by Rhys Ford
“No, he doesn’t have any influence on the gangs running the streets now. It’s harder for Asian gangs to keep a hold on outside activity once they’ve been locked down. Loyalties shift along family lines, and it’s all about who you connect with outside of the city as much as it is how much you control it. Wong was put away for a long time, and much of what he gained slipped through his fingers.” Chang handed Kel a couple of packets of sugar for his coffee, then offered up a spoon to stir with. “His nephew took over the territory a few years back, but he and the old man are very different mind-sets to deal with. Adam Lee is smarter, sharper. It’s hard to catch him at anything because he’s slick and covers his tracks. Wong was like a sledgehammer, cross him and he pounded you down into the ground. That’s what slipped him up.”
“How so?” Kel put the spoon down on a paper towel already marbled with coffee and tea stains. “I worked a gang detail for about half a year, but a different district, more Latino. Lots of family ties there amongst the gangs. It was almost Hatfield and McCoy in some places.”
“You get some of that here, but sometimes you’ve got cousin against cousin too. Could be because smaller families and tighter clans, throwbacks from the old country they came from, and a lot of their money goes back overseas.” Chang made a face. “But those connections also bring over what they consider product: drugs and pretty girls they can get to work for cheap. Most of the girls we find refuse to talk and don’t care if they get deported back to where they came from. They know they’ll be on the next plane coming back and there’s nothing we can do about it. Lee makes sure there’s a good distance between him and what’s going down on the streets, plausible deniability all the way around. His uncle Wong liked to roll in it. He liked playing with the girls, hurting them. In the end, a couple of those close to him were willing to flip just to protect themselves, but only after he went in. Before that, nobody saw or heard anything. I’m pretty sure there’s a couple of guys out there who’d still do anything the old man asked them to do. We just don’t know who they are.”
“Do you think Chaiprasit was one that flipped? It looks like Wong was popped about two years after Miki was found on the street. St. John Street is on the far end of Chinatown, so he could have wandered off, but no one in the area recognized him when they showed his photo around. Or at least that’s what Miki was told. There’s a park there now, but I don’t know what it looked like back then. Could be the park was there and his mother took him to play in it, but Wong took her out, leaving him behind.” Kane looked up from a report of a twenty-five-year-old drug bust. “You said that Wong took a walk after getting released. Do you think some of his people were loyal enough to start taking potshots at anyone who crossed him back then?”
“From what I heard about Wong, I wouldn’t be surprised. Same with the theory about leaving the kid behind,” Chang replied. “But I don’t know why he would send somebody after St. John now. He’s what? Not even thirty? I can’t see why Wong would target him. He’s not a game piece on the board.”
“No, but his mother might’ve been. Hell, for all we know she’s still alive and working on some of the action. We don’t have a name for her yet. But she could be in your files here.” Kane tapped at a stack of papers. “It’s not like Miki hasn’t been photographed one and a half million times. Someone could have seen Wong’s mark on him and put two and two together about who he is. We just don’t have any clue how Miki is connected.”
“Somebody would’ve had to know,” Kel suggested softly. “He was young, and that tattoo was pretty well healed by the time they found him, so it was done to him when he was a baby. Someone’s going to remember a baby being inked up with Wong’s mark. That’s going to stick in somebody’s head.”
“Our first priority has to be finding Chaiprasit’s killer. It’s looking like she’s connected to something bigger than just a drive-by, but until we do some digging, we are not going to know who pulled the trigger.” Somewhere in the reports under Kane’s hands lay Miki’s mother’s name, possibly her photo as well. He wasn’t there to chase down his lover’s ghosts, but the itch was there, especially since an attempt had already been made on Miki in Vegas. “I guess the first thing we need to do is find out which of Wong’s guys—and women—are still alive and loyal to him.”
