by Tim Maleeny
“Ask your questions,” he said.
“You’re putting a lot of heat on the mayor,” said Cape.
“He deserves it,” said Yan matter-of-factly.
“There’s a rumor he’ll step down,” said Cape. “Maybe not run against you, but nominate someone in his place.”
Yan shrugged. “There are a lot of rumors in this town,” he said, noncommittal. “Like charges of police corruption.”
“You saying the charges are bogus?” asked Cape.
“I’m saying it’s quite a coincidence,” said Yan. “I’ve suggested the current administration is corrupt, and yet the only scandal making the headlines has to do with Chinese police officers.”
“Which reflects on the entire Chinese community,” said Cape, finishing the thought. “So the politics are about race.”
Yan shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “The current mayor is black, so it’s not as simple as racial innuendoes or exploiting hidden bias in the voters. That only works when one of the candidates is white, at least in this city.”
“So?”
“It’s about reinforcing a perception that the Chinese in this city are somehow them, while everyone else is us. You set up a strong enough us-versus-them dynamic, and that could carry the election. The Chinese are isolated, different…many don’t even speak English….you get the idea.”
“So even when there’s a scandal in the current administration,” said Cape, “it somehow hurts your campaign, not the mayor’s.”
“The mayor is a smart man,” said Yan admiringly, his eyes bright with either envy or ambition. Cape couldn’t tell.
“With the Chinese cops sidelined during the investigation,” said Cape, “it makes it kind of tough to get a handle on the refugees and the ship.”
“I was going to ask if you already talked to the police,” said Yan.
“Some,” replied Cape. “But I wouldn’t be here if they had it all figured out.”
Yan chewed on his lower lip. “You look honest.”
“It’s the blue eyes,” said Cape.
Yan laughed. “All right,” he said. “I won’t pretend Chinatown is a utopia. Most of our residents are hard-working, honest families, doing what they must to survive. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that some of our residents are less law-abiding than others.”
“Like Freddie Wang,” suggested Cape.
Yan laughed again. “It seems you know more about Chinatown than you’ve let on, detective.”
Cape shrugged. “I’m ignorant, but not naïve. Freddie hasn’t kept the lowest profile over the years.”
“True,” said Yan. “Wang is a local gangster, plain and simple. He deals in drugs, among other things. But I imagine you know all that.”
“Rumor has it Freddie heads a tong,” said Cape, “that controls all the heroin coming in from Asia.”
Yan snorted. “Tong?” he said scornfully. “Do you know what a tong is, Mister Weathers?”
Cape shook his head. “Just what I’ve read—Chinese organized crime.”
“Indeed,” said Yan. “That’s very true, in some cases. But tong simply means chamber—a meeting place. It’s a blanket term to refer to any large organization, fraternity, or business association.”
Cape recalled the plaque outside. “Like the Chinese Merchants Benevolent Association?”
“Exactly,” said Yan, nodding. “A group of local merchants joined together to pool resources. They share business contacts, legal services, and make loans to members at favorable rates. The association allows Chinese businesses to become competitive. There are many such associations in Chinatown—ours has been in existence almost one hundred years.”
“I don’t think Freddie Wang is making loans at favorable rates,” replied Cape.
“Neither do I.” Yan smiled, a cynical look on his face. “But he’s got his own organization. He’s not a member of ours.”
“But why do you tolerate him?” asked Cape. “It can’t be good for the community, for that legitimacy you want.”
Yan spread his hands. “Our resources are limited,” he said. “That’s like asking why the Italian community tolerates the Mafia, or why the city police can’t stop prostitution.”
“OK.”
“We have an understanding with the tongs,” said Yan. “We have to live in the same neighborhood, after all.”
“But if someone in the Chinese community was involved with hiding the refugees—” began Cape.
“It would be Freddie Wang,” said Yan. “That’s my guess.”
“I was hoping you’d point me somewhere else,” said Cape, frowning. “I’ve talked to Freddie before, and it wasn’t what you’d call a cordial conversation. I don’t think he’ll talk to me.”
“He will if I tell him to,” said Yan confidently.
“Is that part of your understanding?” asked Cape.
Yan shrugged. “I’ll tell him what you told me—you don’t want to cause trouble, you just want some information. It could be much worse for Freddie if you just started knocking on doors in the neighborhood, asking questions.”
“That was my next step,” replied Cape, “if I wasn’t able to talk to you.”
“I’ll talk to Freddie,” said Yan definitively. “And he’ll talk to you. Beyond that, I can’t make any promises.”
Cape stood. “Mister Yan, I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Yan extended his hand. “Good luck.”
They shook hands. “Thanks,” said Cape. He started to turn, but Yan held his hand a moment longer than expected.
“You know, Mister Weathers,” he said, turning to look out his window, “your answers might not be in Chinatown.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what was onboard that ship?” asked Yan. “Or what those people were doing in China?”
“No,” said Cape. “I don’t.” He thought about telling Yan he’d already asked that question of someone else, but for some reason didn’t. “Do you?”
Yan shook his head. “I just thought it might be relevant.”
