by S. J. Rozan
“Well, I could say that’s none of your business, except it is. It’s exactly your business because you’re going to find me my purchase price.”
“I’m what?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, enough of this shit. Go talk to Tan. Find me that money.”
I stared at him. I started to ask, Are you high? but as the words came out I had a better idea. “Are you hiring me?”
Ironman stared back. He laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, I’m hiring you. I’m a client hiring you to find the money Tan stole from the Li Min Jin.”
“The money you think she stole. Based on a rumor.”
“Nobody ever trusted her.”
“Except Big Brother Choi.”
“Big Brother Choi,” Ironman Ma pointed out, “is dead.”
20
Unlike with my brother, I didn’t negotiate a fee with this new client. It might come in handy to have Ironman’s authorization to snoop around the Li Min Jin building, which was why I let him think he was hiring me. But I never wanted to be in a position of holding privileged information about the tong. If it turned out there was anything behind Ironman’s suspicions, or if I found anything else of interest, I wanted to be able to shout it from the rooftops, or tell Mary, whichever seemed like a better idea.
Ironman Ma didn’t seem to miss the business dimension of the transaction. He dropped two twenties on the table—even at these prices, a massively show-offy tip—and we rolled out of Miansai together. I’d have preferred to roll out on my own, to be free of him faster, but if I had, I might have missed what happened next.
I almost missed it anyway. The rumble of a motorcycle isn’t such a big deal in New York that you’d notice it. Gunshots, though—no matter what the “New York is a war zone” non-New Yorkers say—generally are.
We’d taken half a dozen steps when a bike roared up beside us. Its black-helmeted rider stuck an arm straight out. At me? At Ironman? Who cared? I tackled Ironman, and we both crashed onto the sidewalk. A bullet whined. Glass exploded out of Miansai’s storefront and rained down around us. Something else clonked to the sidewalk by my ear.
Ironman, trying to wrestle free of me, smacked an elbow into my mouth. He yanked the pistol from his belt. I smashed his hand onto the pavement. “Are you nuts?” I screeched. “There are people around!”
“Fuck you!” He shoved me away and jumped up, gun out. By then the motorcyclist had rocketed through the traffic and was gone. Ironman spun to me. “Don’t you ever, ever—”
“You’re welcome.” I clambered to my feet. “And you socked me in the jaw. That better have been an accident. You think they were shooting at you, or me?”
“You? Who’d shoot at you?”
I looked down. The thing that had nearly hit me in the head was a paper-wrapped rock. I took out a tissue and reached for it, but Ironman saw it before I got there. He snatched it, pulled the rubber bands off, and unfolded the paper. Scanning it, he cursed mightily, then shoved it in his pocket and slammed the rock to the sidewalk. He slipped the gun back into his holster and stalked away.
I rubbed my shoulder, sore from the dive, and waited for Bill to cross the street.
“You okay?” he said. “You didn’t seem dead, so I thought I’d stay out of sight. Let you finish your business with Ironman.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I got the bike’s plate number.”
“Oh. Oh, well, that’s actually useful.”
People had materialized to gawk, and Miansai’s stylish staff were out on the street gaping from their shattered window to the glass that used to be in it. I took out my phone.
“Who’re you calling?” Bill asked.
“What’s my choice?”
The phone rang twice and then Mary asked in my ear, “Something quick? I’m on duty and there’s been shots fired—”
“On Crosby Street. I’m there.”
A brief silence. “You just happen to be? Or—”
“Or. I was with Ironman Ma. I think they were for him.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“My shoulder’s bruised.”
“You deserve it. You were with Ironman Ma. What’s wrong with you? Where’s the shooter?”
“On a motorcycle somewhere uptown by now.”
“You have the plate?”
“Bill does.” I passed the phone to Bill. “Mary wants the plate.”
Bill gave her the number and gave me back the phone before Mary could yell at him.
“There was a note, too,” I said to Mary.
