by Maureen Tan
Chapter 23
Beauprix and I drove to the Yang residence at dawn and followed Mr. Yang to church at noon. By tonight, I suspected, I would be able to abandon my alter ego. But, until then, I would stay in character. Much to Anthony’s surprise, I spiked my hair that morning and added glitter, then dressed in flare-legged jeans and the most modest of Squirt’s tops, which happened to be synthetic raspberry shot through with pink.
I carried my denim purse, too. But today it was weighed down with a Ruger revolver—a .357 Magnum with a two-and-a-quarter-inch barrel—compliments of Anthony Beauprix. He spent a few minutes reviewing its features for me, then told me just to point and shoot. I didn’t bother telling him that I could do a damned sight better than that.
Beauprix remained in the car, but I went inside, intending to watch the proceedings from the choir loft. The enclosed, narrow staircase that led to the loft was in the vestibule just inside the entrance to the church. Casual entry was discouraged by a thick velvet cord clipped across the doorway. And by ushers, who seemed to be constantly vigilant for mischievous schoolchildren and wandering toddlers bound on scampering up the stairs.
I arrived for Mass early, went into one of the rest rooms that was also located near the back of the church, waited and listened. Catholic Masses, no matter what country or language, followed the same ritual every Sunday. And I had been raised with those rituals. In Vietnamese and English.
From my seat inside a rest room stall, I could hear drifts of the service. The beginning of the Mass was marked by singing, the wandering voices of the faithful augmented by a pianist, a guitarist, a flutist and a female vocalist.
I knew, from my past visits, that the priest and the servers would be entering the altar area from a door that opened in from the sacristy, where the priest prepared for the service and put colorful vestments on over his plain, dark robes. At the far end of the sacristy was an exterior door. From there, a flagstone path led across the lawn, paralleling the parking lot behind the church and ending at the rectory next door.
The priest’s amplified voice—the words unintelligible from my hiding place—carried into my hiding space. It alternated with the more generalized rumbling of the unenhanced voices of the faithful.
Fifteen minutes into the service, as the time for the reading of the gospel approached, I left the stall and watched the vestibule by opening the rest room door just a crack. Arriving late to the last Mass of the day seemed to be a ritual, too, conducted by members of the faithful throughout the United States. And, perhaps, the world. The latecomers would congregate at the rear of the church. And the ushers would scramble to move the stragglers into the few vacancies in the pews, to find them places to sit before the sermon began.
Easy enough, during that time, to slip from my hiding place, walk nonchalantly across the vestibule, duck beneath the velvet cord and walk as quietly as possible up the steep, winding stairs.
The choir loft was a remnant of a bygone era, when booming organ music and formal choirs were more common even among smaller Catholic congregations. Now, most of its space was consumed by an imposing pipe organ whose keys were layered with dust and seven pews, elevated like theater seating. I ducked low as I walked down the seven shallow steps and then settled behind the low wall separating the loft from a fifteen-foot drop to the floor below.
“And this is the word of the Lord.”
The sentence, spoken in Vietnamese, was a signal for the standing congregation to be seated. And the sermon began.
As the elderly French priest spoke of the power of forgiveness, I peered into the church, using my tiny binoculars to scan the congregation. Picking people out by looking at the backs of their heads, then waiting for them to turn briefly to confirm their identity was a slow process. Except for the absence of Mrs. Yang and the twins, who were still, I supposed, in Chicago, I eventually found all of the people I’d expected to.
And several more.
Uncle Tinh was there, flanked by his bodyguard, his chauffeur, his personal cook and even the unfortunate Odum who had been demoted for splashing soup on Lee Leng’s dress. All uncharacteristically wearing suit coats. And, I suspected, they were armed.
At the very front of the church, in the pew that was nearest to the altar, was Vincent Ngo. Sitting alone.
Why, I wondered, was the FBI here? Had he caught wind of the same transaction that Beauprix and I were waiting for?
This Sunday, I knew, was not going to be like the others.
As I sat in cramped silence through the rest of the service, I thought about Beauprix. He was parked just down the street from the church’s front steps. Waiting and watching, as I was.
Earlier, we’d agreed on that strategy. Then Beauprix had called his captain and given him the broad outlines of what we suspected. And what we knew. He mentioned no names, but still made a convincing argument. The captain had thought so, too. A district’s worth of unmarked cars and plainclothes officers were now only a phone call away, though the implication was that Beauprix had damned well better be right.
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” the priest intoned, bringing the service to an end. Then, led by a white-robed Vietnamese boy carrying a crucifix, the priest and the servers began walking to the rear of the church along the center aisle. That was the signal for the congregation to sing an enthusiastic if significantly off-key recessional hymn.
Before the first verse ended, many of the parishioners began following in the priest’s wake—intent, perhaps, on the refreshments in the social center. But the female vocalist, who should have been discouraged by what she was hearing and obviously wasn’t, urged the congregation into a second verse. It was delivered with far less enthusiasm and continued off key.
Inside my jeans’ pocket, my cell phone vibrated. There was enough noise down below that I risked answering it.
