The Boy had nodded even though he didn’t understand. And he wondered—no worried—about what bad things had happened to his parents and he searched through the Man’s face, the Man from the driveway, the tall, thin Man with the beard, the Man who looked to be about the same age as his father, the Man who was looking kindly at him now, who said he would take care of him. The Man said all this to him as he came through the doorway into the living room where Maxie was standing.
And the Boy looked around the room with the large overstuffed couch, and the piano under the bay window, and the twin chairs with the shiny wood arms and backs with blue cushions as seats, and the large fireplace with a wooden mantle across the top covered with glass decorations, and a picture of the Man in a long black gown, holding a round hat that was green with a gold tassel hanging over the side. The picture hung on the wall over the center of the mantle.
And the Boy fought back his tears, because he didn’t want the Man to see him cry. But he knew he would cry later…in his room…the one that was not like his room back home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Visitor
Saturday Afternoon, December 3
It was late in the day. The sun succumbing to the early December chill that settles over the marsh in the night this time of year. And I heard it again. The noise. I reached for the Glock that I had laid on the floor next to my bed. Fool me once…There’s no safety on a Glock. Touch the trigger and it shoots bullets. So, I laid my finger on the side of the gun and raised it as I got out of bed so that the barrel was level with my eyes. And I heard a voice.
“I know you got a gun, Cooper. Drop it.” and the door flew open as I lowered the weapon. I recognized the voice. And there he was. All six feet two inches of him, filling the doorway with his bulk and his bags, smiling. It was—and I checked the clock—5:14 in the p.m. The red numbers too large to miss. I had slept through the entire day.
“Rise and shine, bud,” and he tossed his bags on my bed, in case I had any thought of lying back down. “Uncle Richie’s here!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chinatown
Around 6:00 p.m. Louise showed up. I had called her shortly after Richie arrived and said we had a trip to plan.
“So, what’s this trip you’ve got in mind, Coop?” she said as she settled at the table in the kitchen which also doubles as my dining room table. My house is small. About 1700 square feet including three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and my office—my dining room table. My real office is in downtown Oceanside. But I hadn’t been there in a few days. Not since Cynthia had visited me this past Monday, just five days ago. It seemed so much longer than that. And now she was in a hospital, shot just like her father. At least hers wasn’t fatal.
“We’re going to Boston,” I said. Richie and Louise stared at me. “Chinatown,” I added. “There’s a man there I need to talk to and I think—”
“It might be dangerous. Thus, you need protection,” said Richie. “Why I’m here. And you need some firepower,” and he reached into the bag that he had dragged into the kitchen and pulled out a Browning HP JMP 50th and handed it to me. The Hi Power Browning holds 13 rounds of 9mm shells and is capable of cock and lock carry. Meaning you can cock the hammer and lock it down until you need to use it. One less motion. It has ivory grips and a polished blue metal finish. I turned it over to check out the Browning signature. Black against a gold scroll background. I handed it to Louise who turned it over, inspecting it with obvious admiration while carefully avoiding getting prints on the blue metal. She knows how obsessive Richie is. She handed it back to him.
“Try this one out,” he said, reaching into his bag and handing me a Glock. “It’s got fixed night sights. Remember?” I nodded. I had used it in the Russian kidnapping case. It’s a small, easy-to-conceal weapon, with a black metal finish.
Then Richie looked over at Louise and like Santa Claus peeked into his bag again. “Let’s see what I got here for the little lady,” he said.
Louise kicked him. “I told you, Richie…” and before she could finish, he held up his hands. “You guys are so goddamn macho,” she said, looking at me also. “You think these guns are an extension of your dicks.”
Louise pulled her Glock and laid it on the table. “Does that make me part of the club, boys?” And she got up to refill her coffee. She was wearing jeans. She looked good. Richie noticed, too. Just a couple of macho guys.
“I got the tickets for later this evening. We fly out of Miami and land at Logan.”