“A note?”
“Wrapped around a rock. I didn’t get a chance to read it. Ironman grabbed it.”
“Do you have the rock?”
“Of course.”
“Be here in five minutes,” she said to me.
“On our way.”
“You and Ironman?”
“Me and Bill. Ironman ran off. After he tried to shoot the shooter on a crowded street. Which I prevented.”
“You’re a hero. Five or I put out a BOLO.” Mary clicked off.
It’s a ten-minute walk from Miansai to the Elizabeth Street police station, which Mary knows full well. So we hustled. Uniforms, on their way to the scene, ran past us.
The Fifth Precinct is one of those limestone station houses built in the 1880s at the beginning of the NYPD, around the same time as the rest of Chinatown, which wasn’t Chinatown yet. I told the desk sergeant, a guy named John Nee who was my writing partner in sixth grade at PS 124, that Mary was expecting us. He told us to wait and called upstairs anyway. When he said we could go on up, I gave him an eye roll and he gave me a grin.
Mary was behind her beat-up steel desk, and Chris Chiang was perched on the edge of it, talking to her, when we came into the squad room. Mary jumped to her feet.
“Sit down and spill it, you two,” she said. “What the hell were you doing hanging out with Ironman Ma? Weren’t you supposed to call me after you talked to Tan Lu-Lien? Who’s shooting at Ironman in the middle of the day in the middle of the street? Or were they shooting at you?”
Action in the squad room paused as the other two detectives there, one typing and the other interviewing a witness to something or other, looked over. At a shrug from Chris Chiang they went back to work. Bill and I sat on the scarred wooden chairs facing Mary’s desk.
“Um,” I said. “Here’s the rock.” I took it from my pocket wrapped in Kleenex and put it on the desk. “What should I spill first?”
“Are you all right?” She looked from one of us to the other.
“Like I said. Also, Ironman punched me in the mouth, but I don’t think he meant it. He was trying to get up after I tackled him.”
“Like I said. You deserve it.”
“Black bike,” Bill said. “A Ducati, I think. Rider tall and thin. White helmet, black plexi face shield, black leather jacket with a red stripe down the sleeve, black jeans.”
“What?”
“I’m spilling. That’s the shooter and the bike. I already gave you the plate number.”
“And we already ran it.” Mary paused as if she weren’t going to tell us, but I knew her, so I just waited. She went on, “That plate belongs to a Harley stolen a month ago. The rest of the Harley’s probably in whatever chop shop the shooter got the plate from. But thanks anyway.”
“The description might be useful, though,” I said, trying to defend Bill’s honor.
“Yeah, maybe. And we may be able to pull prints from the rock, though I doubt it. Why were you with Ironman?”
“He called and invited me for tea.”
“Why?”
Bill said, “Because she’s gorgeous.”
Mary said, “Shut up.”
I said, “And he thinks you’re cute, by the way, but scary. He saw me at the Li Min Jin building and wanted some inside info.”
“On what?”
“At first, on whatever I knew. I told him the truth, which is that I know nothing. Then he hired me.”
“He did wh
at?”
“He and some of the other Li Min Jin members think Tan Lu-Lien, maybe in cahoots with Big Brother Choi, has been skimming funds and hiding money, or maybe diamonds, in the Li Min Jin building walls.”
I hadn’t had time, on our jog over, to tell this to Bill, so he joined Mary and Chris in staring at me.
I expected some kind of incredulous response from Mary, but she said, “Well, well,” and turned to Chris.
“There’s been a rumor,” Chris said. “Going back years. That something valuable’s buried in the building. When Jackson Ting started sniffing around, we were interested to see what would happen.”
“I’m a little tired of that word. Ironman kept telling me how interested he was. Anyway, that’s what he said, and he wants me to go back and find whatever it is.”
“Why you?” said Mary.
“Because I’m gorgeous. He says Tan is gay.”
Mary took a second. “He wants you to be a honey trap? Are you serious?”