“Heads up,” Beauprix said. “You’ve got six guys heading into the church. They look just like your sketches. Young Businessmen, each and every one of them. It’s a safe bet they’re armed. I’m going to follow them in.”
“No. Stay there. If this blows up, we’re going to need more than one cop to stop it. Vincent Ngo’s here. So’s Uncle Tinh, accompanied by his own little militia. But I doubt they’re planning to shoot it out in the church.”
I disconnected as the last sour notes of the recessional drifted through the church.
After the service ended, the elderly priest returned to the church to escort a few straggling parishioners out the door. As if it had all been arranged in advance. And I wondered by whom.
Mr. Yang had left with the rest of the congregation.
The priest was just below me, still talking with one of his parishioners.
“There’s coffee waiting for us,” the priest was saying. He and the parishioners were out of sight, but his clear, strong, French-accented voice carried up the twisting stairs from the vestibule. “Do I understand correctly that your son has joined the navy? You must be very proud.”
I took that opportunity to call Beauprix again.
“Don’t follow Mr. Yang. The action’s still here.”
Only Uncle Tinh and his bodyguards, Vincent and Tommy Nguyen remained inside the church.
Why Vincent? I asked myself.
The priest and the proud parents left the church.
The silence seemed to stretch into minutes.
The members of the Businessmen’s Association remained out of sight, but I suspected that they were beneath me at the vestibule doors. Standing guard.
I began to hear movement in the back of the church. Suddenly the location of the Businessmen didn’t matter. Because I knew exactly what one of them was doing. He was climbing the winding stairs to the choir loft.
I flattened myself onto the waxy wooden floor and half slid, half scrambled into hiding beneath the nearby pew. My back ended up against the step that supported the pew behind me. Between me and the short wall, there was no more than eighteen inches of space.
The footsteps ended at the top of the choir loft, near the organ.
I lay very still, kept my breathing shallow, and waited. My eyes were fixed on the wall across from me, where dozens of black scuff marks marred the yellowing paint. It would be unfortunate, I thought, if that was the last thing I ever saw.
He walked down the steps, pausing at each one, and as I counted to keep track of his movements, I imagined him glancing across each empty pew. There were no lights in the loft, but enough light flowed through the church’s tall, stained-glass windows that no lights were needed. He had only to make an effort, I thought. If he bent down and looked beneath the pews, he would inevitably catch a glimpse of bright raspberry fabric.
He reached the bottom step and stood beside the wall. From my hiding place, I could see that his black leather shoes were well polished and that his dark trousers had neatly pressed cuffs. His heels lifted slightly as he put his hands on the wall and leaned out into the church.
Then I heard one quick sentence. With the loft’s acoustics, he didn’t have to speak all that loudly.
“Clear up here,” he said in Vietnamese.
And then I followed the rapid, echoing sounds of his footsteps as he went back down to the first floor.
I slid out of hiding and peered back over the wall.
Uncle Tinh had left his pew and was standing in the shelter of the alcove that held a red-robed statue of Jesus. Beside him was a square, black briefcase. And Tommy.
Uncle Tinh’s bodyguards had also moved, spacing themselves out and facing away from my uncle and Tommy. Ready to meet any threat. They no longer attempted to hide their guns.
Uncle Tinh picked up the briefcase and gave it to Tommy.
Tommy had dressed in uncharacteristically form-fitting clothes and it was easy to see that he was unarmed. I thought it was likely he’d dressed as he had for just that reason. He wore a black turtleneck shirt and a pair of black, straight-legged jeans. Conservative, except for the hair and the piercings.
Under the watchful eyes of Tinh Vu’s bodyguards and, I assumed, the men of the Businessmen’s Association, Tommy walked to the front of the church.
Vincent Ngo had remained sitting there. He faced constantly forward, his back squarely to Uncle Tinh.
I suddenly realized it was a symbolic gesture. Vincent was totally confident that he was in control. He was protected by the men at the rear of the church. The undercover assignment must have placed Vincent Ngo in charge of the Young Vietnamese Businessmen’s Association. Had an FBI infiltrator managed to become anh hai? I wondered. What better position could there be to take apart organized crime, to bring someone like Tinh Vu to justice.
Tommy gave Uncle Tinh’s black briefcase to Vincent. Vincent laid it on the pew, opened it briefly, and nodded. The money that Mr. Yang had asked for. Delivered in person by Uncle Tinh.
Vincent handed Tommy a large, padded envelope in return. It was stuffed to bulging. He held it flat against his chest, his arms crossed protectively over it, as he returned to Uncle Tinh’s side.
The documents, I thought, that Mr. Yang had begged Tinh Vu to buy from a rival.
Transaction apparently complete, Vincent walked confidently down the center aisle, carrying Uncle Tinh’s briefcase at his side. Beneath me, I could hear his men leaving their posts at the door to accompany him outside.
Then Uncle Tinh and his bodyguards left the church, too.
Only Tommy remained.
He crossed the width of the church, cutting between the pews, and went to the vestibule on the far wall. The one with the crowned statue of a blue-clad woman with Asian features. After picking up a taper and lighting one of the candles, he knelt and made the sign of the cross. Bowed his head in silent prayer. Then he stood, walked up the aisle to the front of the church, genuflected briefly as he crossed in front of the altar, and walked through the door into the vestibule. The door that provided a private exit from the church.
