Family Business

by S. J. Rozan

  She grunted and turned back to her wok, pretending my attendance at dinner—and therefore on my brother—didn’t matter either way.

  After my shower I did set the table, then settled at my desk to do my own online investigation of Jackson Ting. Linus and Trella would be looking for the “skeletons in the closet” section on his resume. For myself, I was hoping to get a feel for the man, or at least his public persona.

  From Winter Prep, where he’d met the Wu sisters, Ting had gone on to major in business at Adelphi and then to Fordham for his MBA. Both were top forty schools; neither was top ten, but both were near home and would let him keep working in his father’s firm while he was at school. That had been his whole early career: working with his dad, whose firm managed, owned, and occasionally built mid-sized apartment buildings in Queens. About eight years ago, the elder Ting had retired and Jackson took over. The father died two years later, and Jackson made the jump across the river and into bigger Manhattan projects.

  At some point in there he’d married a nice Chinese American girl. At least, I assumed she was nice; she sure was pretty and expensively groomed. They now had a toddler and a baby. I searched the New York Times archives and found their wedding in the “Vows” section. The article gave the date they’d met: a little over three years ago. Apparently a whirlwind romance. Natalie’s son, Matthew, was four. So Ting making public his claim on Matthew probably wouldn’t throw a wrench into his marriage. Too bad. At least on that front there was no bluff to call.

  I did a little more googling of Ting’s firm and projects and of the architects and contractors whose names came up. I had a feeling, based on the scarcity of awards and what I saw of their other buildings, that the architects were B list like Ting’s education. I’d ask Bill; those are the kinds of things he knows. It made sense, though. Star architects are less likely to do what the client tells them, and developers generally like “good enough,” which tends to be cheaper than “great.” The contractors weren’t firms I’d heard of, but how many building contractors would be? Bill would know about them, too.

  I keep a kettle and a stash of tea in my room at home so when I’m working here, I won’t disturb my mother every time I want a cup—and, okay, so she won’t distract me. I decided I needed some bracing Assam. While it was steeping, Mel Wu called.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Recovering. I’m having a little trouble getting Mr. Chang out of my mind and focusing on other things. I’ve known him all my life. Not well, just the way you know adults when you’re a child. He was always there when we went to see Uncle Meng.”

  “So he must have joined the tong as a young man.” The best thing to do when someone’s grieving, my mother always says, is to let them talk about the person they’ve lost. Also, I was interested.

  “He was with the other tong. The Ma Tou, one that merged with the Li Min Jin. Long Lo—you saw his grave—he was their head. When he released his soldiers from their oaths, Uncle Meng said they were all welcome in the Li Min Jin if they wanted to join. A lot of them did. Mr. Chang had been some sort of rising star in the Ma Tou, and he became Uncle Meng’s second in command a few years later.” She paused. “Oh, listen to me! I guess it’s strange to talk about gangsters as rising stars. You have to remember that when we were children, Nat and I, we didn’t know anything about Uncle Meng’s life, really.”

  “No, of course. Tell me about Tan Lu-Lien. Was she a tong member then?” I took the tea strainer from my mug and placed it on a saucer.

  “I remember her, yes. I didn’t know when I was young how strange it was that she was there.”

  “Your uncle seems to have been a liberal-minded man. Accepting a woman soldier, and letting a guy from another tong rise so high. Instead of favoring his own men, I mean.”

  “I guess,” Mel said. “I always thought of Uncle Meng as old-fashioned, I suppose because whenever we saw him there’d be a lot of incense and prayers and things. And sweets, and Chinese games. He taught me Chinese chess. Xiangqi, I think? But Mom tried to protect us from knowing who he really was. She loved him, and we were his only family, so once he came to New York, he wanted to stay close, but she didn’t want us involved in the tong’s business. I was in high school before I even knew what a tong was. When I did find out, I tried to keep it from Natalie as long as I could.”

  “You’ve always protected her, haven’t you?”

