Walking Shadow s-21

by Robert B. Parker

We ate some chicken.

  "Any progress in Port City?" she said.

  "Well," I said, "I don't know if it's progress, but it's something."

  I got up and went to my jacket, where it was hanging in the closet. I fished the pictures of Craig Sampson and the mystery guest and gave them to Susan. She looked at them, and then got up and went to the light and looked at them more closely. Then she came back and sat down and handed me the pictures. She had an odd, half-amused look on her face.

  "I think that's Rikki Wu," Susan said.

  "Why?"

  Susan smiled.

  "You'll like this," she said.

  "I was at dinner one night with Veronica Blosser and Naomi Selkirk and Rikki. Probably eight months ago. At Naomi's house. We were planning a fund-raiser for the theater."

  "Sorry I missed it."

  "Oh, you'd have gone crazy," Susan said.

  "And we were all through with the fund-raiser part and the conversation was flagging, and Naomi, who can't stand a moment's silence, said to Rikki, "Oh darling you look so fabulous, what do you do? How do you keep looking so fabulous?" And Rikki tells us what she does."

  Susan smiled again as she thought about it.

  "For Rikki, looking fabulous is a full-time career: creams, unguents, potions, lotions, jellies and jams, personal trainers, massage therapists, vitamins, blah blah blah. I won't bore you with it all, but, for example, she does a series of contraction exercises to strengthen the vaginal canal."

  "How strong does it have to be?" I said.

  "Strong enough to keep your husband."

  "Great idea," I said.

  "Just tighten up on him and he's yours till you relax."

  "Fabulous," Susan said.

  "Now, here's the part that matters. She said to us, "Girls, any man who tells you he likes hair on a woman's body is lying to you." And Veronica says, "Really? Do you mean any hair?" And Rikki says, "Any hair." And Naomi looks kind of uncomfortable, which makes me think something about Naomi's situation, hirsute wise but that's not germane. So I said to her, "So what do you do, Rikki?" and she said, "Electrolysis." And we all say, "Electrolysis? Everywhere?" and Rikki nods like a doctor confirming a diagnosis and says, "Everywhere. My flower is like a polished pearl."

  " "Flower?"

  "Flower."

  "Funny, I thought I was the only one that called it that."

  "I've heard what you call it," Susan said.

  "The electrolysis took her two years."

  "She doesn't need that exercise," I said.

  "Two years of electrolysis would tighten up anybody's vaginal canal."

  Susan carefully cut a small wedge of cheese, popped it in her mouth and chewed and swallowed.

  "Yes," Susan said.

  "Fabulously."

  "So you figure this woman with a flower like a polished pearl has got to be Rikki Wu."

  "Be one hell of a coincidence," Susan said.

  "Assuming it's a coincidence is not generative," I said.

  "Generative," she said.

  I nodded. Susan smiled.

  "It's also not plausible," she said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Therefore, we'll assume that Craig was messing with Lonnie Wu's wife. The same Lonnie Wu who told me to get out of Port City. And tried twice to back it up."

  Susan took a small bite from the upper joint of a chicken wing and put the rest of it down, and broke off a small piece of bread, and popped it in after the bite of chicken.

  "Is this a clue?" Susan said, when she got through chewing.

  "I think so. It's been so long since I saw one, I can't be sure."

  I drank some champagne and ate some chicken and cut a wedge of apple and ate it with some cheese. Now I had a motive for Sampson's death, and the motive pointed at Lonnie Wu. It was also a perfect reason for him to want me out of town. It didn't prove anything yet, but it was, in fact, a dandy clue.

  "Do you wish my flower were like a polished pearl?" Susan said.

  "I'm an old-fashioned guy," I said.

  "I prefer the original, so to speak, unprocessed model."

  "Rikki says that a man is lying if he tells you that," Susan said.

  "My word is my bond," I said.

  "I'll be happy to back it up."

  "In front of the baby?"

  "She could wait in the next room," I said.

  "She'll cry and scratch on the door," Susan said.

  "I know the feeling," I said.

  "On the other hand, if we don't put her out, she'll jump on the bed and bark."