“Stopovers?” said Louise fixing her coffee. I shook my head. “You want a refill, Richie?” Not asking me. Must be mad. Richie nodded. I did, too. She put the pot down next to me. I looked at her like what did I do now?
She gave me that just playing with you smile.
We packed fast, Richie complaining about the travel—Man, two flights in one day! Fuckin’ crazy. But I knew he was excited. We got to the airport by 7:40, checked one bag that held the guns and boarded the American 9:00 p.m. non-stop flight to Boston, landing at 12:17 a.m. Louise and I had two seats in the third row from the back, Richie was in a seat in front of us. He was asleep by the time we lifted off. No more complaints.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Godfather
Sunday Morning, December 4
It was late when we landed. After 12:45 a.m. Bad weather had us circling Boston’s Logan International for about twenty minutes. I was beat and Richie was grouchy (what else was new?) as we stood around baggage claim and waited for the red light to go on and the bags begin to show up from the hole in the wall. Louise was getting a rental. A half hour later we were loading a Ford Explorer and heading out of Logan through the tunnel to the mainland and over to Copley Square where I had booked two rooms at the Copley Plaza Hotel, one of Boston’s finest—and that was clear from the price. It felt like two-week’s pay.
Louise was happy. “Vacation,” she said.
“Why not?” I said.
The Copley shone in the night like a newly lit European hotel, its massive front overlooking the Square brilliantly illuminated against the black of the early morning sky.
“Geez,” said Richie as we checked in. “Just like the Breakers.” He was referring to the old hotel that dominates Cedar Point, an amusement park on Lake Erie built in 1905. I think it was the richness of the carpeting at the Copley; the deep plush red of the furnishings; the domed lobby, ensconced in dark hardwood and supported by marble pillars. I wondered which hotel was vying with the other. The Copley was built in 1891, fourteen years earlier than the old hotel on Lake Erie. Your call.
Chinatown is only a mile or so from Copley Square. But I was up early. Louise was still sleeping. So, I dressed quietly and went to the living room of the suite. I was anxious to follow up on information Cleveland Wong had given me about Chinatown and about whom to talk to about the Tong.
You be careful, Cooper, he had said. Chinatown is closed to outsiders like you. They will smile and tell you nothing. Maybe get you into trouble. You have any Chinese friends to go with you? You, I said. Nice try, Cooper, he said. We’re not friends. We know each other. Need to read I Ching about friends. Anyway, good luck.
I called Richie and invited him for breakfast—“Coffee, toast, orange juice and Danish—in our room,” I said. He was over in fifteen minutes.
“The sun ain’t up yet. Can’t eat,” he said, “but I’ll have some coffee,” and he scrubbed his fingers through his hair, still a natural black, and then picked a chair near the desk, complaint all over his face. He hadn’t shaved. That’s not like Richie. But he did have on a white shirt and black pants, pressed; black shoes, tied; and gold cufflinks. Richie doesn’t know informal. “Idiots don’t know how to dress,” is what he says about people in jeans or shorts. “Fuckin’ hillbillies.”
Louise stirred in the other room and turned over. I put my finger to my lips and shut the door.
“Sorry,” he said, studying his black socks and pulling them so they were
tight all the way up his leg.
Louise opened the door and popped her head out. “I’m up. I just need a shower and I’ll join you.” Then she was gone.
She opened the door ten minutes later, her hair still wet, but dressed in jeans and a sweater. The towel around her head made her look like a middle-eastern cowgirl.
So, I spent the next half hour laying out the plans for the day as they drank coffee and Richie broke down and had some Danish with us. Nobody touched the toast and orange juice—except me.
It was after eight when we set out, on foot, for Chinatown. The weather was warm for December, about 45 degrees, but clear. Boston is funny that way. Warm and clear one day, a nor’easter the next, bringing in gales of wind and torrents of snow filling the streets with white stuff. It all makes you grit your teeth as you steel yourself against the burn of winter chill. It wasn’t that kind of day. But I felt an undercurrent of anxiety as we headed south on Trinity—some birds still in branches, brave sons of bitches to try to last a Boston winter—and then east on Stuart, past the Castle at Park Plaza and on to the Revere Hotel—it didn’t look old enough for Paul Revere to have stayed there—and at that point we were just 400 feet or so from the Boston Common.