  “I guess that’s what comes with being the older sister. I was the responsible one. Nat was wild. She’d sprain her ankle skateboarding with the boys down the courthouse steps, I’d tape it up and swear to whatever lie she told our parents. The only thing was, I told her I’d draw the line at drugs—if she got in trouble for that, she was on her own.”

  “Did she?”

  “No. She knew I meant it.”

  “I get the feeling you don’t back down.”

  “The opposite. I dig in even deeper when I’m pushed. Not necessarily a good quality, but a useful one for a lawyer.”

  “Is Natalie still wild?”

  “No, no. She calmed down when she met Paul. He’s been really good for her. Do you have sisters? Or brothers?”

  “Four older brothers. Two were constantly trying to protect me, one was my pal, and one was always ready to throw me under a bus.”

  “I’m sure that last isn’t true.”

  “Only metaphorically. Oh, but you’ve met him. Tim. He was at the funeral.”

  “With the woman from the Chinatown Heritage Society?”

  “He’s on the board.”

  “He seemed lovely.”

  “That’s a trick he has. Mel, I have another question, if you don’t think it’s too personal. Why do you suppose Big Brother Choi never remarried? Especially if family was so important to him.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice. “I asked him that once, when I was about ten. It’s such a sad romantic story. He said he loved Auntie Mei-Mei very, very much. They tried and tried to have a baby. They finally did, but the baby was small and weak and he only lived a few days. That broke Auntie Mei-Mei’s heart. She rarely left the apartment after that, and she died a year later. That broke Uncle Meng’s heart. He said he was staying single in this world so he could be with her in the next world. He said then they’d be a family forever.”

  “Oh, that is sad.” He was still a gangster, Lydia, I told myself. You don’t need to get all sympathetic.

  “Uncle Meng, and now Mr. Chang…” Mel trailed off. “Thanks for letting me ramble on. Talking about the past, it does seem to help.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I could practically hear her square her shoulders. “I actually called for a reason, though. I’m meeting that detective at the apartment in the morning to look around. Will you come with me?”

  Back to the Choi apartment? Really? Try to stop me. “I—yes, of course. But I think I should tell you that that detective, Mary Kee, is a friend of mine. We grew up together. She might get a little annoyed to see me back at her crime scene.”

  “Will it cause a problem between you?”

  “Nothing worse than a few squinty glares. It might be pushing the envelope to bring Bill, too, though.”

  “That’s all right if it’s okay with you. I don’t think I need to make any points with the tong men the way I did the first time. This is different.”

  “Different in what way? I mean, of course I’ll be glad to go. I’m just wondering.”

  “The detective asked me to come back to look over the apartment more thoroughly. I’m happy to help, but she’s only interested in solving the murder. As she should be, of course. But—well, maybe it’s silly. It’s just, until we know why Mr. Chang was killed, I can’t help thinking it might have something to do with the building. Do you think I’m off base?”

  “Not at all. Though it could just be an internal tong thing, for the leadership.”

  “It could. But he had something to tell me, from Uncle Meng. Just me, not me and Nat. That says to me it wa
s probably about the building, which is my problem, not hers.”

  I glanced at the Phoenix Towers brochure open on my laptop screen. Not Nat’s problem? If you only knew.

  “Also,” Mel said, “on a purely emotional level, I admit I don’t relish the thought of walking into that apartment alone.”

  “Mary—Detective Kee—will be with you.” What are you doing, Lydia, trying to talk her out of it? “But that’s not the same, I get it.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “Of course. Tell me what time and I’ll meet you.”

  After we hung up I sipped at my tea, checked the sports news online, and called Bill. “Game still on?”

  “Would I be answering the phone?”

  “Would I be calling?”

  “So why’d you ask?”

  “Seemed polite. Good guys win?”

  “You mean the Yankees?”

  “I mean whoever you were rooting for. I don’t care about baseball, but I’m always on your side.”

  “Your loyalty is the stuff of legends. Yes, they creamed ’em. What’s up?”

  “Two things. One, Mel’s meeting Mary at Big Brother Choi’s apartment tomorrow and she invited me along.”

