by S. J. Rozan
He shrugged. “One of a number of things. But if Jackson Ting is up to anything shady…”
“Shady?” Ma asked.
“Like dicey,” I said, and to Tim, “so suddenly my embarrassing profession might be valuable to you?”
“One uses the tools one has.”
“Oh! Oh! Tools? Uses? Why you—” I stopped myself. I felt like a cartoon character with a light bulb over my head. “Hire me.”
“What?”
“I’m going to be looking anyway. If you want to be able to use what I find, hire me. So the information’s privileged.”
Tim stared. Ma, probably wondering if chunks of beef were about to go flying across the table, narrowed her eyes.
“You know,” said Tim, looking hard at me, “amazingly, that’s not a bad idea. You’re hired. I hope you don’t expect to get paid, though.”
“It’s not a contract if there’s no payment. Oh, you’re surprised I know that? I am in business, you know. It doesn’t have to be money. It’s called a consideration. But since consideration isn’t your strong point, how about money?”
“A dollar.”
“Cheapskate.” But hell, I already had two clients. “I accept. I’ll draw up a contract after dinner.”
Our mother beamed. “My children are working together on an important case. This makes me quite happy.” She put down her chopsticks and smiled from one of us to the other. “I’ll help too.”
15
And then he blamed me!” I was on the phone with Bill later that night, after Tim left and my mother and I cleaned up. “He got me alone and absolutely hissed, ‘Good job, sis, now Ma thinks she’s a detective. You’d better not let anything happen to her.’ Who does he think he is?”
“The real question is who does he think she is? She can take care of herself, if I’m remembering right.”
“In general, yes, you’d better believe it. But Bill, these are gangsters. Tong guys! Not Jackson Ting himself, as far as I know, but everyone else crawling all over the Bayard Street building. Ting wants it, Mel owns it, half the Li Min Jin’s on one side and half on the other—”
“Hey. For one thing, I bet your mother knows better than to get tangled up with the Li Min Jin. And all she’s going to be doing anyway is looking for info on Jackson Ting. That should keep her a few steps away from them.”
“I’m not convinced. Is there another thing?”
“I bet the Li Min Jin knows better than to tangle with your mother. Not only does she have that formidable Ma Chin thing going for her, she has Grandfather Gao in her corner.”
“Ah. Now there you might be onto something.”
“I’m not just a pretty face, you know. In fact I’m not any kind of a pretty face.”
“Fishing for compliments never works.”
“It does when you do it.”
“Because I deserve them. Okay, talk to you in the morning, after I go to the building with Mel.” I added, “Pretty boy,” and hung up.
* * *
Mary was waiting outside the Bayard Street building the next morning when I walked up.
“Mel Wu’s my client,” I said before she could scowl at me. “She asked me to come.”
“I know, she called me. It’s all right. You’re just going to come and go, yes?”
“Whatever Mel wants me to do.”
“That’s what she’s going to want you to do.”
“Okay then.”
That little thrust-and-parry was interrupted by Mel Wu. “Good morning,” she said as she stepped up to us. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Detective Kee. Lydia, thank you for coming.”
“No problem,” Mary and I said at the same time, but we didn’t jinx-you-owe-me-a-Coke because this was a professional meeting.
Mary knocked on the Li Min Jin door. It was opened immediately by a uniformed Asian NYPD officer. A few paces back in the hallway stood Beefy, arms crossed. “Sung.” Mary nodded to the cop. “Anything exciting?”
“I’ve only been on an hour. Place is quiet. Guys going out, guys coming in, guys staying put.” He grinned and lowered his voice. “They don’t seem to like us.”
“They don’t like us. After we’re through upstairs, unless I need Forensics to come back I’ll release the crime scene and you can go. Who’s up there?”
“Wagman.”
“Oh, I bet they love that.” Mary turned to Mel. “Elevator?”
Mel looked at me and I shook my head, so we all took the stairs. Yesterday’s workout notwithstanding, I was still third when we got to the sixth floor. Mel might not be a nearly championship-level gymnast anymore, but she was still plenty fit. Mary, of course, played hockey, soccer, softball, and pretty much everything else.