We turned north for the Boston Common. In late spring, Swan boats would be loading people for a ride on the lake, now frozen, that centers the Common. But families were still gathering there, catching what might be the last of the winter sun. I stared at some boys who were kicking a soccer ball around in a field—in tee shirts. I opened my leather jacket. And closed it soon after. I’m from Florida. My blood’s still thin. Louise had brought a long black overcoat. Richie had a Burberry raincoat on over his suit jacket. I was glad I was wearing a sweater under my jacket. I pulled the collar up around my neck. The wind was blowing stiff and cold off the Harbor.
Just east of Boston Common is Chinatown. We knew we were there when we caught a glimpse of the Paifang, the gateway to Chinatown: a massive structure rising about fifty feet into the air over Beach Street and Surface Road. It consisted of two large white columns on either side of Beach, topped by a pagoda-style roof stretching over the street and extending about eight feet beyond the pillars on each side. The roof curled over the columns, the green tile snaking across like a living creature, morphing and rising into a head as it reached each side of the structure. If that weren’t daunting enough, two lions, white and heavy, guarded the entrance, their teeth set on edge.
“Fuck’s that?” said Richie, staring at the lions.
“In case we have bad intentions,” said Louise. “There are probably cameras in the statues looking for weapons.”
Richie felt for his gun. It was tucked under his arm.
“You know where we’re going, Coop?” said Louise.
“A tea house on Beach Street and Tyler,” I replied, looking at the street signs for Tyler. “Wong said someone would meet us there.”
“Uh-huh,” is all she said, taking in the shops that lined Beach.
Ads for restaurants hung over the street, large Chinese lettering running from top to bottom on the signs. We passed a bakery at Hudson and Beach: Hing Shing Pastry. Richie nodded toward it. Later, I signaled. We passed fruit and vegetable stands with baskets filled to overflowing. The vendors didn’t pay attention to us. They were busy arranging their displays and adding to them. A newspaper dispenser crowded the curb. The title of the paper was in English: The Epoch Times. The articles were in Chinese.
Two phone booths stood next to each other near the curb, bright red and decorated with a Paifang style green roof. A miniature pagoda with a phone—a relic of early America—in Chinatown. We came to Tyler.
“There’s a teahouse,” said Louise, looking down the street to her right. It was easy to spot. Teahouse read the sign hanging over the sidewalk, Chinese lettering below the English.
“About time,” said Richie, glaring at the sign. He’s never happy outside his comfort zone, Cleveland’s Little Italy. “Fuckin’ people should learn English,” he said, looking around at the confusion that was growing in the streets and stepping away from a bicycler who wheeled past him and yelled at him in Chinese—or Vietnamese—or something.
Chinatown has the densest population in Boston—about 2,800 people per square mile—and they push cars through narrow streets already pinched by vehicles parked on both sides. But it’s a sign of business. So the traffic, and the congestion, and the honking, and the bicycles are all good.
“Come in!” smiled a small man standing outside the teahouse, his arm directing us toward the entrance.
The place was busy. Some students—their backpacks on the floor—were listening carefully to a grey-haired Chinese man drinking tea. In a far corner, young men were standing around a table watching men playing checkers. They were quiet—showing respect.
Richie and Louse made space at a long table where some people were already seated. I ordered green tea, Louise something called Boba—a bubble tea with tapioca pearls, our hostess explained. She also ordered some pastry (Charge it to Cooper Investigations, Louise whispered): puff biscuits with cream filling and egg tarts. Richie had the same reaction to Louise’s order as he did to the lions: “The fuck is that? Don’t they got toast?” He ordered coffee.