  “You mean you twisted her arm to let you go.”

  “I would’ve if I had to, but it was actually her idea. She’s kind of skittish about going back there. You know, because of the body and the blood and stuff. But I think it would be pushing it with Mary to have you along, too.”

  “Always the bridesmaid. All right, I’ll await your report. I have a few more calls to make, anyway. What’s thing two?”

  “I’m staying home for dinner. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Two rejections in the same phone call, and not even a record for you. Heartbreaking, but I’ll live with it. You’re feeling the need to bask in your mother’s sunny presence?”

  “Better. Tim’s coming over.”

  “Now I’m confused. Isn’t that usually a reason to run for the hills?”

  “In general, yes. But I’ve spent the afternoon online trying to look under Jackson Ting’s rocks, and I can’t even find his rocks.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “You’re the more experienced investigator in this partnership, and I’m always trying to learn from you. Anyway, the great crime you prophesied is nowhere in sight. Tim has a dog in this fight, so I thought I’d see what he knows.”

  “And being Tim, he’ll be only too happy to tell you, and in endless detail. Careful, though. If he does you a favor, you’ll owe him one back. That kind of thing can escalate. And by the way, the metaphors are getting out of hand.”

  “It was that trip to the South, like you said.”

  “Well, have a good night, y’all. And if you need me to call with an emergency so you can jump up and run off, send up a flare.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  “I don’t know. Something to do with my rocks.”

  I deserved that, but I hung up on him anyway.

  14

  Tim arrived right on time, his usual handsome (if you like pudgy), well-dressed (if you like stodgy), pleasant (if you like patronizing) self. He took off his shoes, gave Ma a kiss, and said, “Lyd? You’re home for dinner? Couldn’t get a date?” He handed me the bag of oranges he’d brought.

  “Oh, I canceled a hot one for you, bro.”

  “Who, Smith? You’re getting pretty desperate if you think he’s hot.”

  “You don’t seem to have a date yourself, I see.” I took the oranges to the kitchen and arranged them in a big blue bowl.

  “Speak Chinese,” Ma commanded in Chinese. “Also, say nice things to each other.”

  “Smells great in here, Ma,” said Tim, switching languages. “I guess Ling Wan-Ju didn’t help with the cooking.”

  “She wouldn’t let me,” I said. “She was afraid I might poison you.”

  “You two never change.” Ma shooed us out of the kitchen and poured sesame oil in the wok to stir-fry the bok choy.

  “Why does she keep thinking we’ll change?” Tim went back to English as we took seats in the living room. “You’d have to turn into a nice normal sister.”

  “By normal you mean one whose profession doesn’t embarrass a stuffed shirt like you. Good luck with that. But hey, I’m nice. I called to congratulate you on making partner.”

  “Because Ma made you.”

  “She didn’t. But she was the one who told me about it. I bet you called Ted, Elliot, and Andrew. You could’ve called me.”

  “Come on, you wouldn’t have cared.”

  “Try me.”

  Ma, bustling from the kitchen with a platter of sizzling jiaozi, interrupted our glaring session. I fetched the bok choy, Tim carried the casserole dish between two big kitchen mitts, and we sat down to dinner. Over the dumplings, conversation centered on our other brothers, their families, their kids. When we hit the ngau lam mein and the bok choy, we moved on to Tim and his new position in the firm.

  After a not totally unbearable period of him humble-bragging, Tim turned to me. “So. You pick up any clients at Choi Meng’s funeral last week?”

  Ma squinted from one of us to the other, the change in subject putting her on the alert for hostilities, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Mel Wu,” I said. “The niece.” Mel was already my client by the time I got to the funeral, but why does Tim need to know everything?

  Tim’s eyes widened and he gave me an acknowledging nod. “Nice catch. What does she want?”

  “Help. You know I can’t say more than that.”

  “Your relationship’s not privileged unless you’re working for an attorney.”

  “She is an attorney. Also, privileged isn’t the same as private. Information I’m required to reveal in court I don’t have to tell my brother over the dinner table.”

