Riding the Snake (1998)

by Stephen Cannell

  "And the U. S. government will let this happen," Wheeler said.

  "These guys aren't stupid. Wo Lap Ling has big-time Guan-Xi with the U. S. government. He's on the board of directors of the American Red Cross. He gives millions to charity every year in Hong Kong and America. They throw dinners to honor this guy. He dines with Clinton in the White House, sleeps in the Lincoln bedroom, donates big to everybody's campaign. Both our political animals get fed by this guy. He builds soup kitchens and hospital wings. The Americans like him because he was born in Kowloon, not Communist China. He's a free market economy kind of guy, with strong ties to the West. You may have noticed, our government guys only see green."

  "But you can't prove any of it," Tanisha said.

  "No, I can't. But let's suppose ..." He waved the typed sheet Tanisha had brought. "Let's suppose the payoffs on this transcript have something to do with this rigged election in Hong Kong in 1998. Then maybe a big piece of the cover is flapping up."

  Chapter 17.

  The Man with Good Shoes

  The ugly girl led Fu Hai out of the restaurant and through the Ching Ping Market. She reached back and took his hand and pulled him along so they would not get separated amidst the teeming crowds of people. He followed her obediently, watching the soft swell of her haunches moving under the fabric of her baggy trousers. He had not had a woman in months. He wondered what it would be like to make love to the ugly girl. Then he reminded himself that her father was a dangerous criminal and a Snakehead who would be getting him to America. Only a fool would attempt such a reckless act.

  The ugly girl led him to a warehouse down by the Pearl River. Beyond the metal building, he could see old Chinese junks and a rusting metal freighter tied to a concrete dock being loaded by peasant laborers. The girl took a key out of her sock and unlocked the warehouse door.

  The inside of the building was dank and smelled of rotting fruit and engine oil. He was led to a place in the back, and again the girl put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him into a sitting position on a row of wooden pallets. Then she turned and left.

  Fu Hai sat quietly, wondering what would come next. He thought of all that had happened on the journey to Beijing. What had surprised him the most was how China had changed. No longer a sleeping giant, she had awakened. New buildings and roads were everywhere he looked. All over the Eastern Provinces the cities were changing. From Jiangsu Province, south to Zhejiang, from Fukien to Guandong, China was bustling with new architecture, life, and ideas. Had he picked the wrong time to leave? Would he miss the opportunity the awakened giant would bring to her people? What was he going to find in America?

  He had heard wonderful stories of America, about immigrants who had gone there with nothing and, in a few years, owned huge houses and had many American cars. But how on earth did one make this happen? What if it were not true? Perhaps he had made a mistake, but even as he had these thoughts, he knew China did not want him. China might change, but its new face would not welcome him. He would never be happy here. With new resolve, he was determined to go to America. He would become his dreams. But he was frightened. Confucius said: Good medicine is often bitter to the taste. Fu Hai gritted his teeth. He would take the bitter medicine of change and leave the land of his birth forever.

  Three hours later, the ugly girl returned with a man who spoke Mandarin. He was tall and had good shoes.

  "Chi fan le ma?" the man asked, without introducing himself. This meant "Have you eaten yet?"

  "I have. Have you eaten?" Fu Hai replied. In China, because of the long-standing scarcity of food, it had become a traditional greeting to inquire if somebody had eaten. It was not an offer to eat. It was the American equivalent of "How are you?" In America one replied, "Fine. How are you?" In China, one did not bore the asker with a long list of complaints.

  The man with good shoes told Fu Hai that the Snake Ride would begin by boat down the Pearl River. He would travel inside a coffin to Hong Kong. The Chinese Army patrolled the border now, protecting Hong Kong from the flow of immigrants that tried to pour in from China to take advantage of the "other system." This was strictly prohibited by Beijing, but Fu Hai needed to cross into the New Territories to leave China.