  "I know that feeling too."

  We were quiet, looking at the movement of the fire against the old fire brick.

  "We could abandon all hopes for ardor," Susan said.

  "Un huh."

  "Or you could put her in the car. She likes the car."

  "Especially if I made her a chicken sandwich to take with her."

  "Be sure there's no bones," Susan said.

  "Then she'll feel secure and won't yowl," I said.

  "Can you say as much?"

  Susan smiled her Adam-why-don't-you-try-this-nice-apple smile.

  "I'll feel secure," she said.

  CHAPTER 30

  We were heading back to Port City, four of us this time. I was driving the Mustang. Beside me was a young woman named Mei Ling, who was fluent in English, French, German, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Korean, and, for all I knew, Martian. Hawk and Vinnie were right behind us in Hawk's Jaguar.

  "My father fled to Taiwan," Mei Ling was explaining to me, "ahead of the Communists. When Americans began relationships with the Communists in the early 1970s, my father feared Taiwan would fall. So he came here. My father had money. He was able to bring us all."

  "You weren't born here," I said.

  In preparation for Port City, Mei Ling had on a red plastic raincoat and a white kerchief over her hair. She was small-boned, with large, black eyes, and an air of precise delicacy about her.

  "I was born in Taipei she said.

  "But I can't really remember it. My first clear memories are of growing up here. In Los Angeles, California."

  "In Chinatown?"

  "At first, yes, sir. Then my father bought us a house in Northridge, California."

  "And now you're at Harvard."

  "Yes, I'm a doctoral candidate in Asian Studies."

  "Where Dr. Silverman found you."

  "Yes, sir, through the student placement service. I am paying my own tuition."

  "And she talked with you about this job."

  "Yes, sir. She told me you are a detective who is investigating a case involving Chinese people. She said you would need a translator."

  "Did she tell you that there might be some danger?"

  "Yes, sir. But she said you were very good at such things and would protect me."

  "I will, so will they," I said and gestured back of us at the Jaguar.

  "I thought that was probably what they did, sir."

  I grinned.

  "And you're not scared?"

  "I need the money, sir."

  "Your father can't help you out?"

  "He has a good business, sir. But he has six other children, and he is also the oldest son in his family and his parents are alive and he has many brothers and sisters. Besides, first he has to educate my brothers."

  We turned off the highway, and started down Cabot Hill toward Chinatown. The Port City drizzle was falling randomly, and the sky was gray. There was a hard wind off the water. I could feel it push at the car.

  "You know about tongs?"

  She smiled at me kindly.

  "All Chinese people know about tongs, sir."

  "Of course, and there's no need to call me sir."

  "I am comfortable calling you so," she said.

  "It is the way I was brought up."

  "Okay," I said.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You know the Kwan Chang Tong?" I said.

  "Yes, sir. It is the most powerful in this
area."

  "They run Chinatown here in Port City," I said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And they use a street gang to help them," I said.

  "Yes sir. The Death Dragons."

  "They teach this stuff at Harvard?" I said.

  She smiled.

  "No need to, sir. The tongs and the street gangs they employ are part of all Chinese people's lives. They know of them even if they've never actually met anyone who's in a tong, or a street gang. They are always near us, always."

  We were in Chinatown. I parked on the curb, and Hawk pulled in behind me. Hawk and Vinnie got out first, each with a shotgun.

  Mei Ling and I got out and stood with them in the cold wind. I turned the collar up on my leather jacket. Mei Ling stayed quite close to me, her hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat. Beside Hawk she looked nearly elfin.

  "You going to be warm enough?" I said.

  "Yes, sir. I have on a sweater under my raincoat."

  Hawk grinned at her.

  "And if you get too cold," he said, "I can put you in my pocket."

  She smiled back at him.

  "I am a small person," she said.

  "But I am quite hardy."

  "Mei Ling and I will talk with people," I said.

  "You may as well trail along in the car and keep your powder dry."

  "It always rain here?" Vinnie said.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Something to do with the conjunction of hills and ocean, and the prevailing winds."