“He is.”
Chris Chiang laughed. “It would totally work on me.”
Mary shot him a look. He shrugged, still grinning. “When you saw Tan,” Mary said, “you and Mel Wu, what did you talk about?”
“She wanted to know Mel’s plans for the building.” I recounted for Mary and Chris the story I’d told Bill already, of the tea party in Tan’s office. When I was done, the two detectives exchanged glances.
“That does shore up the idea there’s something there,” Mary said. “Without Choi, Tan suddenly has less access to it. I wonder if that means it’s in his apartment.”
“It could mean that,” I said, “but I have a feeling, nominal leader or not, that she doesn’t get to wander around freely these days. So it could be anywhere. They can’t wait to get rid of her, and they certainly don’t trust her. Ironman implied they’re watching her 24/7 and they have been for a while. She must know that. She might even be the one responsible for the shot at him.”
“While she’s being watched 24/7?” Mary said.
“There have to be an infinite number of punks in Chinatown who’d be happy to do a favor for a high-up member of the Li Min Jin.”
“But why?” Bill asked reasonably. “No matter whom she eliminates, she’s not going to inherit the leadership of the tong.”
“Eliminating Ironman might make the removal of her fortune from the building easier?”
“Well, but if Mel sells to Jackson Ting, it’ll take time to finalize the deal and clear the building,” he said. “And evicting the tong if she doesn’t sell will take even longer. Either way, all Tan has to do is sit back and wait until the building’s emptied and then go in and grab whatever it is.”
I said, “Ironman wants the building.”
“He does?” said Mary.
“He thinks the Li Min Jin New York is about to be dissolved by the Li Min Jin Hong Kong. He wants to buy the building from Mel and set up a new, forward-looking—to use his word—‘organization.’ After, of course, they jettison Loo’s faction. The ‘senile old men.’ ”
“Who’ll go quietly, sure. Would she sell to him, do you think?”
“I doubt it. Though he pointed out that she’s going to have a hard time evicting the tong if she doesn’t sell, and that selling to him would satisfy her uncle’s wish that the tong not lose the building.”
“Except it would be a different organization.”
“In name only.”
“And minus half the current members. What’s Ironman planning to use for money?”
“Whatever’s buried in the building.”
“Seriously?”
“I told you. I’m supposed to go back and find it for him. He thinks he hired me.”
Mary blew out a big breath. “Okay, well, that’s one thing you’re definitely not going to do. If you go back to that building, I’ll hurt you.”
“If you hurt Lydia, I’ll hurt you,” Bill told her.
“And if you hurt Mary, I’ll hurt you,” Chris said, grinning and spreading his hands. “So, Lydia, stay away from that place and save us all a world of hurt, okay?”
21
You get the feeling we barely escaped with our lives?” I asked Bill once we’d issued out of the precinct doors and back onto Elizabeth Street.
“I’ll buy you lunch to celebrate.”
I checked my watch. It was three o’clock by now. No wonder I was starving. “Dumplings? Nom Wah?”
“Why not?”
As we threaded past fruit stalls and souvenir shops over to Doyers, I called Mel. “Did you know Ironman Ma wants you to sell the building to him?”
“Yes, he called me earlier.”
“Did he actually make you an offer? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He said he’d give me a good price, all cash, but he didn’t name a figure, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t take him seriously. Buyers who don’t give a number are usually just gauging interest. I told him no. With that kind of buyer, that’s usually the end of it.”
“Mel, you need to start thinking of this differently from other real estate transactions. Ironman’s a top tong member. When he says ‘cash,’ he means illegally made profits. When he says he wants the building, he wants the building.”
Mel was silent for a moment. Then, “Understood. I’m still not going to do it.”
“He thinks you might, because you’d be selling it back to the tong and they wouldn’t have to move. The way your uncle wanted.”
“I hate to disappoint the ghost of Uncle Meng, but making a profit off the tong would be as bad as being their landlord. Ironman’s out of luck.”