Another uniformed cop, a White guy, stood from the folding chair outside Big Brother Choi’s apartment when we reached the sixth floor. He flexed his hands.
“Hey, Wagman,” Mary said. “Anything?”
“Not even dirty looks. No one came up here.”
“What about the graveyard shift?”
“Narvaéz said the same. No one.”
“Okay. I think after we’re done here you and Sung can probably go.” She pulled down the crime scene tape and opened the door.
Mel hesitated, then set her shoulders and walked in. I followed. Except for the dusting powder on the windowsills and doorframes, the now-dried blood on the low table and the floor, and the lack of body, the place seemed pretty much the same.
“Just look around,” Mary said to Mel. “Take as long as you need. Is this how you’d expect it to look, say if you were coming to visit your uncle? Everything here, in the right place, that sort of thing?”
Stepping around the blood, Mel wandered through the study, ending at the latticed window, which was now closed and locked. She looked out for a few moments, then turned and walked into the room on the right, where I hadn’t been before. A dining table took up the center, with more scroll paintings on the walls around it. Beyond it was a kitchen, with that scrubbed but forlorn look of a useful space no one uses. Mel smiled as she looked around it. “Uncle Meng didn’t cook. A restaurant would send meals or someone would pick them up. Or he’d go out. My mother generally made Western food, but when she cooked Cantonese she’d make extra and freeze it so we could bring him some next time we came.”
We walked back through the dining room and study. Mary asked, “Is there a safe, a hidey-hole, someplace he stored valuables?”
“I don’t know. I never saw one, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t. You must have done things like tap the walls to see if they’re hollow.”
Mary nodded. “Did he have a gun?”
Mel turned her head sharply. “He was the head of the Li Min Jin. He wouldn’t have let us see him with a gun, but I’m sure he had one.”
“We didn’t find one.”
“Then it’s either hidden or it’s gone.”
Reaching the bedroom, Mel looked slowly around. She walked over to stand in front of the family altar.
After a length of time Mary said, “What are you seeing?”
“Something’s missing,” Mel said. “Or at least, something’s different.” She bit her lip. “I’m trying to reconstruct it in my mind. I’ve seen this altar so many times… It changed now and then. Uncle Meng would use a new bowl for the oranges or put on a different cloth. But basically the same things were on it… Now it’s different, but dammit, I can’t quite say how.” She turned to Mary. “May I take a photo?”
“Go ahead.”
Mel took out her phone and took a few shots of the altar. I snapped some, too. She said, “There may be photos in one of my mother’s albums. Nat has those. I’ll look through them. Though I may be wrong, and even if I’m right, it may mean nothing.”
“Still,” Mary said. “If you would.”
We took another turn through the apartment. I took photos in every room, for no particular reason except I didn’t know when I’d get back in again. Finally we were done.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Mel said.
“Don’t worry,” Mary said. “I appreciate your coming.” We all left, Mary locking up behind us. “I’m going to release the crime scene when I get back to the station,” she said to us and to Wagman at the door. As we started down the stairs she told Mel, “You can come in whenever you want. It’s yours now. But let me know if anything happens, if you think of anything, okay?”
We went down three flights without incident. It might have been a joke: a cop, a PI, and the owner, all women, walk through a tong building. Except I didn’t know the punch line.
When we hit the third floor, a door opened. I got the sense that it had been ajar, and the room’s inhabitant had been listening for us. Tan Lu-Lien stood in the doorway, wearing gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a navy V-neck sweater. “Wu Mao-Li,” she said to Mel, and continued in English, “I wonder if you’ll have tea with me?”
At Mel’s hesitation Tan looked at me and added, “Chin Ling Wan-Ju, also, of course.” That rather pointedly left out Mary, but there are disadvantages to being an actual cop. Mary gave me a look and I gave her one back, meaning You’ll tell me all about it? and Of course.
