The Golden Mountain Murders

by David Rotenberg

  Back at the cab Matthew put away his cell phone and asked, “Do you think we lost them? No one’s come this way?”

  Fong looked up the road. “How much farther north does this road go?”

  “A kilometre or two.”

  Fong shook his head, “Then we haven’t lost them. They know there’s nowhere for us to go up here. Let’s go back. I need to see more.”

  They drove out of the gorge, continued past the entrance to the web of roads that lead to the Lions Gate Bridge and entered West Vancouver, which literally climbed the side of the mountain. “At home rice paddies climb mountains, here it’s rich homes.”

  The young man grunted a yes to that – what else was he to say. He lived there too.

  On one of the upper-level streets Matthew pulled the cab to the side of the road and Fong got out again. The air here was cooler. They were higher up the mountain. The high-rise section of the city was now below them, across the water, to the south. He looked at the manicured gardens and the carefully painted house fronts. A weird word came to mind as he looked at them – “geegaw.” He remembered it as having something to do with gingerbread houses but couldn’t remember exactly what. A few grownups on bicycles, complete with helmets and wearing what Fong assumed were bicycle-riding clothes, passed him. Then a skateboarder took a tight corner behind him and whizzed by. Fong began to trot to keep the boarder in his line of vision. The boy took a second corner at terrific speed then flipped the board over and landed flat on its top and continued down the hill. Flew down the hill. Flying. The boy was flying, Fong thought as he walked back to the cab. When he approached Matthew, he asked, “Are they common?”

  “The skateboarders?”

  “If that’s what they are called.”

  “Yes, there are lots of skateboarders.”

  “Is it just for wealthy people?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I don’t know why,” he said, but it was a lie. Fong never distrusted his instincts. He knew that there was no such thing as coincidence – just meaning forcing itself upon our consciousness. Things that fly were now important to him. “I want to see more of them.”

  Matthew drove across the Lions Gate Bridge and through Stanley Park. Fong marvelled at the open green space and the brightly coloured rollerbladers all going in the same direction. When they passed a police officer on Rollerblades evidently giving a rollerblader a ticket for going in the wrong direction, Fong thought he had fallen asleep and had awakened in some silly dream. He mentioned it.

  Matthew’s retort surprised him, “It makes sense. This is Western Canada, Inspector, not the East. Westerners are pretty practical people. Any law that doesn’t make sense has a tendency to be ignored and quickly removed from the law books. People out here aren’t crazy about government intruding on their lives – except when it makes sense.”

  Fong watched the skaters. So many, and such a narrow path. He nodded – yes it made sense to all go in one direction.

  Matthew drove along the north side of the city centre and swung south again crossing the Burrard Street Bridge. On Sixth he stopped the cab and pointed at a series of stores. “Skateboarders,” he said.

  Fong got out and approached the shops. He was immediately assaulted by the alternative language and nuance of the place. Equipment covered every inch of every wall. The music, if it was music, was shrill and played very loudly. The salespeople – all young, all pierced, all tattooed – were a bit suspicious of a middle-aged Chinese man in their midst. One salesperson flicked back the long hair from his face and approached Fong. “Are you looking for something particular, sir?”

  Fong thought about that – he certainly was. “Is it hard to do this skateboarding?”

  The clerk laughed a clear unapologetic guffaw, “I wouldn’t suggest it for someone of your age.”

  “That isn’t what I asked. Is it hard to do this skateboarding?”

  A little put off by the harshness of Fong’s response, the clerk took a beat before he spoke, “At first it’s very hard to even stand on it. Then it gets easier for a bit. But to get any sort of real proficiency – to be good at it – is extremely hard and takes real practice and dedication.”

  Fong was pleased with the answer and a bit surprised that the long-haired salesperson was so well spoken, “Does it have a big following?”

  “Do you mean do lots of people skateboard?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “Lots of young people – no one your age – that I know of.”

  “Is there a place where they do this?”

  “Well, there are a few skateboard parks.” He gave Fong directions.

  The skateboard park was a revelation to Fong. A marvel of poured concrete ramps and metal rails and boys on boards – seemingly attached to boards and wheels – no, of boards and wheels – and glory. Fong watched in amazement as they whizzed past him, then up ramps and flipping and turning, baggy pants, hats backwards – and smiles, understanding that they were as alive as they would ever be in their lives – that they were flying.

  And somehow they took Fong with them. He was there as over and over the boys flew, committing sins against both gravity and self-preservation on their boards. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, slides on a metal rail then flips the board and takes a moulded curve with grace – like the wind slewing down a mountain valley. A lanky older boy nose slides a board down, over and around a hill with the ease of a cat’s tail rubbing a pant leg. A bare-chested boy leaps a metal rail and lands on his moving board with no more concern than a man opening a door for a lady. A rollerblader draws the ire of several skateboarders – this flying is for boarders, not skaters. Over and over again a young teen in a brown T-shirt lands his skateboard on a raised, bent metal pipe, stays there then flips himself and his board back to the pavement. Fong assumed there were names for all the apparatus and the manoeuvres, but they didn’t concern him. The names were just an attempt to make rational the flying. A heavy Pakistani boy’s skinny father yells, “Done yet!” “No,” the boy says and the vastly more slender and more talented white boys around him applaud his pluck. A teenage girl, the only female present, brings a new elegance to the moves – a real sexiness. A teenager – a Rasta-curled black youth flips his board over the iron rail and lands on it smoothly with both feet. The board never varies its speed, the boy’s head stays perfectly level – eyes and mouth wide open – swallowing large gulps of the air – in flight – and tasting God.

