by Henry Chang
He took a steamy sip of the mixture.
“You know this will keep you up,” he warned.
“Exactly,” she grinned. “My final night in Seattle. I want to make it last.”
They savored the aroma, then rested their cups on the countertop. She closed her eyes and slowly rolled her neck. He massaged her taut shoulders, which brought a deep sigh from her. He smelled a musky scent emanating from her.
Alex turned and looped her arms over his shoulders, leaning into his body. Jack pulled her even closer, his hands sliding to her hips. They found themselves drifting to the slow grind of saxophone blues, and he assumed that the electricity dancing between their bodies came from the shuffling friction of their feet along the carpet.
He could see questions in her eyes, even in the dim shadowy light.
It started with a series of light, little kisses, with his lips lingering on hers, then pulling back slightly, savoring it. He was captivated by the scent of her skin, the warm licorice exhalation of her breath. More kisses were exchanged between searching looks, questions unanswered in the fleeting moments.
“Unzip me,” she said softly, and he tugged the zipper down smoothly to the small of her back. She shrugged her shoulders and twisted against him until the gold dress fell away to reveal skimpy gold satin lingerie.
He took a breath before kissing her hard on the fleshy part of her throat. She shuddered, and reached for his belt buckle just as his cell phone vibrated. A buzz kill.
His first thought was to ignore the call. Surely it could wait, damnit. But after the second vibration he wondered who might be calling at this hour, here in Seattle. He thought it might be Detective Nicoll, or SPD, something to do with Eddie Ng in custody. A quick update? His curiosity got the better of him and he shot Alex a sheepish look before backing away to take the call.
He never took his eyes off her until his cell-phone screen lit up the frown across his face. It was Captain Marino, transferring a trans–Atlantic call through bursts of static interference. Something to do with the northern lights.
The international call had been patched through via the 0-Five, vetted and approved, Jack guessed, by Captain Marino himself. The Royal Hong Kong Police was partnering with INTERPOL, he heard through the static.
Jack recalled different law enforcement agencies as he waited through the introduction. INTERPOL was shorthand for the International Criminal Police Organization, headquartered in Lyon, France. It consisted of more than a hundred member nations and dealt with international crime through local law enforcement. Its focus included watching for lost or stolen passports and locating fugitives from justice.
A Red Notice was INTERPOL’s highest level of alert, an arrest warrant that circulated worldwide.
The RHKP’s voice was typically Chinese-British, formal and to the point: “A fugitive who is a top member of an unlawful secret society may have arrived in the United States, at Seattle. His name is not important, as he travels under an alias anyway. He is sixty-three years old, a number 415 Paper Fan rank, in the second tier of command of the Hung Huen, Red Circle triad, a criminal organization.”
Jack quickly recalled what he knew about triads, their ranks, their history. He could hear the echo of Lucky’s words, rapping about the tongs. Triads were Chinese secret societies, benevolent brotherhoods that went back through the centuries. Mostly now they were criminal gangs operating out of Hong Kong and China, gangs that had fingers in everything from China White heroin to human trafficking. Everything from knockoff handbags to money fraud, not to mention gambling, gang protection and prostitution, muscle mayhem and murder.
As for how the ranks were set up, Jack knew it all started at the top with the Dragon Head, the loong tauh. Lucky had demonstrated some secret hand signals once. Beneath the Dragon were several officers: a planner, consigliere, called Paper Fan. An enforcer known as a Red Pole. Couriers, like liaisons, were Grass Sandals. Then there were other ranks Jack wasn’t sure of. Incense Master. Vanguard. The stuff of folklore and Chinese legends.
The sambuca was working against his mental clarity now. He felt the thirst for alcohol even though he knew hot tea would be better.
“Hocus-pocus,” Lucky had said, ho-cuss poke us. “Fuck dat, kid. Me and the boyz are blood-in by deed, understand? We ain’t lighting candles and reciting shit, and jumping through smoke. We ain’t pledging to nothing but the dollars. Kill the chicken, drink the blood? Get the fuck outta here. Each of my boyz came in and did the deed, you know it? This ain’t no fuckin Boy Scouts, okay? China White? Yeah, their H is hot, but we ain’t jumping through no hoops for it. Membership? We like the money maker, not the money taker. We don’t pay dues, we collect dues.”
