“So you think . . .”
“Embarrassment could work, Fong. In Montana or Texas or Alberta – no – but here, it’s worth a shot . . . as long as you have a good hook.”
“Hook?”
“The newspapers and television will need a personal angle on the blood story to get them interested. Articles in the press are a good beginning in shaming people.”
“So I would need something personal about the blood importer?”
“Better if it’s something about a blood victim. Something personal. Name and shame the money man with the name and story of the victim. Then we’ve got a chance.”
“That sounds straightforward.”
“Straightforward and difficult.”
“Find the money man; find a victim’s story and get it published.”
“That sounds easy to you?”
“No. But even the longest journey begins with a single step.”
“Yeah, Fong, and life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
“Who said that?”
“The same guy who said even the longest journey begins with a single step – John Lennon.”
“Really? John Lennon quoted Chairman Mao.” Fong smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
Robert slid a CD out of its jewel case and into the player on the dashboard. He hit play and the whiskysoaked tones of Tom Waits filled the car. “Is he trying to sing?” Fong asked.
“He’s singing, Fong.”
“Is he in pain?”
“Most probably. This song is ‘Kentucky Avenue.’ Open your ears and you’ll learn something.”
And Fong did – and he did. On the other side of the scratchy voice were lyrics in stark contradiction to the melody. The song told the story of a boy breaking into a hospital to see his quadriplegic friend in the middle of the night and the friend’s request to be wheeled on his gurney bed out into the hall and launched through the plate-glass window – “slide down the drain pipe all the way to New Orleans in the fall.”
Robert sang the final lyrics with Mr. Waits then hit the repeat button and “Kentucky Avenue’s” agony once again filled the car.
“And this is a popular song?” Fong asked.
“It is with me. It didn’t used to be, but it’s a fave of mine now. I heard it maybe twice in the last three decades but it stayed with me. So when I saw it in the Toronto airport I couldn’t resist. You know Fong, despite the fact I haven’t heard it for years, I know every word of this – every word. Isn’t that odd?”
Fong was going to reply that it didn’t strike him as odd that at certain moments of our lives pieces of art fall into place – begin to make sense – but before he could speak, a cop swung his motorcycle out in front of them, its siren blaring, and signalled them to pull over to the curb. The smile changed on Fong’s face – still a smile, but different. “Were you speeding, Robert?”
“Not unless everyone else on this street was.”
“Is it common in your country to be detained by a police officer for no reason. It seems somewhat dictatorial. Now, where exactly are your human rights in a situation like this?”
“Are you done being a smart ass, Fong?”
“No, I’m actually enjoying this.”
“Don’t. If the cops in this town know about our little mission then everything, but everything, will get complicated.”
It turned out that the rental car had a broken taillight. The police officer, a young man with mirrored sunglasses, kept looking across Robert to Fong – as if he were checking something – perhaps a likeness.
Fong looked too. He looked at the two small holes on the breast pocket of the officer’s shirt – holes that were left after the man had removed his name tag.
“Is there anything else, Officer?” Robert asked as he put his driver’s licence back into his wallet.
“No. But I need you to get that light looked after.”
“I’ll call the rental company right away and give them holy hell.”
This was clearly intended as a joke on Robert’s part, but the young cop didn’t take it that way. The police officer lifted his sunglasses to reveal the lightest pair of blue eyes that Fong had ever seen. “There is nothing holy in hell, sir.”
Fong saw the vein on Robert’s forehead suddenly pulse. He leaned across Robert seemingly to speak to the police officer but in fact to watch the blue-eyed cop’s right hand that rested casually on the rental car’s side-view mirror. “No offence was intended, Officer,” Fong said.
“Is that so?” The officer’s voice was frosty.
“It is, Officer.”
“And what is your name, sir?”
Fong was tempted to ask the officer for his badge number but after looking more closely into the hatred in those watery blue eyes thought better of it. “Zhong Fong.”
“And are you a Canadian citizen, sir?”
“No. I am here . . .”
“. . . you have no right to question him about that,” Robert said. “You have no just cause. He has done nothing wrong. I was driving. I rented the car with the broken taillight, not him. Customs and Immigration Canada both cleared his entrance to our country. He does not have to answer your questions or present any form of identification to you, Officer.”
“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Cowens?” He emphasized the “cow” part of the name.
“Yes, but that has nothing . . .”
Before Robert could complete his statement the officer flipped down his sunglasses, returned to his motorcycle and zoomed away. Fong was not sorry to be done with those watery blue eyes, but he was surprised to see how rattled Robert was. At first Fong assumed that Robert was angry because the police officer planted a tiny metallic bug behind the driver’s side outside mirror of the rental car, then he realized that Robert had not noticed. Fong wasn’t upset by this, in fact he thought of it as a potential weapon – a way to lead the trackers rather than be followed by them.
“Can I . . .”
“Drive? No. You don’t have a driver’s licence, Fong, and even if you did, I didn’t put you on the rental agreement. So even if I wanted you to drive, which I don’t – you can’t.”
“I don’t want to drive, Robert.”
“Good.”