16
The door led into a large room in the same location as Big Brother Choi’s study, the center of the U in the rear of the building. The light here, halfway down the building, didn’t come pouring in as it did above, but it wasn’t a dark tunnel, either. A computer-topped steel office desk sat by the window, and a gold dragon on a blue rug warmed up the vinyl tile floor in front of it. Framed brush paintings of bamboo and pine hung on the walls, along with two photographs. In one, ferries passed each other on glittering water; in the other, lights glowed on seven peaks. I knew them: The boats were the Star Ferries crossing Hong Kong Harbor, and the lights were Hong Kong’s night skyline. According to Mel, Hong Kong was Tan’s home. How long had it been since she’d seen those sights?
Tan nodded us to armchairs around a low table. She clicked the kettle on, waited until the water began to simmer and turned it off just before it boiled. Stopping the water before it quite boils is the correct technique for green tea, though it’s a detail most people don’t bother with. Tan poured the water into a gourd-shaped Yixing pot and swished it gently around.
Small handleless teacups painted with vines shared the tabletop with a plate of lou gong beng—flaky pastry filled with red bean curd, peanuts, and star anise. I love this stuff, and it’s not that easy to find, even at the best Chinatown bakeries. When Tan brought the teapot to the table, I asked where she’d gotten them.
She smiled slightly, pausing before she spoke. “I made them. My cooking is passable, though my abilities in the kitchen aren’t common knowledge.” Her English was crisp and British, with a slight trace of Chinese rhythms. To Mel she said, “Choi Meng enjoyed my cooking. I made him many dinners.”
“In his kitchen? It seems so unused.”
“Of course not. I brought his favorite dishes from home. The men thought I’d stopped at a restaurant on my way here. Any display of skill at women’s work would be dangerous for me. You understand.”
She sat and poured tea, first for Mel, then me, then herself.
“I do understand,” Mel said. “I imagine you always must have been on guard. Even with my uncle on your side.”
“Your uncle recognized skill and devotion.” Tan settled back in her chair.
Mel sipped. “This is delicious,” she said, as was proper: Compliment the food before talking about anything else.
“Thank you. It’s a longjing from Ten Ren Company.” Interesting. The correct Chinese response to a compliment, especially about food, is to disparage what’s being praised so you don’t appear boastful. Tan didn’t indulge in that artifice, but she didn’t take credit for anything beyond choosing the tea, either.
I took a lou gong beng and bit into it. “Oh my god,” I said. “Tan Lu-Lien, your cooking is way beyond passable. This is fantastic.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Tan picked up her cup and sipped. We all sat drinking tea while Mel and I waited to hear why we’d been invited in. My money was heavily on the idea this wasn’t just a be-nice-to-the-new-landlady party.
Finally Tan said, “Mao-Li, I was surprised, as I probably shouldn’t have been, to find your uncle had left this building to you and not to the Li Min Jin.”
“Surprised why? And why shouldn’t you have been?”
“The tong was Choi Meng’s family. One reason he bought this building, he said, was so the Li Min Jin would always have a home. For that reason I expected he would leave it to the Li Min Jin. But of course, you’re also family. Blood family. Why wouldn’t he leave his valuable property to you? I’m embarrassed by my foolish assumption. So now, Mao-Li, I need to know your intentions for the building.”
“My intentions?” Mel repeated. “Do you mean, will I allow the Li Min Jin to stay?”
“Or will you keep the building for other uses? Or will you sell it and allow Jackson Ting to tear it down?”
Mel’s eyebrows knit together. “I haven’t thought that far,” she hedged. “I’m surprised you have. My uncle’s death, and Mr. Chang’s, are about all I can deal with right now.”
“I appreciate that. They’re both powerful blows. But I must think about the future.”
“As far as the building’s concerned, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
“I’m sorry, but it would be best if I knew your plans sooner rather than later.”
“Best why? Best for whom?”
“Mao-Li.” Tan spoke in measured tones. “With the death of Chang Yao-Zu, I am temporarily the leader of the Li Min Jin.” I watched the tattoos move on the backs of Tan’s hands. On the right, the character for power; on the left, a dragon.