  Fong pulled himself away from the vision before him. He got up and noticed a jean-clad man in his mid-thirties sitting across the way, who seemed as entranced by the boarders as he had been. He thought of smiling at the man, then decided against it and headed back to the cab.

  They drove in silence back across the Granville Street Bridge and into the city centre. They turned west up Robson and Fong hopped out again. The street was filled with tourists. Lots of Japanese. And coffee shops. One intersection actually had three corners with coffee shops selling the same brand of expensive coffee. Fong spotted the followers who were now on foot. He stopped in front of the large plateglass window of a store that evidently sold shoes for running.

  Deep in the reflection of the window Fong caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of almost black eyes staring at him. He whirled around. Was it a face from the plane from Shanghai? He forced his mind to track back. He felt sweat accumulate between his shoulder blades. Slowly he walked towards the entrance of the store, making himself try to remember the faces on the plane. Then something else caught his eye.

  One of the running shoes in the window was tilted up off its plastic podium. The light from beneath it caused the bottom to reflect off the shiny metallic backdrop. Fong’s mouth dropped open and rage filled him as he crashed into the store.

  The teenager trying on a pair of shoes was surprised – no amazed – when Fong reached down and pulled the new sneaker from his foot. He was just sitting there trying to find a new pair of kicks and this wiry Chinese dude reach
es over and snatches the kick off his foot – what the fuck!

  Fong flipped the shoe over and there on the bottom was a prison ID mark he’d never forget. “Hey!”

  “Shut up.” Fong whirled on the paunchy store manager who was moving quickly towards him.

  “Is there a problem here, sir?”

  Fong was amazed that this piece of blubber thought he was powerful. “How much does your store charge for these shoes?”

  Every eye in the store turned to Fong.

  “Hey man, give me back my fuckin’ . . .”

  “Sir, I’ve already called security . . .”

  “I really don’t care if you called your prime minister with the funny name.”

  That stopped everyone – which prime minister with the funny name – except for John Turner they’d all had funny names as far as the clientele of this store was concerned. “Tell me how much and I’ll leave this store.”

  “The price tag’s right on it, sir. A hundred and twenty-nine dollars and fifty-nine cents.”

  Fong flipped the shoe back to the boy, who caught it and bent forward to slip it onto his foot. Fong put his foot on the boy’s back and pressed hard. Then he addressed the whole store. “These shoes were made in a Chinese prison by prisoners, often political prisoners, who make no money whatsoever to manufacture them. This is the product of slave labour. Your store, sir, makes money off slave labour. And the purchases you people make support slave labour. Think about that.”

  And to Fong’s surprise the good shoppers of Vancouver not only listened to him but they also heard and began to put the shoes aside and head towards the door.

  The boy shoved Fong’s foot from his back and stood. The boy was more a man than a boy – he towered over Fong. “Tough luck, fella. These are solid kicks. So fuck you very much for the info.”

  As the boy turned and headed to the front desk to pay for his shoes, Fong was tempted to run after him and tell him that he had been in that prison for almost three years. That he had made shoes for this same company. That his imprimatur was only one digit different from that of the prisoner who had made the boys shoes: 99chi11203 had been his prison number. The boy’s shoe had been made by 97chi11203 – the man had been incarcerated two years earlier than Fong – and he was probably still there. Still in Ti Lan Chou Prison, just up the Yangtze from Shanghai – the world’s largest political prison and supplier of running shoes for rich kids in the West. Then he remembered the black eyes he’d seen reflected in the window of the shop and he felt as if his heart had stopped.

  Back on the street, the cab moved quickly to pick him up. Fong was breathing heavily.

  “What happened in there?” Matthew demanded.

  “We need to use your escape plan – and quickly. Do you have a backup?”

  “Yes, you asked us to . . .”

  “Good. Then we use both. I don’t think I’m just scaring myself. I think someone other than the police is following me.”

  Matthew hit the accelerator and the car roared forward. They headed momentarily west then took a hard right. Instantly they were in a residential neighbourhood. Fong had never seen such a drastic change in an urban landscape happen so quickly. The streets became one-way. The cab zigzagged its way north, then crossed a major street and careened to a halt in front of a small restaurant. “This is it?” Fong asked.

  “They’re friends and ready for you. Go in. Order. Take the insults and follow their directions.”

  “Take the what?”

  “Go!” Matthew yelled as he revved the cab.

  Fong hopped out and entered the small, crowded restaurant. Before he could do or say anything, a tall flowery headwaiter yelled at him in a voice that could cut cheese at forty paces, “You need a written invitation, jeez, take a seat.” So Fong did.

