  “You mean you laundered money he gave you.”

  “I have made a number of decisions in running my business over the years, Miss Chang,” he said. “I was not aware I needed to clear them with my employees.”

  “No need to inform your employees you’re working in cahoots with criminals?” Corinne asked. Inside, I smiled. Cahoots.

  “Criminals?” Sung sounded like he was trying to sound surprised. I got the same feeling I had when I’d first encountered him in the alley. It was like he was always acting, always trying to be something he wasn’t. He sounded like an amateur actor in a local dinner theater production. He was warming up to his part, the contrite supplicant, asking for forgiveness and admonishing his partner in evildoing to do the same.

  “We’re the criminals here, Wenqian,” he said. “We are the ones who took the diamonds and left Montreal. In point of fact,” he went on, extravagantly turning both palms over to accentuate his words, “Mr. Ping has been very generous, considering what we’ve done to him.” Mr. Sung seemed to straighten up and grow a little as he went along. It was as if he were preaching a sermon to Corinne, gently explaining what they had both done and letting her know it was time to make things right.

  “I have given Mr. Ping the diamonds I took that rightfully belong to him. I would urge you to do the same.”

  Corinne didn’t say anything.

  I did.

  “Er mu bei yi,” I said. “Sung’s mother was a slave girl.”

  The expressions on the faces of both Sung and Ping would have been the same if I had spoken Latin instead of Mandarin. They stared at me, frozen. Ping’s bodyguard, who’d been gazing off into the distance without any expression at all, slowly, lazily turned his head. He stared at me. Cold, appraising. When I first saw the Curl, from the driver’s side of the car the day they’d stopped to threaten me, I’d thought his gaze was reptilian. The bodyguard had an industrial-strength version of that same look. He was looking me over the way a python would a warm little mouse. I tried not to appear too mousy. I didn’t think I was sprouting a tail. Or whiskers. I did, nevertheless, feel distinctly like dinner.