High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  It was about quarter of six when I sat at one of the open-air tables a safe hearing distance from any of the other patrons. I knew that Harry, being fundamentally an MIT engineer, would arrive precisely at six. I kept the ever-lurking jitters suppressed by chatting with Jimmy Hook about the present state of lobsters off New England shores until Harry arrived—precisely at six.

  Jimmy put in our standard order of two boiled lobsters each and two Sam Adamses, and went back to his office. Harry gave me a wary look, at which I just smiled.

  “Michael, whatever unbelievable mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, and there is one—I know that look—could we please keep Mrs. Wong’s boy out of it?”

  “Without question, Harry. The only thing on my mind is two good lobsters.”

  “Good.”

  “And a bit of information.”

  “Bad. I count three times now that what followed the ‘information’ nearly left Mrs. Wong childless.”

  “Harry, your mother passed away five years ago. God rest her.”

  “I’m aware of that, Michael. The point remains.”

  Our two Sam Adamses arrived. I raised my glass for a toast. “My friend, shall we drink to comradeship, like two musketeers—one for both and both for one.”

  Harry raised his glass, but before the clink, he raised his free hand. “Aha. But the fine point here is that my life never involves anything more dangerous than Boston traffic. May it stay that way. Whereas yours is more frequently out of control than anyone outside of a Lee Child novel.”

  “Point taken. A revised toast. Here’s to a simple dinner and engaging conversation.”

  He raised his hand higher. “Conversation about what?”

  “About the weather, about the Red Sox, about philosophy …”

  Harry smiled. We clinked glasses. I finished, “About the tong, and in particular, about a man named Mr. Chan.”

  Harry’s face froze. He lowered his glass. His voice was calm and steady, but I could feel the tension. “How do you know that man?”

  I owed it to Harry to go first. Once again, I laid out every relevant detail of my odyssey involving the Strad. I paid particular attention to the details of Mr. Chan’s appearance and his presence at the China Pearl dinner, and especially his saving of my life at the hands of two Russians in Sinaia.

  Harry listened in silence, staring into his glass. When I finished, he just shook his head. There was no humor in his voice. “What do you need to know, Michael?”

  “Anything you can tell me. Why is the tong interested in a violin? Why would a tong enforcer—I assume that’s what he is—be in the dinner company of Mr. Liu? Of a banker? The concert master of the Boston Symphony Orchestra? And why would he save my life in Romania? Who is he?”

  Harry sat back and rubbed his forehead. I could feel his conflict of emotions. I gave him time to sort out his thoughts. In about a minute, he leaned close to me and spoke in a tone so low I could barely hear it.

  “I have no answer to most of those questions. You ask me about Mr. Chan. This takes me to a place I said I’d never go again. And I wouldn’t. But I see why you need to know.”

  We were both startled by the presence of the waiter. He set two steaming lobsters in front of each of us, just screaming for cracking and immersing in sizzling butter.

  When the waiter left, Harry leaned over. “Let’s eat, Mike. It’ll give me time to pull this together.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE ATE IN virtual silence. When we finished, Harry said, “Let’s walk down the pier.”

  We had it to ourselves. The only sound was the distant high-pitched screech of seagulls harvesting their evening catch of shiners.

  I let Harry break the silence.

  “The first time you got me involved in one of your escapades …”

  “Escapades?”

  “You want to tell this story, Mike?”

  “Sorry. Escapades it is.”

  “Bear with me. I’m going down a path here I swore I’d never revisit.”

  “Take your time, Harry.”

  He stopped and leaned against the rail looking out to Boston Harbor. I stood close to catch every word without interrupting.

  “The first time you brought me into one of these … cases, I had to give you some explanation of how I knew so much about the tong in Chinatown. It’s no easier to say it now than it was then, but just listen. I need to put this in context.

  “When I came over from China, from Hangzhou, I was twelve. We lived in an upstairs room on Tyler Street in Chinatown. My father was kept in China by the communists. My mother and grandmother were away all day working. After a while, I started hanging around a martial arts school down the street. I picked up the moves fast enough to get the attention of the recruiters for the tong. They brought me into their youth gang. I got the full initiation, blood-letting, secret oaths, all the ritual crap that goes with it. I was fourteen. I thought I was king of the hill.

  “Then the reality set in. They used me like they use all the kids in the youth gang—to do their violent work. I was ordered to help put pressure on any of the shop owners who balked at paying lomo—lucky money—to the tong. When they paid, they were ‘lucky’ because they wouldn’t be vandalized or burned out or worse by the youth gang.

  “It was minor stuff at first—tipping over shelves, some spray paint, nothing that couldn’t be undone if they paid. I’ll admit it. I felt the power of the gang behind me, and I liked it.

  “Then they needed to set their hooks into me permanently. There was an old Chinese man. He scraped by on a little decrepit shop on Beach Street. He lived alone. Nothing in his life was anything but drudgery except for one thing. He had a glass fish tank of koi. It was the heart of his life. When he wouldn’t pay extortion money to the tong, they sent me to teach him a lesson. One of the older kids in the gang stood there. He ordered me to smash the fish tank. It was hell. The old man was crying and pleading while they held him. He was yelling that he’d pay. Then the older kid with me said we had to send a message to the other shops. He handed me a brick and yelled the order. I can still hear the wailing coming from the old man’s throat when I smashed the only thing he lived for.