“Ah . . .” Fong said, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he was “ahing” about.
“Where to, Fong?”
“Let me out here. Go to your hotel and arrange to meet your contact – the good one. While you’re at it, at least get in touch with the oddball. Who knows when we might need his oddness. Let’s at least gather together the weapons we have. Contact me tomorrow and we’ll compare notes. We have at least forty-eight hours before anything really happens.”
“Why’s that?”
“The blood shipment isn’t due to arrive in port for at least two more days.” He didn’t bother mentioning the other “little surprises” he’d put in place in Shanghai before he left.
“And what are you going to do til then, Fong?”
“Understand Vancouver.”
“How do you plan to understand Vancouver in two days, Fong?”
“By walking and talking and following my instincts. Places have essences, Robert, that are not that difficult to sense when you are an outsider. Foreigners can often tell me things about Shanghai that I didn’t know, despite the fact that I’ve lived there my whole life. Outsider’s eyes are not tainted by preconception.”
“Fair enough. How do I get hold of you?”
“You have my cell-phone number.”
“It’s a Chinese local number, Fong.”
“You can afford the long-distance charges, Robert. Go to your hotel, meet your old teacher and see who he can introduce you to who might introduce you to someone who might introduce you to someone, etc., etc.”
“Very funny, Fong. Where will you be?”
“It’s better that you don’t know that, Robert. Call me to tell me where to meet. We’ll have dinner together tomorrow.”
Fong got out of the car and Robert pulled away from the curb. Fong noted the broken taillight. The splay lines of the glass suggested it had been hit with a hammer. Hardly an accident. So they were ready for them even before they landed in Vancouver. Fine. He was ready too.
He put his hand up to hail the cab coming up the road and got in. “Where to, boss?” asked the cabbie – who just happened to be the angry young man who had been with his father and grandfather in Fong’s hotel room in Calgary.
“It’s your town – you pick.”
“Are your people in place?” Fong asked.
“The timeline you gave me was tight but, yes, we managed it,” replied the young man as he swung the cab out into traffic.
“And your father doesn’t know?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Stop the cab and let me out,” Fong demanded.
The young man continued to drive. He swung the cab west and headed parallel to the city centre which could now be clearly seen out of the right side of the cab. Finally the young man spoke, “No, my father doesn’t know, Inspector. But are you sure about him?”
“I’m sorry but, yes, I’m sure that your father is at least peripherally involved in this. He sits on the board of an investment company that has heavy stock positions in the International Exchange Institute’s holding company.” It had taken Kenneth Lo a long time to explain this idea to him. “Now answer my question.”
“Yes. I mean my father doesn’t know. He thinks we are out gathering information to bring to the Chinese government for them to use as leverage to get the Canadian government to apologize.”
Fong studied the young man’s face in the rearview mirror. Finally he said, “Why are you doing this. . . I’m sorry, but I don’t know your given name?”
“Matthew. Middle name Mark. My mother wanted to cover as many apostles as possible.”
Although Lily had already answered Fong’s question, Fong was anxious for Matthew Mark to answer it. “Well, Matthew Mark, why are you helping me with this?”
“As a gay man I have seen what AIDS can do.” He took a deep breath then added, “Up close. We all have.”
So that’s who his people are, Fong thought. It answered a host of Fong’s other questions. “I did not mean to invade into your privacy.”
Matthew pointed to his right. “Down there is Kitsilano – once all hippies, now upscale condos, most of which leak every time it rains, and it rains a lot. The street we’re on leads out to the university lands at the end of Point Grey.”
“The university has one of the postal codes I sent you, right?”
“Yes. The other postal code is for Vancouver’s largest hospital.”
Fong thought about that as he watched the foot traffic on West Fourth. Young people and baby carriages – fruit stands and open bars – and space – everywhere excess space. “Drive me to the university.”
The traffic thinned as they drove along and then swung north on Macdonald and travelled along the south bank of the harbour estuary. After passing through a forested area, they finally approached the university lands.
Several young people gathered at the side of the road and then disappeared in single file down a path in the woods. They all held bath towels, but none wore bathing suits and none carried bathing suits.
“What’s down there?”
“First an open area called the meadows, then Wreck Beach. It has the only warm water in the entire area and, oh yeah, it’s a nude beach.” The young man was smiling, clearly interested to see Fong’s response to that.
For some reason the thought, Robert would like this, popped into his head. He filed it away.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to get any noticeable response from Fong, Matthew said, “The university lands begin in earnest farther up the road.”
Fong was not prepared for the wealth and privilege – students, many Chinese, lounging in expensive clothing enjoying the sun. The place had a museum of its own and, according to the signs, a golf course. Finally he said, “Are there scientific labs on campus?”
“To the right behind this large building.”
“And is there a medical school?”
“It’s part of the science faculty. It’s very exclusive and expensive.”
Fong nodded, thinking, No kidding. The buildings themselves screamed expensive and exclusive – as no doubt was their intention. For a second Fong thought of Robert in his overcoat out here – the picture didn’t sit easily.