Big statements from Lucky, thought Jack. Comatose at Downtown now.
There were three hundred thousand triad members in Hong Kong. Not counting the members across the waters, in China and Taiwan.
The RHKP’s voice continued after a quick breath. Jack wondered if he was being read a prepared statement.
“Paper Fan faces numerous warrants for currency and credit card fraud, money laundering, human trafficking, child pornography, prostitution, and copyright piracy.”
Jack listened patiently, feeling his lips going dry.
“Billions of dollars of theft. He is suspected of involvement in three homicides in three different countries. While he is highly insulated in Hong Kong, and well protected in Canada, he avoids Amsterdam, where he is vulnerable to drug charges. He travels infrequently but we believe he can be taken in the United States. Therefore the Red Notice to your headquarters. As always, we are grateful for your cooperation.”
Jack glanced at Alex, who had slipped on a robe, and was sipping sambuca again.
“Why Seattle?” Jack asked.
“The triad believes there’s a woman there who they want badly.”
A woman?
“A woman who stole something from them. A woman they believe killed someone in your precinct, in Chinatown New York.”
Mona, Jack knew immediately. Here in Seattle? How much “destiny” could he take?
“What do you have on her?” he asked.
“They believe she visited a temple.”
“Temple?”
“And we have an address. It’s on South King Street”
“What about Paper Fan?” Jack redirected.
“Find the woman, and you’ll find him.”
Thanks, thought Jack, another shot in the dark.
In the dim light he could see Alex giving him the look, asking, What’s up? They were losing the moment, had lost the moment, passion dissolved into the coffee and the background music.
“And she’s where?” Jack asked.
“She’s in south Seattle, somewhere in the five-mile area of Chinatown. We don’t know where exactly. Yet.”
Jack rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head.
“I will keep you posted,” the RHKP voice promised, “since we have a direct connection now.”
“Ten-four that,” Jack acknowledged, making a note of the address.
“The Red Notice covers everything.”
“Ten-four that,” Jack repeated, hanging up as Alex nuzzled into him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Alex, and briefly explained the new developments.
When she heard “human trafficking,” she said, “I’m going with you.”
He considered the situation as she changed into a sweater and jeans. Because the scent of Alex still lingered, and against his better judgment, he would allow her to come along. It may come to nothing, he thought.
It was past 1 AM as Jack passed the updated INTERPOL information into Detective Nicoll’s voice mail.
“We need to get to South King,” Jack said.
Alex borrowed a car from a member of the local ORCA chapter and they got directions from the hotel concierge. They drove toward the waterfront until they found the temple on South King at the edge of Chinatown. The street was deserted during the graveyard hours, but in th
e yellow light of streetlamps they could make out the signage above a storefront. The words PURE LIFE WORLD TEMPLE ran across the front, which bore a pagoda motif.
The temple was closed but Jack observed a dark sedan parked farther down the empty street. It had California plates, and he associated that with San Francisco. He saw two occupants, male, as he drove past. And there was a big dent on the rear fender.
“Let’s circle the block,” he said, wheeling the car right around the corner.
They came around again, well behind the parked sedan this time. Jack pulled in half a block away and killed the headlights. Two men, at this hour? He wondered if they had noticed him, wondered if it had been wise to allow Alex to tag along.
“Stay put,” he told her. “I’m going to have a look.”
“Careful,” she said quietly, unable to conceal her concern.
“Yeah, sure,” he said as he exited the car. Could be anything, he told himself, could be nothing. Play it by the book.
Alex watched as Jack went down the dark street. He was still three car lengths away when a Chinese man wearing wire-frame eyeglasses stepped out of the passenger side and walked away from Jack. The man, who was slightly built, took off his glasses and pocketed them as Jack neared the driver’s side.