  “I ran out of there and kept running. I couldn’t get away from the sound of his wailing. I ran, crying like a baby, until I just dropped.

  “Every day that I saw the old man on the street after that, he looked closer to death. He died in about a month.”

  I could see in his face that Harry was reliving every emotion. I put my hand on his shoulder. “I remember you told me that, Harry. You don’t have to …”

  “Yes, I do. There’s a part I didn’t tell you. The head of the youth gang in those days was the man you mentioned, the one who saved you in Romania. We called him Mickey Chan. I remember him well. He seemed somehow above the rest of that bunch.

  “I don’t know why, but I felt he took a special interest in me. Maybe it was because I was on a track at school to go to college. The rest of those poor kids in the youth gang were on a dead-end road to nowhere.

  “You may not understand what I’m about to say, but I understand it. That business with the old man’s fish tank was a major crossroads in my life. I didn’t realize it then, but Mickey Chan could see it. I’m sure in my heart that he wanted me out of that gang and away from the tong. What happened to the old man would have happened anyway, but Mickey made sure that I got the order to break that old man’s heart.”

  Harry’s words stopped flowing for a minute.

  “How was that a favor, Harry?”

  “Mickey knew that I was too caught up in the ‘big-shot’ feeling to leave on my own. He knew that when I followed the order to do the cruelest thing I could imagine, it would have one of two effects. If I was too far gone, I’d just live with it and go on. But if I was still worth saving, it would sicken me of that whole existence. I’d see that life for what it was. I’d do whatever it took to get out.”

  He stopped again. After all th
ose years, I could see moisture in his eyes.

  “I know which road you took. But how did you get the tong to let you out?”

  “That man who saved your life, he saved mine too. Mickey Chan put his own life on the line by going to the number two man in the tong. The number one man, the Dragon Head, is only known to the number two man. No one else. Mickey pleaded for me to get them to break an unbreakable rule. I don’t know what he said, or what he promised. I only know two things. I was permitted to leave, and Mickey Chan paid a price that I can’t even imagine.”

  “What happened to him after that? I’m assuming he’s still part of the tong.”

  Harry turned to me and just held up his hands. “I have no idea. I never heard his name spoken from that time to this.”

  I looked out at the ocean with thoughts tumbling around in my mind. My assumptions about Mr. Chan were undergoing some confused revision.

  “Thank you, Harry. I know that wasn’t easy. For what it’s worth, you may have given me an insight that could possibly …”

  He turned to look me in the eye. “Save your life?”

  I just smiled. “Who knows?”

  “Mike. What I said before about my getting involved in this. Don’t underestimate the tong. They’re a hell of a mean lot. If you need my help, I’m with you. All the way. Call me.”

  The handshake carried a lot more than courtesy.

  * * *

  It was a little after seven. I had more than two hours before meeting Mr. Liu in the Public Garden. I checked a copy of the Globe. The Boston Symphony Orchestra was playing a concert beginning at eight.

  I found a parking spot on Mass. Avenue and walked around Symphony Hall to the entrance used by the musicians. My knock on the door brought an elderly keeper of the gate. I asked if I could see the concert master, Mr. Lee Tang. The firmness of his “No. Not before a concert” reminded me that getting to see the concert master of one of the most renowned classical music orchestras in the world during his warm-up before a concert was like dropping in cold for a chat with Bruce Springsteen, Tony Bennett, or Adele ten minutes before showtime—only more so.

  I knew the timing was awkward, but my schedule was not exactly flexible. I handed the old gentleman my business card and asked him to just set it in front of Mr. Tang.

  Within five minutes, the door opened. Mr. Tang, violin in hand, waived me in. “Mr. Knight. I have just a minute, but it’s good to see you.”

  He led me to a small rehearsal room and closed the door behind us. He motioned to a chair with his bow and sat opposite me.

  “Mr. Liu said you had some difficulty. He wasn’t specific. Are you alright?”

  I was a bit stunned by the fact that he asked for me and not the Strad. “Thank you. I’m fine. I know we have little time. Just a couple of questions, Mr. Tang.”

  “Certainly.”

  “What do you know about previous owners of the violin? Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Liu’s group is not the only one interested in it. In fact, the competition is … intense. At this point, believe me, if I just gave the violin to you, it would come with a bit of a curse. I need to find out why it’s drawing more attention than just the one- or two-million-dollar price tag.”

  His expression said he was honestly perplexed, which led me to believe he had no part in the flaming intrigue.

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Mr. Liu contacted me during an orchestra tour in Eastern Europe. He said a group of Chinese businessmen were hoping to buy an authentic Stradivarius for my use with the orchestra. He asked me to meet with Mr. Oresciu in Romania. I believe you were to meet with him also.”

  “I did. Please go on.”

  “When I first met with Mr. Oresciu in his shop, the Stradivarius hadn’t arrived for some reason. I came back two weeks later. Mr. Oresciu showed it to me then and asked me to play it to confirm that it was authentic.”