“And if one of those women is St. John’s mother? Then what?” Kel poked at a bubble Kane hadn’t wanted to burst, but that’s what made him a good partner. He was fearless in his inquiries and good to have in a fight. Still, he brought up a lot of questions Kane didn’t have answers to. “I don’t think we should ignore chasing her down just because it looks a little sticky with you digging around for her name. Like I said, someone is going to remember who inked up a little kid, and if she let Wong do that to her son, it was probably to prove her loyalty. We could very well find her at the end of this really shitty rainbow, and that’s something we need to take into account.”
“Most of these guys have aged out of the business,” Chang interjected. “I don’t know how many of them are still active, but it could be quite a few. Cancer’s taking Wong down, but a lot of people these days live very healthy lifestyles. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of Wong’s old associates are still up for a kill or two.”
“All he’d need is one guy willing to still do a job or two for him. We just need to find out who that’d be.” Kel’s pen flew across the pages as he took notes, scribbling down names to look into, then roughing out a flowchart connecting groups with lines. “St. John is definitely a target, no two ways about it. He was attacked once and on scene for a hit. It’s not going to take long before somebody tries again. We need to find out who is driving this and why.”
“Wong wasn’t one to share the spotlight, especially not with the women, but he definitely had a few favorites,” Chang said with a shrug. “He ran prostitutes, usually out of a business front. He would put a woman in charge of the girls he had working for him. St. John’s mother could’ve been one of those in charge. Chaiprasit had to have been close to her to have the woman’s personal effects on her. I could see Wong wanting to mark someone’s kid as a power play, so every time she looked at the kid, she would know who owned them. Problem is, there’s a lot of names to dig through, and you’d have to spend a lot of time figuring out who’s still alive. Then you’d have to divide them between loyal and not. I just don’t have those resources.”
“No,” Kel said, shaking his head. “That’ll be on us. We just had to coordinate with you to make sure we don’t step on any toes. This definitely sits in Homicide, but we need to be able to tap into you if we run into issues. It’s not a playground we know.”
“If his mother was loyal to Wong, it wouldn’t make sense that he’s a target. Unless it’s somebody hitting people who were loyal to Wong, maybe trying to cut his legs out from under him so he doesn’t build back up. That reads weak for me because Wong’s dying, but he could want to go out with a bang. Maybe climb back up and end on a high note.” Kane liked that reasoning even less, but he had to look at all of the possibilities. “Do we know who was instrumental in taking Wong down? Because that’s the first place I’d want to look if I was going to settle grudges. At least it’ll give us some place to start.”
“That kind of thing actually sits in the DEA’s office. I’ve got files here, but the case was punted over. DEA was running an undercover operation through Wong, and SFPD became a supporting actor in the whole thing. One of the biggest charges Wong had to fight was drugs and racketeering, so he was a pretty big feather to stick in somebody’s cap. It was like an alphabet soup fight, according to the reports here. There’s so many acronyms on these pages, I kind of want to buy a vowel.” Chang rocked back in his chair, his eyes settling on Kane. “Those guys are hard to talk to. They like to defend their rice bowl. They don’t like sharing information or resources, and don’t get me started on handing out credit for busts. Unless you got an in over there, you’re not going to get anyone to talk.”
�
�Luckily for me, I have an in.” Kane grinned over at his partner. “And he even owes me a favor or two.”
WHEN DAMIEN convinced Miki to go in on a pair of warehouses on the fringes of Chinatown and above the Piers, Miki thought he’d lost his mind. Both structures were in seriously bad shape and gutted from a fire. They languished while Sinner’s Gin was on tour, and were a project they promised themselves they would get around to fixing up once they had enough time and space to breathe. A semitruck plowing into their limousine gave Miki all the time he needed and all the sorrow he could ever imagine to fill the empty space. Edie talked him into turning his side of the property over to an interior designer while he struggled through rehab, his extensive injuries nearly crippling him after the accident. He’d come home to a house he’d never known, a refurbished, sleek style of living he never truly grew accustomed to. Damien’s warehouse was sold by his parents and refitted as a gallery with workspace for artisans. Kane rented one of those bays and eventually stumbled into Miki’s life.