“Only temporarily?” Mel asked.
“Until Chang Yao-Zu’s funeral, which it’s my duty to arrange. Immediately after that, whether or not an arrest has been made and knowing full well that his killer might be a member of this tong, there will be a selection process for the new leader. I won’t survive it.”
Mel’s eyes widened, and I felt mine do the same. Tan gave a hint of a smile. “Within the tong, I mean. The process is no longer carried out by assassination. If I were a man, I could expect to be chosen, but I won’t be. My skills and experience are nothing beside my gender. My rank has been hard enough for some to swallow these past years, but no one dared speak up against me. It won’t be like that now.
“If Chang Yao-Zu had lived, my position wouldn’t have changed. He’d have been the leader, with no serious challenger. I’d have been one of his lieutenants, as I’ve been Choi Meng’s. But Chang’s death thrusts me into the leader’s role. If I can’t maintain that position—and I know I can’t—there’ll be no place for me here. I won’t be able to stay.”
Wow, I thought. Up or out. Just like Tim’s law firm.
“Who are the men in contention now?” I asked.
Tan looked at me with distaste. This was clearly not what she’d asked Mel here to discuss. “Ironman Ma and Loo Hu-Li,” she said, in a voice that hinted she saw answering me as quicker and more efficient than kicking me out or beating me to a pulp, but she was prepared to do either if I didn’t shut up.
Mel seemed to pick up on Tan’s attitude, because she changed the subject. “Tan Lu-Lien,” she said, “one of the reasons I came here yesterday was that Chang Yao-Zu had something to tell me. A message, he said, from Uncle Meng. Something not written down but important. I don’t know what it was about, but it’s possible knowing it would influence my thinking about this building. Do you have any idea what it was?”
“A message for you from Choi Meng? No, I don’t.” Tan gazed across the room. “I was here when Chang Yao-Zu came to the Li Min Jin, once the two tongs combined. He’d had high rank in the Ma Tou, and your uncle began to raise him up through the ranks here fairly quickly.”
“Were you jealous?” Mel asked.
Tan laughed. �
��I was twenty-three, and a woman. That I was in the tong at all was a miracle. I kept to my duties and watched. It was interesting to see.”
“To see what? How the other men reacted?”
Tan didn’t answer.
“How about Loo Hu-Li?” I ventured. “He couldn’t have been happy.”
“Loo Hu-Li hasn’t been happy for an hour altogether since I’ve known him,” Tan said. So he was Scrooge, after all. “If you’re asking me whether he finally took this opportunity to kill Chang Yao-Zu, hoping to assume the leadership, I don’t know.”
You just said you guys don’t do this by assassination anymore, I thought, but her matter-of-fact tone suggested I not mention that. Instead I asked her, “Don’t you feel like you might be in danger, too?”
She fixed me with her steely gaze. “Chin Ling Wan-Ju, it’s a bit insulting to know you either haven’t heard or haven’t believed what I’ve said. I’m in no danger because I’m no threat. The men in this tong will make their decision and I’ll leave. It’s that simple.”
“They’ll just let you go? With everything you know?”
“And the alternative? To lock me in the basement and force me to continue my work?” Her contempt for my thinking couldn’t have been more clear. “That would imply I’m irreplaceable. And that, held against my will, my work could still be trusted.” It would also be kidnapping and, essentially, slavery, but those things didn’t seem to be the deal breakers.
Mel asked, “Are you not irreplaceable to the Li Min Jin?”
Tan regarded her. “My knowledge is arcane to all these men, but they won’t admit that. I won’t keep it secret. I’ll sit with the new leader and explain the financial workings of the Li Min Jin. Our investments, businesses, real estate holdings, all our assets. The leader will understand whatever he can and tell me he understands it all. We’ll change the signatures on the various accounts, I’ll give him a list of the passwords, and I’ll leave him with the paperwork.” She paused. “Our resources may be gathered in unorthodox ways, but the disposition of them is quite conventional.”