The young man handed him a map of the campus. Fong took it and noted the buildings that the young man had pointed out. “Okay, take me into town. Is this place always like this?”
“The university?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a bit sterile, I agree.”
“The Chinese kids look English.”
“American actually. If you think that’s bad, you should see the South Asians – Indian Indians as they’re sometimes called out here.”
Fong nodded as the young man swung the cab in a wide U-turn.
They travelled through the wealth of the British Properties, Shaughnessy and Kerrisdale, then out towards the other major university in Burnaby. The wealth quickly backed off and was replaced by an almost surly poverty. Fong recognized what was now common in China after the “economic miracle”: the anger of exclusion.
The car took the steep inclines up to Simon Fraser University without any strain. Fong looked at the young man who simply smiled, “It looks like a cab but there’s real guts in this thing. I have a friend who’s a mechanic; he thought we might need the extra power.”
Fong nodded and sat back. The university appeared all at once as the cab took a long steep curve. It sat atop a smallish mountain. The columns and porticos gave it a mildly Mussolini/Aztec fascist look. Fong found it bleak.
Matthew circled the campus and pulled into a dirt lot. Immediately, a well-dressed Han Chinese male and a Chinese man who was as wide as he was tall, clearly the muscle, climbed in back with Fong. Without prompting, Fong held up his hands and the muscle frisked him. He almost laughed when the man announced, “He’s not carrying.” Would these guys be able to speak if it wasn’t for John Woo?
Matthew swung the cab onto the campus’s perimeter road and drove the speed limit. Fong looked at the new passengers. Dalong Fada, the pseudo-religious political party, was outlawed in China. But it was very strong in Vancouver and had been enlisted by Matthew to back up his people. The Dalong Fada members had insisted on meeting Fong – first, because he was a powerful Mainland Chinese cop, and second, because they were aware of his connection with Joan Shui, who had at one time been a Dalong Fada operative.
Fong turned to the well-dressed Dalong Fada leader and said, “I appreciate any help I can get in this matter, but what does Dalong Fada have to gain by assisting me?”
“We repay our debts.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“True. Our debt is to your lover, Joan Shui.”
Fong didn’t know what to do with that bit of information so he forged into the upcoming plans. The Dalong Fada leader listened closely and added a few suggestions then ended their conversation quickly and slid out of the car just before Matthew finished their second loop around the campus. Fong stuck out his hand, “Thanks.”
The Dalong Fada leader didn’t take his hand. He leaned into the car and said, “Don’t underestimate your enemies. I don’t underestimate mine.” Then he added, “By the by, you’re being followed.”
Fong had known that for some time, but Matthew was shocked. “They’re good, that’s why you didn’t see them,” Fong said. “It looks like a four-car surveillance – two off-white Fords, a blue Subaru Outback and a black Passat.”
“What should I do?”
“Just drive. We’re not going anywhere secret, just touring this fine city.”
Fong glanced in the rear-view mirror. The Subaru pulled over and made a left as the black Passat pulled out ahead of them and seemingly sped away. Matthew turned
around to face Fong. “The road’s in front of you, not behind. Is your restaurant ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then just drive.”
Taking the Second Narrows Bridge, they travelled through the upscale suburbs of North Vancouver. They took the Capilano Road exit and headed north up a deep gorge. “What’s up this way?” Fong asked.
“The Capilano suspension bridge. It’s a big tourist thing.”
“I’m not a tourist, Matthew.”
“I know that. But I wanted to show you what Canada looks like racially. Everywhere in the city we drive you’ll think that this is a big multiracial city. Lots of Asians. But in the tourist spots it’s old Canada – white, white, white.”
To Matthew’s surprise Fong ordered him to stop the car and he got out. “Stay here,” Fong said and began to walk up the steep incline. Such Zhong Fong “walks” had become legendary in the offices of Special Investigations, Shanghai District. No one ever accompanied him and he often returned with unusual insights.
He headed back through the woods. Quickly he was surrounded by astounding trees that soared straight up seemingly a hundred metres into the sky. There were indeed tourists here, and in fact they were all Caucasians. Farther on, he paid the fee and entered the park. He stepped past the tourist shop, with its wide and active picnic area, and once again headed into what he learned from a pamphlet were Douglas Fir woods. A few kilometres farther he saw a more private camping spot where a few brave picnickers had brought their lunch this far up the gorge. Not much farther was a fish-hatchery complex and beyond that the famous Capilano suspension bridge that was built in the late 1890s by early settlers, with the help of local natives.
Fong found the suspension bridge, with the river thundering over boulders beneath it, more than a little treacherous. A bit of rain and getting across would be a real challenge. The boards of the bridge were bolted into place but still seemed flimsy. And the thing constantly swayed! At the very centre of the bridge he leaned over and spotted a six-stone figure on the riverbank below. Each stone was balanced atop other stones and formed a semblance of a human shape – more importantly, each captured some sense of human movement itself. He looked back and started his return. Every time he approached an oncoming tourist, one of them would have to turn sideways to let the other pass. The word “defensible” popped into his head.
The Golden Mountain Murders Page 9