When Damien walked back up out of the pits of hell or, rather, the insane asylum he’d been kept in, he sued for ownership of the warehouse and won, then set about reconfiguring the space so he and Sionn could live next door. The remodel was taking forever, and while Miki liked having his brother close by, there were times when he longed for the peace and quiet he had before his life was invaded by the people he now loved.
“I’m not talking about you, Dude.” He glanced down at the rough-coated terrier trotting next to him. The leash connecting Miki’s hand to the dog’s collar was superfluous, but the law—and Kane—were sticklers for the rules. Dude never left his side on their walks. He was a constant in Miki’s life, a silent furry sentinel he’d grown to love, the first creature he would admit to loving after losing his band. “You don’t make noise in my head. I mean, I love all of them, but sometimes they just pick at me until I want to choke to death.”
He didn’t want to admit there was a lot to pick at. Miki didn’t need someone to point out all of the bumps and ripples in his psyche. He knew he was fucked in the head. He didn’t need anyone who shared a spot in his heart to tell him he didn’t think right, process things the same way other people did, and most of all, he didn’t need anyone to tell him there were monsters in his darkness. He already knew all of that. Miki just didn’t have any intention of waking them up to evict them because, as he’d learned from the past, shaking his boo-wooglies out into the light just pissed them off, and they would eat their fill of him before slinking back into the shadows.
“I just want some bao. If you’re lucky, they’ll have some of the beef shanks out and we can grab one. Just don’t eat the bone on Kane’s dirty clothes. You are going to get both of us killed.” Miki trotted across the narrow side street to reach one of Chinatown’s main avenues. “And whatever you do, don’t try to hump the statue in their shrine. It’s embarrassing. Makes it look like I haven’t taught you any manners. Okay, I haven’t taught you any manners, but… still.”
Despite his past, Miki adored Chinatown. It was someplace he felt safe and, oddly, normal. It was loud and brash with extravagant treasures shuffled in among miles of trashy, kitschy, fascinating things, and when he walked the district’s crowded streets, he always felt like he was walking through home. He knew bits and pieces of the languages he heard, and the scents wafting out of various storefronts were achingly familiar. Little bits of happiness were tucked in here and there, everything from the slightly sweet, yeasty aroma of freshly steamed buns to the crackling earthiness of roasting ducks lightened any heaviness he carried. Damien once accused him of loving food more than he loved people, and at the time, with the exception of the guitarist himself, Miki would’ve agreed. But things were different now.
Still, he did love food, especially when he wasn’t the one who had to cook it.
“I should try to cook dinner.” Dude panted, giving him a silly grin, but Miki wasn’t taking it as approval. Dude smiled at everything. “There is a fried rice thing I saw. It looked really easy. I can maybe pick up some char siu to put into it. ’Course it would be a hell of a lot easier to just order in, but I could do it. I would just have to try to cook it when no one’s around so if I burn the fuck out of it, I could toss it before anyone finds out. Shit, is it Wednesday?”
The parking lot next to the Hongwanji was packed with stalls arranged into neat little rows overflowing with produce and other wares. The days had slipped away from him, and Miki found himself in the middle of one of the busiest public markets Chinatown had to offer. Most of the food was geared for locals, but a few stalwart tourists waded through the crowd. A couple of food trucks were parked on the street, one just opening its canopy while another was already slinging out boba milk teas and slushies. He recognized a cook he knew from a restaurant down the street working a steam table with barbecue meats and fried noodles. Sitting at the end of the parking lot, Fred’s hadn’t built up a line yet, but Miki knew from experience that if he didn’t get what he wanted now, it would be an hour wait in line once the surrounding businesses emptied out for lunch.
“Haven’t seen you around,” Fred grumbled at Miki as he approached. “Thought you were getting too big to eat what I make.”
“You and I both know you’re just heating up what you brought with you,” Miki sneered back. Leaning over the steam table, he shook the old man’s hand. “It’s good to see you. How are you doing? Your wife left you yet?”