Jack reached into his pocket, palming his detective’s gold shield. Could be nothing, he thought again. He leaned toward the car and flashed the badge as the driver powered down his window.
“Aww, chaai lo ah?” the thick Chinese face said, smiling. A cop, huh?
Cantonese, Jack recognized, his eyes darting momentarily toward the man who’d left the sedan, who’d thrown a look back over his shoulder.
“Jouh matyeh a?” Jack asked the driver. “What’s up?”
“Mo yeh, nothing much, ah sir,” the driver answered with sarcasm in his voice.
The second man stopped walking and turned toward Jack. His hands went into his jacket pockets. Let me see your hands, Jack was thinking, his attention divided. The slim man muttered something under his breath; it sounded like dew nei louh mou. Fuck you, motherfucker.
Suddenly, the driver threw the car door open, knocking Jack backward.
The second man stepped toward Jack as the driver sprang from the car. He was tall and rangy, maybe six foot two.
Alex watched with astonishment when the shorter man reached back and flung something that struck Jack with great force. Reflexively, he clutched at his ribs, and was distracted long enough for the big man to whip out a pair of nunchakus.
To Alex it was like a chop-socky sequence in a bad kung-fu movie.
The smaller man took two quick-bounding steps and then threw a high kick at Jack’s head. Jack blocked the kick with a bow arm, deflecting it with his elbow, but the contact threw him off balance. The big man flailed wildly with the metal nunchakus and caught Jack across the shoulder, then slammed him a second time before he could pull his service revolver. The second man pulled a knife from his waist as Jack fell to the pavement.
Jack could hear Alex screaming as the smaller man lunged at him with the thick blade. Snapping a straight kick upward into the man’s knee, Jack rolled instinctively just as the iron nunchakus slammed into the asphalt near his head. He pulled his Colt Special and aimed it, but the knife man lashed out a front kick that sent the gun clattering across the street.
Alex’s screaming got louder, closer.
“Jouh!” he heard the big man yell. “Split!” The goon hadn’t figured on assaulting a woman.
Struggling to his feet, Jack saw Alex dashing his way as the big man started up the sedan.
“Stay back!” Jack yelled, but Alex had already flashed past him, still screaming like a madwoman.
The knife man cursed and dove into the passenger side as the car screeched away.
Jack retrieved his Colt, watching the sedan disappear around the corner and into the black night. Alex came back to him, her face flushed and gasping for air. He caught his breath, patting his ribs and left side. Something had struck him and was embedded in the thick folds of his jacket. When he worked it loose he saw it was a razor-sharp five-pointed shuriken, a throwing star, a weapon that ninja assassins used centuries earlier. It had pierced his bunched-up garments but had barely broken his skin.
“What the hell was that all about?” Alex asked incredulously.
“They were waiting for someone,” Jack answered, pocketing the shuriken, “and it sure wasn’t Buddha.”
The message he left with Nicoll sounded like a telegram: “Two AM, Got call from INTERPOL. Went to South King, got into a fight. Two men, Chinese. Something to do with a triad.” Pause. “Or a tong. There’s another person of interest, who may be a suspect. A woman. Keep in touch.”
Jack brought Alex back to his airport motel room, where she applied ice packs to the swollen welts that ran across his left shoulder. He could tell she was embarrassed by the economy room, comparing it to hers at the Westin.
She noticed old scars on his chest and arms, and remembered visiting him in the hospital after he’d been shot while investigating the murder of the food delivery boy.
Meanwhile the big man with the iron nunchakus had reminded Jack of Golo, the tall Hip Ching enforcer, and the vicious fight they’d had in Brooklyn’s Chinatown. They’d wounded each other then, but Jack had since left Golo very dead on a San Francisco rooftop. Now Jack was again chasing the same woman who, in his mind’s eye, was just a fleeting image disappearing behind a rooftop door as he sent two hollow-point bullets after her.