  The draperies in the place were closed. Not a beam of natural light entered. One of the waiters noticed Fong taking note of that and called out, “Twilight is for lovers and it’s always twilight here.” Fong blushed. All the waiters swished. All the waiters wore pants that were too tight. All the waiters insulted him – and everyone else in the small place. Then suddenly the lights went out.

  Fong felt a hand, a strong hand, grab his arm and pull him towards the back of the restaurant. In a brief moment they were through the kitchen and out the back door. A small sedan waited for them. The restaurant’s headwaiter was behind the wheel. As soon as Fong was inside, the man hit the accelerator and the small car skidded into a turn that took them eastward.

  “You okay?” the waiter asked.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “No. Thanks to you. We’re all rooting for you, Inspector Zhong. The entire gay community is behind you on this one.”

  “Good,” Fong said, since he didn’t have any idea what else to say. “Where to?”

  “My instructions were to bring you to Pender Street and they’re going to set you free there.”

  Fong sat back and tried to collect his thoughts. They were going to use the backup scenario he had requested in case of emergencies. “Already an emergency,” he thought, “and I was just getting the lay of the land.”

  Pender Street in Vancouver’s East Side was a revelation to Fong. Opium was the drug of choice in Shanghai, but here on these dark blocks it was heroin that left its indelible marks on the citizenry. Vacant eyes and open mouths followed his progress down the dank concourse. There were sudden erratic movements in the alleyways. Fong had seen and been in many complicated places but this place – this open sore – spooked him in a way that no other had.

  In a shadowed doorway a young addict slaps at the veins in his arm trying to get something to rise to offer passage for his already blood-tipped needle. Behind the man Fong saw the outline of a middleaged female addict on her knees making the money needed for her next fix.

  This is a place of howls, he thought.

  Of open maws.

  Fong instinctively reached to his breast pocket in search of his pack of Kent cigarettes – but he had not smoked since he ended the life of the assassin Loa Wei Fen in the deep construction pit in the heart of the Pudong almost nine years ago.

  A bag of filthy clothes encasing a man approached Fong, “Got a light, ol’ Chinky?”

  Fong recognized the insult but let it pass and went to step past the rag man.

  “Turn left at the next corner,” said the alcoholladen breath. “There’s a car there waiting for you. Get in when it flashes its lights.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  “Don’t. You be careful now, ol’ Chinky, another dead Chinaman don’t mean nothin’ to these bastards. On that you can trust me.” Then he spoke louder, “You got a ten-dollar bill for little me? All you Chinks are stinking rich.” Suddenly he was shouting. “You don’t own this country yet, you fuckin’ wog.”

  Fong almost stumbled under the verbal assault, it was so sudden. Then he glanced across the street. A window curtain was still swaying – as if it had been held aside then suddenly let back to its original position. The rag man turned as the door across the way flew open.

  Fong raced to the corner, saw the lights flash and ran to the car.

  Fong was shown a basement door. He pushed it open and was immediately met by two young, clearly gay, Chinese men. They ushered him quickly down a narrow corridor, through a large Chinese kitchen and into a small partitioned-off section of a vast dim sum parlour. When he entered, the two Dalong Fada men, the restaurant headwaiter and six expensively dressed Chinese men stood. There was tea on the table and Fong helped himself.

  Matthew came in and closed the door behind him. “You know most of these people, Inspector Zhong.”

  “True, all but the six thugs dressed like Pudong pimps,” Fong said, not looking up from his tea.

  One of the men stepped forward. The others fell in behind him. “We are not in the Middle Kingdom here.”

  Fong still concerned himself more with the tea than the man. “Yes, but a Tong leader is a Tong leader wherever he happens to be.”
Fong rose to face the man.

  Matthew stepped between the two. Turning to Fong he said, “None of this could be made to happen without their help.”

  “And what do they want in exchange for their ‘help’?”

  “Nothing,” the Tong leader said.

  “And why would that be?” Fong demanded.

  “Because my family comes from Anhui Province.”

  Fong sat and drank the rest of his tea.

  “Are we done with the nonsense?” the Tong leader demanded.

  Fong looked at his “troops.” “Where’s the rag man from Pender Street?”

  “He’s supposed to be here,” said Matthew. “He’s late.”

  Fong felt an old shiver of fear work its way up his spine. “Find him. Okay, what else do we have?”

  Quickly, notebooks were opened and copies of computer documents were handed around. Fong read his quickly.

  “So you have people placed with the Chiangs?”

  “A driver, a cook, the granddaughter’s personal trainer, and all their phones are tapped.”

  “And their cell phones?”

  The Tong leader smiled and said, “It’s easy to eavesdrop on cell phones, just tell us when you want us to start.”

  “Might as well start now. But in two days when the ship arrives with their spoiled blood they will begin to scurry – and to make their phone calls. We have to know who they call. Understood?”

  Nods all round.

  “What about the International Exchange Institute’s Vancouver legal counsel? Have you found them yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.”

  “We’re out of leads on that. Surely you folks have more access over there than we do,” the Dalong Fada leader said.