Cape nodded. “Thanks again. If you think of anything else…” he handed Yan his card.
“There is one more thing,” replied Yan, reaching behind him. He extended his right hand and pressed something into Cape’s palm. “Wear this in November, if you don’t mind.”
Cape looked down to see a round button emblazoned with Yan for Mayor. He smiled and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Good luck in the election.”
Cape turned and walked down the hall, passing through Yan’s gallery of photos. Waving to the pretty receptionist, he let himself out and took the stairs down to the street. The air was crisp, a hint of fog in the chill wind coursing down the street.
He stood for a moment on the curb, reflecting on the meeting. It was still early and the street was crowded, pedestrians of all ages moving around him like water. Yan was a politician and a lawyer, which normally meant two strikes against him, but there was something disarming about the man. Cape reminded himself that he didn’t really know Yan, but he suspected that he’d like him if he did. And if nothing else, he’d given Cape a reason to move forward.
Cape moved to cross Grant and was knocked sideways by a young Asian boy with orange hair carrying a large backpack. The boy muttered something under his breath as he brushed past, stepping up onto the curb without looking back. Cape started to say something but caught himself, watching as the boy rounded the corner. Looking both ways before resuming his walk, he crossed the street and turned right toward Broadway.
He walked two blocks before reaching into his right jacket pocket to fish out his cell phone. He wanted to call Linda and see if she’d found any background on the ship. His fingers brushed against something that wasn’t his phone, something with a hard, thin edge to it.
Cape pulled a card out of his pocket, a rectangular piece of cardboard about an eighth of an inch thick. Written across the top were the words One-eyed Dong. Below was an address just a few b
locks from where Cape stood, in the heart of Chinatown.
Cape turned the card over in his hands. On the back was a triangle, the three sides carved into the card with blood-red clarity. Below the triangle were three Chinese characters that meant nothing to him.
Cape thought of the boy with the orange hair and looked again at the card. He wondered if he’d been followed on his way over here or maybe the entire day.
Either way, he didn’t like looking over his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty
“Nuts?”
Lucy cranked up the wattage on her Tennessee smile as she proffered the small cup of mixed nuts, but the big Chinese fella wasn’t having any of it. He looked at her like she’d just shit on the tray table.
She didn’t think he spoke English, but it was pretty damn clear what she was saying. She was holding the nuts in her hand, after all.
Part of being a flight attendant was meeting all sorts of interesting people, but the flipside was dealing with folks who just couldn’t see the sun for the clouds. This boy’d clearly had a tough life, just from the look of him. That scar was as long and crooked as an interstate highway. Not even a mother could love that face.
But this was business class, and she wouldn’t become positive employee of the month for backing down from a challenge. (The airline used to have an award for plain old employee of the month, but the constant squabbling with the unions made the flight attendants so surly that management had decided to get specific.) The award came with a free trip to Hawaii including lodging and two hundred bucks cash, so Lucy wasn’t about to let some grouchy Chinaman knock her off her game.
She bent down to show some cleavage and gave it another Tennessee try.
“Nuts?”
“Yes,” came the reply, and Lucy almost yelped in surprise, his English crisp and clear, the voice so deep. Then the big man turned away and closed his eyes, never reaching for the small cup in her outstretched hand.
Lucy wondered if maybe he didn’t understand her after all, or if he thought she was asking him a personal question. That last thought gave her a little shiver.
Lucy walked back to the galley and checked her watch. They’d be landing in San Francisco pretty soon. She decided to keep to herself for the rest of the flight. Pulling out the folding seat next to the lavatory, she absently chewed on a Macadamia from the cup in her hand.
It was only the middle of the month, she told herself. Still plenty of time to win that trip. Better to conserve her energy so she could charm the shit out of the passengers on the way back to Hong Kong.
Chapter Twenty-one
Hong Kong, 11 years ago
Xan leaned forward and stared at the two girls in disbelief, his thickly muscled forearms pressing against the edge of the table. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Jun and Sally had just returned to the compound.
“You stole his watch?”
Both girls nodded.
“And his wallet,” added Sally.
“And his passport,” said Jun.
“And his car,” they said in unison.
Xan’s scar jumped imperceptibly.
“Your assignment was to follow and observe,” he said slowly, hammering the last three words as if driving stakes into the ground.
“We did follow,” protested Sally.
“And observe,” added Jun.
“And then?” demanded Xan.
“We engaged,” came the reply, in stereo.
“On whose initiative?” demanded Xan.
Sally and Jun exchanged a glance and then pointed at each other. “Hers.”
Xan breathed deeply through his nose. “He is a senior official of a rival clan,” said Xan. “We could be exposed.”
Sally shook her head. “Not a chance,” she said definitively before catching herself. She nodded once out of respect and added, “I don’t think so, Master Xan.”
“And why not?”
Jun spoke next. “He thinks we’re prostitutes.”
Xan looked at the two teenagers before him as if noticing for the first time their short black dresses, hair, and makeup. Though Xan was still getting used to seeing this group of girls in a different light, scheduled trips into Hong Kong were a regular part of their training now. After all, you couldn’t blend in with your surroundings unless you had experienced them, if only while playing a role.