  “Ooh,” he said. “Feel the burn.”

  “I do want to ask you something, though.”

  “Oh, you tell me to butt out, then you want to ask me something? Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because she’s your sister!” Ma dug the serving chopsticks into the casserole dish and dumped a mound of noodles onto Tim’s plate, following them up with some choice chunks of long-simmered beef. “Will you two please stop fighting? You’ll ruin dinner.”

  “Nothing can ruin your ngau lam mein, Ma,” said Tim. “Not even her. Okay, Lyd, go ahead, ask. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, forget it. You probably don’t know anyway.”

  Ma shot me a dirty look.

  “Yes, all right,” I said quickly. “I’m interested in Jackson Ting.”

  Tim laughed. “You’re not serious? One, he’s married. Two, he’s out of your league.”

  Ma’s dirty look swung to Tim. “ ‘Out of your league,’ this means this man is too good for her?”

  “Well…”

  “No one is too good for any of my children. Although,” she said thoughtfully, “many people are not good enough. But Ling Wan-Ju.” She turned back to me with an odd expression: a mixture of hope and worry. “Is he really married, this man you’re interested in?”

  I got it. The hope was that my interest in another man might mean I was losing interest in Bill. The worry was that the man might be unavailable. “Sorry, Ma,” I said. “This is a purely professional interest. Jackson Ting is a real estate developer. I’m working on a case that involves him.”

  “The one for Mel Wu?” Tim asked as my mother’s face fell.

  “Go fish. But I’m thinking that because of the Heritage Society you might have already dug up dirt on Ting.”

  “Mel Wu,” he said thoughtfully. “She’s a real estate lawyer. Her uncle was head of the tong that won’t sell their building to Ting. Lyd, if you’re working for the tong, directly or indirectly, I will kill you.”

  Ma’s eyes widened. Whether at the idea of me working for the tong or at the picture of Tim standing over me with a bloody cleaver, I
couldn’t tell.

  “If I thought you were worried about my safety I’d be appreciative,” I said. “As it is, you’re a jerk. You scared Ma because you’re afraid something I do will tarnish your glow at Harriman McGill. No, I’m not working for the tong. No, I won’t tell you what I’m doing for Mel Wu. No, she didn’t ask me to look into Jackson Ting. Thanks anyway.” I squeezed a piece of meat between my chopsticks and stuck it in my mouth.

  Tim looked away, reddening. Ma looked at him, frowning. I looked at my dinner. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Tim relented. “The Society did do some digging into Jackson Ting. To see if there was anything dicey about the Phoenix Towers project. We couldn’t find anything.”

  “The Phoenix Towers project?” Ma said. “On Bayard Street? The ugly big building for rich people?”

  “Basically, yes, Ma,” Tim said.

  “ ‘Dicey,’ do you mean that you think it’s going to be a gambling house?”

  “No,” said Tim as I hid a smile. “ ‘Dicey’ means bad.”

  “Bad.” She nodded, digesting this new slang. Tim had translated the English word literally into Chinese, so I didn’t think using it among her pals was going to get her very far, but I said nothing. “So you mean, you were looking for bad things about that project? Many people will have to move from their homes for it to get built. Isn’t that a bad thing?”

  “Yes, but it’s legal,” Tim said.

  “It should not be.”

  Tim shrugged. “Maybe, but it is.”

  Ma looked at me. “You’re looking for bad things about this project, too?”

  “About Jackson Ting in general. This project, other projects, whatever.”

  “Can you stop this dicey building for rich people from being built if you find them?”

  Tim shook his head. “Don’t know, Ma.” He gave me a long, appraising look. “Of course,” he said slowly, “I’m an attorney. The Heritage Society is a nonprofit. We can only apply legitimate research methods.”

  “What are you saying?” I demanded.

  “Oh, come on, Lyd. Don’t deny you’ve contravened the law before. Disregarded it. Skirted it. Went around—”

  “I know what ‘contravene’ means. It’s what you hate about my profession.”