The triad information from INTERPOL made Jack think of the old men of the Hip Ching Benevolent Association back in New York; they’d played dumb about their murdered boss, offering up the Fukienese newcomers as bait.
Jack felt that the fight and flight on South King had the stink of the Hip Chings around it. It’d been their business from the start and they were finishing it now. The Paper Fan was connected to the Hip Chings somehow, and Jack heard the echo of the RHKP’s voice: Find the woman, you’ll find him.
It was almost 3 AM when he and Alex delved back into the Seattle directories. They sought addresses for anything Hip Ching: cultural organizations, benevolent societies, trade associations, credit unions, fraternal and village societies, immigrant self-help services.
Outside the motel window the night sky had opened up to pounding sheets of rain.
Within an hour they’d narrowed it down to an address in Chinatown that housed three Hip Ching-affiliated organizations. Three, a magic Chinese number, Jack knew.
Alex was wide-eyed, wired.
The adrenaline and the espresso-and-liqueur mixture had juiced them up, and they went to the car for the drive back to Chinatown.
One False Move
He’d had a fitful sleep on the bed of the convertible couch in the back office of the Benevolent Association. He was concerned about not leaving a trace of his stay in Say nga touh, and his throbbing knee hadn’t responded to the hot towel wrap.
Tsai grimaced as he rubbed the pungent brown deet da jow along the outside of his left knee, where the Chinese chaai lo cop had kicked him. The liniment bit at his nostrils. I should have gone for the face, Tsai thought, closing his eyes as he put more pressure into the rub. It would have had a greater impact. He’d played it safe, had chosen to go for the torso, the bigger target, instead of the head, aiming the shuriken into the cop’s gut.
Tsai measured his breathing, twisted his face away from the smell of the deet da jow. He imagined the big 49 fighter flailing with his metal nunchakus. A big lug, lacking in training. They’d let the cop off lightly. And women were bad luck, he cursed, rubbing anger into the pain around his knee.
They’d have to be more discreet about the temple now.
Women Hold Up Half the Sky
The call from the female Grass Sandal assuaged Tsai’s pain, although he still felt bad luck in the air. She’d been ambitious and had discovered another connection to the missing woman, Mona.
This discovery had come
about precisely because she was a woman and undoubtedly would garner her some attention from the triad’s national ranks.
In the privacy of the front office, Tsai rested his leg on the coffee table, looked out over Elliott Bay, and listened to her report.
“She’s found a woman doctor,” the Grass Sandal said.
Tsai assumed she meant a female doctor.
“An ob-gyn,” she added for detail, “a woman’s doctor.”
The clarification was sharp; of course he hadn’t considered it. A woman’s doctor.
Acting on a hunch, the female 432 had guessed that a woman of Mona’s experience would seek out a gynecologist and, because she was Chinese, would probably prefer a female doctor. Checking the local listings for women’s medical services around the Chinatown area, she had narrowed the choices down to two female doctor: an Indian and a Vietnamese-Chinese.
The Indian doctor required medical insurance, but the Vietnamese occasionally accepted cash. From new patients, all that was required was a photo ID and a mailing address where she could send follow-up reports.
The female 432 had visited the Vietnamese doctor, had filled in the required information in the New Patient sign-in log, and had prepaid with cash. After the exam, she used the bathroom while the doctor prepared for her next patient. On the way out, she pilfered the log-in ledger, which contained the addresses of the year’s new patients. One in particular stood out.
A Chinese woman had paid cash, and had given an address on James Street.
Tsai commended the Grass Sandal’s smart work, and formally thanked her for her diligence and ingenuity. He made a note of the address and then hung up.
The address was not far from Chinatown.
Dew keuih, Tsai muttered as he rubbed in the rest of the liniment, fuck her.
Considering how he would approach Mona, he scanned the shelves of the association office; they were filled with stacks of Chinese newspapers and magazines, assorted health-care and census forms.
The Benevolent Association had sponsored several Chinese-speaking census takers as part of a community outreach program. They’d registered several dozen American-born Chinese but knew that thousands of Chinese illegals would never respond.