  "Hong Kong is forty miles downriver," the man with good shoes said. "You must jump in the water as the freighter rounds East Lamma Channel. You will swim ashore and find your way to the village of Wah Fu. There you must climb up a jungle gorge to Wong Chuk Hang, where you will find Neolithic carvings that look like spirals. They are at least five thousand years old. Wait there and Big-Eared Tou's cousin will find you," he said.

  Later that night, Fu Hai was led by the man with good shoes down to the dock and a small rusting freighter with the name Tai He Ping (Great Peace) painted on the side.

  He went aboard, past crewmen who didn't look at him or ask questions. He was led down into a dark, rusting hold where there were twelve empty coffins made from beautiful bai mu, white wood, the preferred material for coffins in China. It came exclusively from Liuzhou in the Guangxi-Zhuang Autonomous Region of southeast China. The coffins themselves looked like small boats with high, rounded ends. He knew they were very expensive, maybe ten thousand U. S. dollars each. The man with good shoes opened the lid of the farthest one and told Fu Hai to get into the coffin. Reluctantly, he climbed in, fearing it might be bad luck to spend time inside a casket.

  "If soldiers board this boat and check the load, they will not open the casket. They are afraid of death," the man with good shoes told him. Fu Hai nodded. That was his feeling exactly. He closed his eyes as the man lowered the lid.

  Hours passed in the hot, dank hold. Occasionally, he heard people coming down the metal ladder or moving heavy boxes, but he couldn't understand what they were saying through the wall of the coffin. Then he felt the rumble of the freighter's powerful engine as it started.

  Soon the boat was underway. The time passed slowly for Fu Hai, a living corpse inside the white wood casket. He wondered if the soldiers would board the freighter; if, as the man with good shoes said, they would be as afraid of the coffins as he was. He knew that all people weren't the same. Great ancient wisdom said that flowers look different to different eyes. He prayed that the man with good shoes was right.

  When he heard the patrol boat, his heart almost stopped. It came roaring up alongside, its engine growling like an angry beast. He could hear voices shouting, and he pushed the lid of the coffin up slightly to hear better. Moist air came into the steamy, hot casket and cooled him. He heard footsteps ringing on the ladderway, as people came down into the hold. Through the crack in the lifted coffin lid, he caught a glimpse of two soldiers wearing the green uniforms of the People's Liberation Army. He softly lowered the lid. Fu Hai heard them slam their gun barrels on a few of the beautifully crafted coffins, undoubtedly leaving ugly, greasy gouges in the polished white wood. Then they turned and quickly left, in a hurry to get away from the baskets of death.

  He heard the patrol boat start up and leave. He had been told by the man with good shoes that it would now be safe to get out of the coffin. Fu Hai pushed back the lid and clambered out. His body was drenched with sweat, his clothes damp and clammy.

  There was a small porthole forward of where the coffins were stored, and Fu Hai went to it and looked out. The cold river air felt like rain on his face. He smiled as he saw the billowing, churning Pearl River flowing past the hull. In the distance, he could see the lights of Hong Kong. The huge skyscrapers lit low-hanging clouds with incandescent, man-made light. Fu Hai had never seen a sight like this before. The clouds were ablaze with the city's glow. It was as if they were on fire.

  They were nearing the East Lamma Channel when the man with good shoes came down to the hold and got him. They went up to the deck and to the stern of the freighter.

  "You must jump as far from the boat as you can to avoid the huge propeller," the man said. Then he motioned for Fu Hai to jump. Fu Hai was not a strong swimmer, but without thinking, he held his
nose and leaped as far as he could, slipping slightly as he jumped, falling dangerously close, landing in the boiling wake at the back of the boat. He could feel the rush from the churning propeller as he kicked to get away.. . . Then his head came up and he swam as hard and fast as he could toward the shore.

  The quick current took him and he was swept along in the oily sea, barely keeping his head above water. The harder he swam, the farther away the shore seemed to be. Jellyfish stung his legs.