I hit speed dial as I ran down the twisting stairs and through the church.
“Vincent and Uncle Tinh made an exchange. Money for an envelope full of forged documents. I don’t know what the FBI is up to, but I say we proceed as planned. Follow the documents to the tea. Tommy Nguyen’s gone out the back door. If he gets into his car—a rusty blue Ford Escort—he’s yours. If he stays on foot, I’ll follow him.”
Beauprix said enough that I knew he understood me.
I jammed the phone back in my pocket as I raced through the altar area and didn’t take the time to genuflect. Ten steps through the sacristy and I was out the door. In time to see the pink-and-blue hair on the crown of Tommy’s head. He walked toward the church parking lot, but then he turned to cut through the backyard of the rectory. From there, he cut across another yard and onto the adjacent street. And then through another yard, over a back fence and around a corner. But it wasn’t as if he was trying to avoid being followed. His pace was fast, but he wasn’t running. And he never looked over his shoulder.
Finally, I began to discern the direction that his route was taking us. And it wasn’t too long before we rounded a corner onto the sidewalks of the Vietnamese business district on Alcee Fourtier.
In Little Vietnam, Sunday was a day for tourists. They wandered the streets in droves, many of them a head or two taller than the Vietnamese residents. They came individually, in pairs, and by the busload. They filled the sidewalks and crowded into the stores, buying expensive jade bracelets and flashy trinkets, silk fabrics and stuffed toys, candy and medicinal herbs. They stared in the windows at whole pigs’ legs and smoked ducks, and nibbled at delicacies purchased from bakeries and restaurants and ice-cream parlors. Their cars filled every parking place and traffic clogged the streets.
I followed Tommy along the bustling street. Intent upon his errand, he walked steadily, which made him easy enough to follow through the shifting crowd. He passed the Red Lotus with its Closed sign, in Vietnamese and English, hanging in the window. He passed the adjacent florist shop, which was also always closed on Sundays.
Just beyond the florist shop was the busy souvenir shop. Owned by a member of the Benevolent Society.
Tommy walked into the shop, which filled the front half of the long, narrow building. I followed him through the busy store and hid from the owner’s sight by a round rack of New Orleans postcards.
The owner finished ringing up a customer, then slipped from behind the counter and preceded Tommy to the warehouse door. They were talking but the store’s intercom, as usual, was blaring Vietnamese music and the sound muffled their voices.
I’d been in and out of the shop often, chatting with the owner, who seemed to find Squirt amusing. Each time, the door to the back warehouse was opened or unlocked. But this time, the owner used a key to let Tommy into the room. What better place to hide the women than the warehouse?
The shop’s owner turned to help a woman who was juggling a stack of lacquered rice bowls. There was no way I was going to get past him and into the room beyond. And, besides, I didn’t want to barge head-long into a room protected by other, armed members of the Benevolent Society.
I backtracked, hurrying past the wall-to-wall buildings that lined the street, and went around the corner, making my way into the alley that ran behind the Red Lotus. On the opposite side of the alley was an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the parking area of a block-long office complex.
About halfway down the alley, I passed the Red Lotus’s Dumpster and the battered chair where the elderly cousin took his breaks and smoked his cigarettes. As I continued on past the florist’s shop, I saw that her delivery van was now parked in its usual spot by the back door. I came around it slowly, using it as cover between me and the back of the souvenir shop. There was no one there, so I walked behind the building to take a closer look.
Beside a pedestrian door with a peephole in its center, a short flight of poured-concrete steps led up to a narrow loading dock. Access to the dock was protected by a solidly closed overhead door.
And the steel-clad pedestrian door was also shut.
I had the tea shipment, the documents, Tommy and at least one member of the Benevolent Society. Probably more. It was time to call in the cops.
Beauprix answered his phone immediately. So quickly, in fact, that I wondered if he’d been holding his phone in his hand.
“Beauprix here.”
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
I thought that he sounded more relieved and then more anxious than the situation warranted. The downside of emotional involvement, I diagnosed.
“I’m in the alley on the west side of Alcee Fortier, behind the Viet My Souvenir Emporium. We’ve got them.” I couldn’t keep the triumph from my voice. “The shipment’s inside the warehouse. Guarded, probably.”
“Any chance they’ll take them out through the front door?”
“Too risky. There are lots of tourists, so if one of the women tried to run or screamed for help… My bet is that they’ll load the women through the warehouse door.”
“We’ll take them as they’re loading up.”
I shook my head, not liking it, and let my concern touch my voice.
“Between the tea in the warehouse and the tourists in the store, you could end up with a nasty hostage situation. Besides that, I want to be absolutely sure the women are here before you commit your guys.”
Beauprix thought about it for a heartbeat.
“Are you somewhere out of sight? Where you can safely watch the warehouse?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hang on.”
I heard him talking on the unmarked car’s radio. Then he came back on the line.
“I’m heading over to meet my guys, brief them about the situation, then position them nearby. We can tail the transportation, stop them somewhere away from the tourists.”