  "A fucking weatherman," Vinnie said to Mei Ling, and got in the car.

  "I hope you'll forgive Vinnie his language," I said.

  "We've tried to break him out of it. But he's pretty much un trainable "I don't mind if people say 'fuck," sir. Sometimes I say 'fuck' myself."

  "I don't like you going in places alone," Hawk said.

  "Me either, but my chances of having anyone talk to me seem better just me and Mei Ling."

  "Probably are," Hawk said.

  "How long you be in a place, before we come in?"

  I shrugged.

  "Use your best judgment," I said.

  "If you think you should come, come in kind of quiet, so if somebody is talking you won't scare them into catatonia."

  "Don't even know where that is," Hawk said.

  "It look funny, you send Missy running for me."

  "You hear that, Missy?" I said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Okay," I said.

  "Let's see who we can find to talk with."

  "Preferably someone in a warm building, sir."

  "What about the sweater?" I said.

  "I should have chosen a warmer one, sir."

  We walked across the sidewalk and went into a Chinese laundry.

  CHAPTER 31

  No one at the laundry could tell us anything. Nor at the grocery store where mahogany-colored ducks dangled in the window, nor at the dim sum shop, nor in the tailor shop.

  Back out on the street, plodding through the cold drizzle, we remained undaunted.

  "Most of these Chinese people," Mei Ling said, "have never before spoken to a white person."

  She was shivering. I didn't think it was so cold, but I didn't weigh ninety pounds.

  "They call that speaking?" I said.

  Mei Ling smiled.

  "It is very Chinese to be reticent," she said.

  "For many centuries Chinese people got only trouble from talking. We find saying little and working hard to be a virtue."

  "Novel idea," I said.

  "And, of course, despite the fact that I explain to them otherwise, many of these Chinese people think you are from the government."

  "And if I were?"

  Mei Ling hugged herself as she walked. I could see that it was will, only, which kept her teeth from chattering.

  "Then you would make them pay taxes, or find that they were here illegally and make them leave. Our history has not taught us to trust our government."

  "Most histories don't," I said.

  We went into a storefront painted white with large red Chinese characters on the window.

  "The sign says that this is a clinic," Mei Ling said.

  "It is a Chinese medicine clinic."

  It was warm inside the clinic. There were green plants in the window, and a big fish tank on a counter along the side. The back was draped with white sheets, which separated the examining rooms. A pleasant-looking woman in a blue pants suit with her hair in a bun came forward and said something to us. She looked at Mei Ling. Mei Ling responded, and the woman smiled and bowed slightly at me and put out her hand. I shook it.

  "This is Mrs. Ong," Mei Ling said.

  From somewhere behind the draped sheets a bald man in a similar blue suit joined us. Mei Ling spoke to him and he bowed and put out his hand as his wife had.

  "Mr. Ong," Mei Ling said.

  We shook hands. Like his wife, Ong had a warm, dry hand and a firm grip. I held out my picture of Craig Sampson.

  "Have you ever seen this man?" I said Each took the picture and looked at it politely and smiled and looked at me and smiled. Mei Ling spoke to them. They listened to her, nodded, looked again at the picture, and spoke to Mei Ling. She answered. They said something else. Mei Ling nodded.

  "They wish to take the picture in back," she said, "and study it more closely."

  "Sure," I said.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ong withdrew, backing away so as not to insult us with their backs.

  "This mean they recognize the picture and wish to discuss what to do about it?" I said.

  "I think probably," Mei Ling said. In the warm room her color had returned, and she was no longer hugging herself.

  The room was lined with cupboards, each cupboard had many shelves and compartments. On top of the cupboards were glass jars containing dried things.

  "That is bear gall, sir," Mei Ling said, pointing to a jar, "sea horse for kidney, grubs to clean wounds, angelica, ginseng, Yon Chiao pills, deer antlers."

  "Hey," I said.

  "I may be a little slow on the bear gall. But I recognized the antlers. Does this stuff work?"

  "What would you reply, sir, if I asked you if western medicine works."

  "I would reply, 'sometimes."