  “And it was?”

  His eyes lit with emotion. “Beyond a doubt. If you could just hear—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Tang. I don’t mean to be rude. We have very little time, and I have to ask. Do you know who owned the violin before it came to Mr. Oresciu.”

  “I naturally asked where he had found it.”

  He paused. I could see him trying to bring something back. “I remember him saying something that seemed odd at the time. Something like, ‘Why think about that? It’s here. Shall we enjoy the moment?’ I’d have asked more, but he insisted that I play the instrument without delay. Needless to say, my mind was totally consumed by the tone of the violin. I never thought to ask again.”

  A rap on the door was followed by a voice, “Five minutes, Mr. Tang.”

  He held out his arms in a gesture of almost apology. We stood. He held out his free hand. “I wish I could be more help.”

  “Thank you for seeing me without notice. You’ve actually been more help than you realize.”

  “Good. May I offer you a seat for tonight’s concert?”

  “I truly wish I could. Duty calls.”

  Another knock on the door. “Yes. I’m coming.”

  Before he went out the door, I had the chance to say, “Mr. Tang.”

  He turned with a gracious smile.

  “I’m an enormous fan.”

  The smile broadened. “Take good care of yourself, Mr. Knight.”

  Again, in a week of violence, I indulged myself in the warmth of someone’s concern that went beyond the Strad.

  Brief as that was, I’d learned two things. The first was that Mr. Tang was a total outsider to whatever was pulling three dicey gangs into a demolition derby over the Strad. My guess was that he was involved to lend legitimacy to a major Chinese bank’s financial involvement in acquiring the Strad for the use of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Mr. Tang was clearly the only one of that little clique at the China Pearl dinner who could authenticate the violin as a Strad.

  I was also curious, as was Mr. Tang, about Mr. Oresciu’s dodging of the question about prior owners of the violin, when he could simply have denied that he knew. That part was painful. I’d had a growing sense that at some point, I might have to dig into the previous ownership to find out what was attracting three crime gangs to a violin. If I had no other source, I might have to fly back to Romania to find Mr. Oresciu, if in fact he was still alive. That trip was not on my bucket list.

  * * *

  With all of my senses on full alert, I was still detecting no trace of anyone on my tail—Russian, Chinese, or otherwise. With unwarranted confidence in my security, at nine twenty, I walked across Boston Common. I took the path through Boston Garden that led to the swan boat dock for my meeting with Mr. Liu.

  In the moonless illumination of dim lampposts, I sat on the empty bench in front of the dock. Over the next ten minutes the number of people passing on the path by the bench dwindled from few to zero. The only sound was the slogging of water against the side of the closest swan boat tied to the dock about thirty feet away.

  That place, where I had never experienced anything but joy since my childhood rides with my parents on the swan boats, began to take on a disturbing creepiness. Mr. Liu was late, and he was the one who seemed to want the meeting as if his life depended on it.

  I gave it another ten minutes with my eyes on both directions of the path. Nothing. I was getting an uneasy feeling that by standing still, I was risking rediscovery by the Russians.

  In one final bit of nostalgia before calling it quits, I focused on the silhouette of the closest swan boat instead of the path. I could look back through the years and see my mother, father, and me on the front row of benches in the boat, throwing crackers to the ducks.

  The more I looked in that scant light, something was wrong. The shape of the boat’s silhouette was off. I focused harder and realized that someone was sitting in the rear where the driver would pedal the boat. He seemed to be staring at me in total silence.

  I walked slowly down the dock toward the boat. My wishful thinking was that it was Mr. Liu. Wh
en I got close enough, I called his name. Nothing.

  I reached the edge of the boat. The tiny light bulb on the dock picked up the outline of a figure sitting like a puppet propped up in a chair. I edged closer until I could just make out features. In an instant of recognition, I felt the air rush out of my lungs. I could see Mr. Liu facing me. His eyes were like the dead eyes of a mannequin. I climbed over the side into the boat and moved to within a few feet of him.

  The rest happened in a moment. It’s still a blur. In one instant I was skidding on some sticky fluid on the floorboard and catching a flash look at a gash that ran from his ear to the other side of his throat. In the next fraction of an instant, I suffered a hit in the ribs like Tom Brady catching the shoulder of a three-hundred pound charging lineman. It knocked the wind out of my lungs and propelled me over the far rail of the boat. At that same moment, I heard something like the crack of a gunshot.

  There was no time to brace before hitting the water. I went straight down, totally submerged. Two massive arms like steel bands drove me to the bottom. They held me under until I thought my lungs would burst.

  I could feel my body being thrust forward through the water as if by a swimmer’s strokes. I was just beginning to lose consciousness, when a fist clutched the back of my shirt. It thrust me upward. My head cleared the surface. I was gasping for air, when I felt an iron hand over my mouth.

  I heard the whispered words, “Quiet! If you want to live.”

  I did what I could to muffle the sound of my gasping breaths, but my lungs were uncontrollably trying to suck in air. The sound must have carried. Another muffled gunshot sent something so close to my ear that my breathing stopped by itself.