“No, she’s holding out for you. And since you’re hooked up with that cop, she’s not going to go.” He guffawed, peeling his lips back into a nearly toothless grin. “I’ll tell her you said hi.”
Their relationship stretched back to the time when Miki washed dishes and Fred worked the wok line at Golden Panda Palace. Both had been paid under the table and often scrounged for leftovers off plates coming back from the front of the house. Miki did it because he was hungry and every penny counted, but Fred did it because he was cheap and hated to see food go to waste. His wife, Mabel, a round-cheeked older Chinese woman, worked as the main evening hostess during the weekends and spent much of her time trying to save Miki’s soul. She’d left off once Fred shooed her away, but she continued to look the other way when he shoveled food into take-out containers and snuck out with them at the end of the night.
They were two of the people Miki took care of once Sinner’s Gin began to make money. He owed the Wu family, and purchasing the Panda for them seemed like the least he could do. Fred fought him, but Mabel shut her husband down before he could finish his first argument. The food was still mediocre at best, but there were a few dishes Fred nailed every time.
And the best of them was char siu and crispy roasted pork.
“You want a bag of each?” Fred gestured with his cleaver at the mound of meat his helper was about to load into the steam table. “I have a bone for the dog if you want it.”
“No, I want a pound of each. And some of the spicy fried green beans.” Miki caught Fred’s curious look. “I’m going to use the char siu to make fried rice.”
“You better stop at the drugstore and buy Pepto. Or what is that thing they give to people so they vomit?” The old man snorted, then shoved his rolled-up cotton beanie to the back of his head. “You’d be better off buying food instead. I can make you up a bunch of boxes. You can take home and pretend you made it. It would be—”
The pop-pop-pop startled Miki, and he turned toward the sound, the world slowing down around him. He was caught in a gelatin shift of time, Fred continuing to berate Miki’s past attempts at making a meal while streams of people began to scatter away from the stall’s corner of the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Miki saw Fred’s expression change, morphing from confusion straight into anger.
Something stung his arm. Something sharp and hard, but he couldn’t quite process what hit him, not until he saw the trickle of blood smeared over his elbow. Dude’s booming bark shattered the protective shell around Miki’s consciousness; then time
returned to its normal flow. The world hit him hard, its sounds blaring loudly, making him wince with the sudden jolt of volume. This time—God, Miki was tired of counting the times—the shouts around him were a mélange of Mandarin, Cantonese, and English, but the one voice he heard above the cacophony was his terrier growling as he tried to pull Miki away from the side of the road.
He saw the shooter—no missing him, despite the chaos. He was older, slung down low in the seat of an old wide-bodied car Damien could probably instantly identify if he’d been there. The man had shaved his head recently enough there was a white ring around the back of his skull where his hair should have grown, but his eyebrows were thick dark splotches over his narrowed eyes. He’d slowed down to a near stop to get his shots off, but when the screaming began, he put his car into gear to pull away—but not before making eye contact with Miki.
The hatred Miki saw was a bitterness strong enough for him to taste, and then a moment later, the man was gone, his land shark of a car swallowed up by Chinatown’s ever-moving traffic.
“Call the cops,” Fred ordered the cowering teenager hiding next to the steam table. “And an ambulance. Mieko—Miki—sit down. You’ve been shot! Move the dog. Sit down.”
“I saw him,” Miki mumbled, hissing when the pain finally struck. Clamping his hand over the wound, he peered around, looking for other victims, but it was hard to tell what was going on around him. Dude hugged his side, sticking to Miki’s calf, and he reached down with his other hand to scratch the dog’s shoulders, hoping to calm the agitated terrier. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know why—”
“I know who he is.” Fred’s voice was shaky, crackling as he pulled Miki’s hand away, as he pressed a kitchen towel against the wound. The older man’s fingers trembled, and he looked up, fear blanching his cheeks and lips. “That was Rodney Chin, but he hasn’t caused trouble in years. Not since he came back out of prison. Something is going on, Miki, but I don’t know why you are in the middle of it.”