  " "Yes, sir, that is what I would reply."

  There was a glass case on the other side of the room. There were dried lizards in it, flattened out like stick-on wall ornaments, and short, round dessicated things in glass tubes. I asked Mei Ling.

  "Those are deer legs, sir."

  "For?"

  Mei Ling looked at the floor.

  "Male potency," she said.

  "Really?"

  I pretended to reach in and pocket some. Mei Ling giggled and blushed. Mr. and Mrs. Ong emerged from the backroom. Mr. Ong handed the picture back to me and shook his head. He spoke to Mei Ling.

  "He says they do not know this man," Mei Ling said.

  "You believe them?" I said.

  "I do not know, sir. I admit that when they went in the backroom, I thought they did."

  "Me too."

  I looked at the both of them. Their faces were still and quiet.

  "You understand any English?" I said.

  They smiled politely and looked at Mei Ling. She translated.

  They both shook their heads, still smiling.

  "They say they speak no English," Mei Ling said.

  "You believe them?"

  "I do not know, sir. Many Chinese people do not speak English."

  "I think they recognized the picture and went out back and consulted a third party and the third party told them to be quiet."

  "That is certainly possible, sir."

  "You know Lonnie Wu?" I said.

  Mei Ling translated. Their faces never changed. Smiling politely, they each shook their head.

  "They do not know Mr. Wu," Mei Ling said.

  "Of course they do," I said.

  "He's Kwan Chang dai low in Port City. He's the man in Chinatown here." />
  "Yes, sir."

  "And, I'm wasting my time bitching about it," I said.

  Mei Ling smiled at me.

  "Yes, sir."

  "So let's, ah, amscray."

  "Excuse me, sir?"

  "An expression I learned from Dr. Silverman," I said.

  "A form of Latin."

  "Yes, sir."

  As we headed for the door, I unzipped my jacket and unsnapped the safety strap on my holster. I had a pretty good guess who the third party was. If Mei Ling saw me, she gave no sign.

  "Mei Ling," I said.

  "Let me go out first, please."

  If Mei Ling wondered about that, she gave no sign. I went out first, she followed, and in the cold rain that had evolved from the drizzle, spread out, shoulder to shoulder across the sidewalk, coming toward us, were five adolescent Asian males, including my old pal Yan. I heard Mei Ling make a little gasp.

  I said, "Step back in the shop, Mei Ling."

  I didn't look, I was locked on Yan and company, but I could feel her move. I took the Browning from its holster, cocked it, and held it, barrel down, at my side. The group came to a halt in front of me. They all wore high-top sneakers and jeans. Most of them had baseball caps on backwards. Yan wore a purple satin finish warmup jacket, with blue knit collar and cuffs. Nobody was showing a weapon yet, but the kid to Yan's right wore an oversized Australian outback coat unbuttoned, which might mean something bigger than a handgun. The wind had died and the rain came straight down, steady but not hard. It beaded on Yan's satin jacket. I surveyed the group which had formed a half circle on the sidewalk.

  No one there had reached twenty years old. Two of them were trying to grow moustaches and the results were pathetic. As opposed to the dead face that Yan had showed me when I grabbed him, his eyes were shiny, and a little nerve twitched near the corner of his mouth. All of them were excited. None of them looked uneasy.

  I smiled my friendliest smile, and said, "Death Dragons, I presume."

  No one spoke. No one probably understood what I said. I waited. The street was empty. The rain fell gently. The kids all watched me brightly. One of them, with the wispy moustache, spoke to Yan. Yan answered. The kid giggled. I kept my knees soft, relaxed my shoulders, took in a lot of wet air. Everything was slowing down, the way it does. The rain drops seemed to individuate. They fell big and crystalline, drifting down between us, disinterested, in no great hurry to reach the ground.

  The kids were milking the moment. They were stone killers, all of them, with no capacity for pity or remorse. But they were also kids, and this was as close as their stunted lives ever brought them to play. Even the five-abreast walk up the street was something from a bad movie, as was the half circle they'd formed in front of me, and the dramatic pause that hadn't ended yet. They were having fun.