  Fu Hai began to panic. He would not make it. His life would end right here, a mile from Hong Kong. Brackish water filled his mouth. He accidentally inhaled it down into his lungs, coughing, choking, and sputtering. He swam harder, dog-paddling desperately to reach land but being carried farther down the coast like a small twig after a huge rain. He knew he was in trouble, close to drowning. Suddenly he saw an orange metal channel marker coming up at him fast. If he could only get to it, he might live. The current was moving faster now as it rounded the headland. The channel marker rushed up at him. He grabbed for it, and there was a loud clang as the metal buoy hit his head. His hands slipped down on the slimy sides, the barnacles there cutting his flesh to ribbons. Then he found an eye-hole down near the base and held on. Blood was in his mouth and all over his arms. He was gagging from the water in his lungs and stomach. The current ripped and tore at him, and then, because he was weak, he lost his hold and was swept away again, into the current toward the dark, mountainous side of Hong Kong Island.

  Somehow, with superhuman effort, Fu Hai managed to keep his head above water as the current carried him rapidly along. He was about to lose consciousness when, without warning, he crashed into a rock jetty wall that protected the shoreline from the ocean flow. He was weak from the effort and tried several times to climb up on the hard, algae-covered granite rocks--each time slipping back into the water. Finally, when he had almost no energy left, he made one last try and managed to get half his body out of the current and up onto the rocks. He sucked in air until he had the strength to pull himself the rest of the way out of the churning water. His heart swelled. He had made it.

  Zhang Fu Hai was finally in Hong Kong.

  Chapter 18.

  Crossing Paths

  Before Wheeler and Tanisha left Willard Vickers's house at eleven P. M., it had all seemed to make pretty good sense. He'd told them about a Hong Kong cop he knew. The Royal Police had been reorganized. The Chinese had brought in a contingent of police from Beijing, but some old-time Brits were kept on the force for continuity. Willard said maybe his friend could help. Using Wheeler's credit card, they called Hong Kong.

  He had an English accent and the terribly British name of Julian Winslow. Julian said they'd been trying for six years to tie Willy Wo Lap Ling to the Chin Lo Triad, but Willy had been very careful, very thorough. . . . Two Hong Kong informants and two detectives had been murdered over rumors of his involvement. Nobody else wanted to talk much about Willy.

  Wheeler and Tanisha had booked two rooms in the Cleveland Ritz-Carlton, downtown.

  Tanisha had never stayed in a hotel like the Ritz-Carlton before. After they checked in, she walked around her room looking, in awe, at the antiques. She touched the crystal lamps, ran her hand over the beautiful terry-cloth robe in the bathroom, which had the Ritz-Carlton emblem embroidered on it in gold.

  An hour later, she met Wheeler downstairs in the ornate bar. She sipped a cola while he took giant gulps of his double Scotch/rocks. She kicked off her shoes and was trying to figure out what to do when he blurted, "Let's go to Hong Kong."

  "Huh?" she said.

  "If that Hong Kong cop thinks Willy Wo Lap Ling is part of that Triad, and if Vickers thinks Willy's about to run for office, maybe we could find out what's going on. ... I can't believe Wo Lap would run for government without a lot of money on the table. What if we could find out, get a police raid mounted or something?"

  "This isn't half-time at the U. S. C.-U. C. L. A. game. You shoot beer on these guys, they won't just chase you around in short pants."

  "You get that out of the police computer?" he asked, startled that she knew about it.

  "No . . . it's not in the computer."

  "Then how did you know?"

  "I was there, Wheeler. I did my last two years of criminology at Bruintown. I was in the U. C. L. A. rooting section--you sprayed me with beer."

  "It was a great stunt, wasn't it?" he grinned, warmed by the memory.

  "You're a real project," she finally said, then they were both smiling. That incident, which had so defined their differences fifteen years ago, now seemed to bring them together.