“Okay then. Also, someone shot at him.”
“Shot at him? Or shot him?”
Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. “At him. And threw a rock with a note on it. I don’t think the shot was supposed to hit him, just to get his attention.”
“What did the note say?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking it’s all about the tong succession, but that seems to be mixed up with the building. Just be careful, okay?”
“You think someone’s going to shoot at me?” She sounded not scared, but incredulous.
“Personally, I wouldn’t dare. But someone might want to intimidate you into deciding one way or the other.”
“Then they wouldn’t really be shooting at me. Just near me. And throwing notes to tell me why. I’m starting to get fed up with these clowns.”
“They’re not clowns, Mel. They kill people.”
“I know. But enough is enough.”
“Just be careful,” I repeated.
“I will. Thanks for the warning.”
I hung up and Bill asked, “How is she?”
“More angry than scared.”
“Good for her.”
“I don’t know. She might go stomping into the building and read the tong the riot act.”
“You think?”
“Probably not, once she cools down, but still.”
We reached Nom Wah and slid into a booth. I waved to Wilson Tang, the owner. He was yet another person I’d gone to grade school with. PS 124 was representing.
“I have an idea,” I said to Bill.
“Please share.”
“I’m getting interested in Tan Lu-Lien.”
Bill gaped. “You’re gay? How did I not know that?”
“You miss so much. Anyway, something about her doesn’t add up.”
“At the risk of getting hot tea spilled in my lap,” he said, as the waiter set down a pot of the jasmine green Wilson knows I like, “what’s going on in the Li Min Jin building isn’t our case.”
“Yes, I know. You’re not wrong.” I lifted the lid and checked the color of the tea. Another minute. “We can go back to panning for Jackson Ting gold after lunch. But don’t you agree?”
“Agree with what? That something’s off about Tan? I never even talked to the woman. But I have faith in your razor-sharp instincts.”
I only half-heard that bec
ause I’d taken out my phone and was searching for a number. “Remember Mark Quan?” I said. “In Hong Kong?”
“How could I forget? He saved my life. And made a major pass at you, but I forgave him for that, because, you know, he saved my life. You’ve kept in touch with him?”
“We talk every few months.”
“Is he still hitting on you? That forgiveness thing, it’s not going to last forever.”
I coyly didn’t answer, and poured Bill tea.
He asked, “Is Mark still a cop?”
“No. He stayed on for a while—and by the way he made lieutenant in spite of us—but finally he quit and moved to Cheung Chau. He teaches kung fu and runs a noodle shop. With his wife. He got married.”
Funny how that last fact made Bill smile. I tapped Mark’s number and was going to say something to Bill about not getting comfortable, but the phone came alive in my ear.
“Lydia Chin! As I live and breathe! How are things halfway around the world?”
Mark Quan had been born in Hong Kong but largely raised in North Carolina, so his English was unaccented unless you counted the Southern drawl. He spoke quietly, as though to avoid waking someone.
“Good, things are good,” I said. “How about you? How’s Sondra, how are the kids?”
When I said “kids,” Bill’s smile widened.
Mark said, “Everyone’s good.” His voice went back to normal and I guessed he’d gone into another room. “Sondra’s well, Dani’s learning soccer in school, and Pete’s learning to make trouble at home. I’d tell you all about the school and the shop and all the mouthwatering meals you’re missing, but I bet this isn’t just a catch-up call, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“It’s four A.M. here.”
“Do you mind? I know it’s obnoxious of me, but you’re a night owl.”
“Not so much anymore, with the kids, but I’m intrigued. Must be important so go ahead.”
I told Mark the situation and what I wanted to know.
“Tan Lu-Lien, huh?” he said when I was finished. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I didn’t know there’d ever been a woman Black Shadow.”
“She’d have been long before your time. She must have come here thirty-five years ago. I was just hoping you’d know someone who might remember her.”