Two young men appeared at our table. One was tall with black hair. The other about a foot shorter. Both were dressed in black jackets, white shirts, and black pants. They looked like they were going either to a wedding or to a funeral. Interesting how the dress is the same. I moved to share the space as is the custom in a Chinese restaurant. They didn’t sit.
“Mr. Cooper,” said the tall man, “you will come with us,” reaching to take my arm. Richie rose quickly, knocking over his chair, and blocked his arm. Some of the people around us pushed their chairs away and the noisy cafe became the silent cafe.
“Mr. Lung Li said you wanted to meet with him,” the tall man spoke quickly, bowing apologetically and looking around. He was embarrassed. “He has sent us to bring you,” he explained in both Chinese and English—obviously for the onlookers. The shorter man had backed away, his smile gone. He was watching Richie and Louise who were both standing. Louise had her hand on her gun.
“We walking or driving?” I said to the tall man.
“We are walking.”
“Then let’s walk,” I said, and turned to Louise and Richie. They both nodded. Richie patted his shoulder where his JMP was obvious. Louise was her usual quiet self. She leaned over and whispered, “I would feel better if one of us followed. I’ll keep my cell on. You two stay with them.” I nodded.
I recalled an AP story about the arrest of a gangster in Chinatown. An American—a rare thing in Chinatown’s closed community. For two decades he was the leader of a powerful gang, following in the shadow of the brutal and one-time violent Ping On Gang. I remembered what Wong had said: “Chinatown can be a dangerous place.”
Richie and I stayed behind both men as they led us back to Beach Street where we turned right. We followed them past the sellers of fruits and vegetables that lined the street; past the bakeries; around a woman pounding drums on the sidewalk—the Spring Festival was coming; around racks of clothes choking what little space there was on the sidewalk; down a narrow street where the signs for stores rose thirty feet or so overhead, identifying shops on the second floor; and finally to a restaurant hidden from Beach Street, inside a courtyard and to our left. Two men stood at either side of the entrance, like the two Foo lions at the gate of Chinatown. They were tall and heavy in the shoulder. Their faces had seen hard times—beaten like a boxer’s face—and they ignored us as we passed. Richie paused for a moment, looked at both of them, snorted, and followed us in.
From inside the restaurant I watched a bus pull up to the curb, Lucky Star printed in large letters across the side. I had heard about the Chinatown buses. They run every hour between Boston and New York. They are the glue that bind the Chinese communities—like a spider web.
I was surprised that someo
ne hadn’t checked for guns, that is until I heard a voice from behind a screen that sheltered the dining area from reception. A woman in a dark purple dress that fit her tightly with a neckline that rose to her throat nodded and smiled. She reached for my briefcase. “Please,” she said. I handed it to her. She opened it, pointed to the origami, and asked what it was. I told her it was a gift for Mr. Lung. She smiled and nodded in approval. “It is very beautiful,” she said. “He will be very pleased.”
“But now, you must leave guns with us,” she continued, smiling as she held out her hands. The soft approach, yet just as effective. We did as she asked.
“Your ankle guns as well,” she continued. The same smile.
I shook my head in surprise and looked at her like How did you know?
“I saw when you came in,” she said, still smiling. Then, after we were relieved of all our hardware, “This way, please,” she said, and we followed her into the dining room.
It was dark, the room lit only by candles on the tables. Silk lanterns, decorated with Chinese characters, burned low. They were hanging on the walls, some from the ceiling. It was an expansive room, large enough for a dance floor, and empty of people, except for the two men in black, Richie, Louise, me, and—at a table near the back of the room—a man sitting erect awaiting us, his face without emotion, sitting alone. Two men, one on each side, stood just behind him, their arms crossed. Behind them, partially lost in the shadows cast by the lanterns, stood a young woman who looked very much like the one who led us into the room. I looked behind me to see if she had suddenly changed places, but the hostess was already on her way back to the front and the woman in the shadows was still there.
A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 10