  "I loved my brother but I resented him too," Wheeler admitted. "Some part of me is saying, if I could find out what happened to him, if I could solve his murder, then . . . maybe ... I don't know. Maybe it's the first step to things being different for me. I know it doesn't make sense, but. . . that's what I think."

  It was the exact same thought that had been going through Tanisha's mind.

  He looked up at her unexpectedly, and for the first time, they really saw into each other.

  "Look, I'll pay for the trip to Hong Kong," he suddenly said. "You can get your passport overnighted to you here. I've got mine. Let's go ask the Hong Kong cop to help us. Who knows what will come of it? Maybe we'll learn something. Maybe not. Cost you nothing but two days of your life, and you'll get to see one of the most exotic cities in the world."

  She sat there looking at him, wondering why she was drawn to the idea. Why she even gave a damn about Prescott Cassidy or Angela Wong ... or Wheeler, with his Scotch breath and boyish charm. The world she came from was dark and terrifying. Hope was a scarce commodity on her block. Her friends, growing up, had had no future plans. Making it to tomorrow was the ultimate reward. They buzzed in aimless panic like bumblebees caught out after dark, until they crashed in some accidentally tragic way or were jailed for their rage and helplessness. At age thirty-five, she had almost no friends left down in the hood. The girls distrusted her; the boys were either dead or in jail. Worse still, she had failed despite her promise to her dead sister. She had made no contribution to the quality of their lives.

  They said everybody in Black America was one relative away from the penitentiary or a drug collapse. It didn't matter whom you looked at--how high up you went. Dr. Joycelyn Elders had a crack-smoking son. Jesse Jackson's brother was in jail. They were all drawn back to their beginnings, circling the drain, drawn by circumstances or love. Everybody just precious moments from extinction. So why this--why consider this?

  She looked at Wheeler, who sensed her distress and, for once, had the good sense not to speak. He was a black sheep like her.... He had become the same problem for the people in his country club bar that she was in Zandel's beauty shop. Could it be that simple? Or was it because when he looked at her, he seemed to see a woman--not a Black woman? She knew it would be dangerous to believe that. It was that kind of thinking that always ended up coming back and breaking you. But she pondered it anyway and then rejected it. She knew herself better than that.

  Underneath everything else, her demon was survivor's guilt. Her kindergarten class had been social cannon fodder. How could that group of once shining futures be such a rat hole of failed expectations? What she really had was cultural guilt--guilt about moving out of the neighborhood--guilt about buying her clothes in West L. A.--guilt about trying to go someplace else ... be something else. Because deep down in her heart, she hated "Rings" Williams. Hated that sloe-eyed little girl. Deep down, she wanted to be someone else. But she didn't know how.

  Was she looking for redemption or escape?

  "Make the reservations," Tanisha said to Wheeler, then she got up and left the bar to call Verba before she changed her mind.

  "I'm sorry, Captain. I know it's late, but I had a family emergency here in Cleveland. I'll be in on Monday," she lied.

  "Listen, Tanisha, these I. A. guys mean business. They're set to harpoon you. I asked for a look at the file. Ever
ything's a big secret, so they said no, but one guy told me that some Blood G-ster named 'Blue Mandango' said you were transforming on the man."

  So Blue had said she was turning in cases. Forget that Blue wasn't even in her old set, or even around when her neighborhood crew was still Cripping. He was an off-brand buster from the Rolling Sixties gang.

  The Sixties and Tanisha's old friends got into it frequently over adjoining territory. She had dated two Crip ghetto stars while Blue was trying to slam her. Anything Blue said was bullshit. I. A. couldn't be so out of it they'd believe a rival gang member.

  "You hear what I'm saying?" Verba interrupted her thoughts.

  "I understand, Captain."

  "Okay, I'm gonna tell the Shooflies ten o'clock Monday. You be there. Otherwise nobody can give you any cover."

  "Nobody ever has," she said sadly. Then there was an empty sound on the line to L. A. Captain Verba had hung up. She wondered if she was making a horrible mistake.