“Prostitutes,” Xan repeated.
“Underage prostitutes,” corrected Sally. “We told him we were only seventeen.”
“You’re only fifteen,” replied Xan. “Jun is seventeen.”
“That’s not the point,” said Sally, almost but not quite dismissively.
“And what is the point?” asked Xan, raising his eyebrows.
“He’s married,” said Sally.
“And he knew we were not yet eighteen,” added Jun.
“But he bought us drinks,” said Sally.
“Which we spilled when he wasn’t looking,” added Jun.
“But he drank.”
“And drank.”
“And drank.”
“Then he fell asleep.”
“Or passed out.”
“Then we took off.”
Both girls nodded, obviously pleased with themselves.
“So he won’t tell his wife because she would divorce him,” said Jun.
“And he won’t tell his mistress because she would kill him,” added Sally.
“And he won’t tell his associates because he would lose face for being so careless,” said Jun.
“So we were not exposed, Master Xan,” said Sally, a little more contrite this time. “We were very careful.”
Xan sighed again.
“This man was second to the pak tsz sin of another society,” he said. “He is an accountant and, as you have so clearly demonstrated tonight, he is a buffoon.”
Xan paused as he looked deliberately at each of the girls.
“But tell me,” he continued, “what would you have done if this man turned out to be something other than what he appeared to be? What if he did not drink? What if he had been a Red Pole or a sze kau who intended to capture you or inflict damage on our clan in some way?”
Both girls leaned forward in their chairs, but Sally answered first.
“I would have killed him,” she said simply.
Xan met Sally’s gaze, her bright eyes almost unnaturally green, her pupils dark and wide. In that instant it seemed as if the young girl in front of him was older than Xan himself. Somewhere in the dark undercurrents of her eyes swam a vengeance unfettered by the shackles of remorse. Those eyes could kill a man, he thought.
Xan looked at Sally for a long moment before saying anything.
“As you say, little dragon.” Then he turned to Jun and nodded.
“Leave us.”
Jun stood and bowed, shooting a quick glance at Sally.
Once Jun had closed the door, Sally turned back to Xan.
“Am I in trouble?”
Xan shook his head. “This does not concern Jun.”
Sally nodded her understanding, even though she suddenly felt anxious. She was usually paired with another girl, and almost always it was Jun. They were roommates. They trained together, ate together. Sally wondered what could possibly concern her and not Jun.
“Sally, do you know why all of your instructors are men?” asked Xan.
“We have many female instructors.”
Xan nodded. “Of course,” he said quickly. “For language training and music.”
“And acting,” said Sally. “And math and science.”
“Yes,” agreed Xan. “I wasn’t thinking of your morning classes.”
Sally understood. “You mean our instructors for the martial arts.”
Xan nodded but remained silent. Sally thought for a moment before answering.
“We used to have female instructors,” she began, trying to remember when she had stopped sparring against women. “Until I was twelve.”
Again Xan
nodded. “When you were no longer a girl.”
Sally knew what he meant, though she still thought of herself as a girl. But that was the year she first got her period, and also the year she was sent into Hong Kong by herself.
“‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’” Xan spoke in a voice that suggested to Sally he was quoting from something. Probably from The Art of War. No matter what class you were taking, the instructors were always throwing Sun Tzu in your face. The girls often joked that without Sun Tzu, they wouldn’t have any homework.
Xan saw the look on Sally’s face and pressed on. “The clan is a male organization,” he explained. “Much like the other societies. White Lotus, Heaven and Earth, Phoenix and Dragon. They are all run and staffed by men.”
“I understand,” said Sally tentatively.
“Naturally, this makes them suspicious of other men,” said Xan. “To penetrate another organization, therefore, we must sometimes use cunning.”
“‘Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected,’” said Sally confidently. “Sun Tzu.”
Xan smiled. “Well said, little dragon. There is no mystery, then, as to why you are here.”
“No, Master Xan,” replied Sally. “None.”
A life without mystery, thought Xan, studying Sally for the second time that night. Such a life begins here.
“Very well,” he said, as if to himself. Reaching behind him, Xan produced a folder of heavy brown paper, its texture and weight suggesting it had been handmade. Sally had seen folders like it before, always containing photographs and backgrounds of men she was supposed to follow in the city.
“The shan chu wanted me to give you this,” Xan said simply, sliding the folder in front of Sally.
Sally looked up from the folder. The shan chu was the head of the school. No, the head of the clan. The Master of the Mountain. The Dragon Head.
Sally knew she wasn’t going to just follow a man around Hong Kong. This was something more important. She opened the folder, not sure what to expect.
The first thing she saw was a photograph, black and white, taken with a long lens. The man in the picture looked Japanese. He was standing next to a white delivery truck on a busy city street with a cigarette in his right hand, his eyes screwed up against the smoke. Sally guessed he was maybe forty-five. Even from a distance, his features looked coarse and unfriendly. Sally was about to look at the rest of the file when she felt a sudden and unexpected revulsion.