The Golden Mountain Murders

by David Rotenberg

  Then some of those last words blurred as if a piece of flawed glass had been put in front of them. Fong tilted the pages – and the flawed glass moved and finally dripped over the edge of the sheet.

  Tears do that.

  Fong very slowly reached for his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial key. Then he paused, knowing full well that if he set things into motion neither he nor anyone else would know where they would lead. “Fuck it,” he mumbled and hit speed-dial selection nine. With lightning speed the thing dialed seventeen numbers – three for overseas long distance, three for China’s country code, three for Shanghai’s city code and the eight digits of the local Shanghai phone number that connected him with the two young officers he brought to the late night meeting he had convened just before he left for the Golden Mountain.

  “Wei.”

  “You know who this is?” Fong asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the young cop answered, the tension clear in his voice.

  “Good. Be ready to execute the plan that I gave you before I left.”

  Fong heard the young man take a deep breath and finally he said, “We’ll be ready, sir.”

  The phone disconnected without the usual thunk. Down the beach the old man was still standing on one leg. Momentarily, Fong wondered if the chaos his plan would set in motion in China would make the ground here on Jericho Beach tremble enough to unbalance the old man.

  That night on the sands of Jericho Beach beneath a breathtakingly beautiful Vancouver starscape, Fong dreamt of climbing ladders into the sky. When he reached the top he took off his coat, folded it carefully and laid it on the top rung – then he hurled himself earthward – flying – his arms open ready to embrace his end only to find himself on the bottom rung of the ladder climbing skyward again.

  Once in the night he awoke. His shirt was open and he had the strong feeling that ancient hands had touched his bare chest, their rice-paper dryness tracing the circumference of his heart. He redid the buttons of his shirt and looked up at the heavens. Then he smelt it. Something sweet – like chocolate.

  As Fong dreamt – or believed he dreamt – Robert stared at the massive crimson mess he had just extruded into the toilet bowl. His doctor had told him that it would begin this way. “Will there be much pain?” he’d asked. The doctor had reached into his desk and taken out a bottle of pills and handed them to Robert. “These will help with the pain initially but once things begin in earnest nothing but a strong morphine drip will bring you any relief. But, remember Robert, once you start that you won’t leave it. You won’t remember much. What life you live will be in a haze – you’ll die in that haze as in time the ravages of the cancer will take you.”

  Robert thought about that – about ending his life in a Vancouver hospital bed – about maybe getting a transfusion of Asian blood to keep him alive. That stopped him. He had done many wrong things in his life but he wasn’t about to add Asian blood to his list of sins.

  He unscrewed the lid from the bottle of pills and swallowed three – although the dosage was clearly marked as “One every six hours – do not exceed prescribed dosage.” Then he remembered his doctor’s final warning, “If you take too many of those pills they’ll make you feel like you’re flying – but when you feel like that your vital systems are shutting down and the end will come fast.”

  Robert thought about that, then got dressed and turned to face the dawn.

  * * *

  Across the Pacific Ocean, in a Shanghai basement, four men from Anhui Province were bedding down for the night. Each had stuck a bloody syringe into the body of a Caucasian that day. Each of them was committed – committed to getting their revenge against the West that had infected those they loved.

  CHAPTER NINE

  VANCOUVER DAY TWO

  Fong stood beside the central monument halfway across the Burrard Street Bridge where he had agreed to meet Robert. He was looking west, to the East and thinking of all that he had left there.

  He sensed them before he actually saw them. Then he heard their weirdly happy singing – then they appeared at the Kitsilano side of the bridge – hundreds of young people. Perhaps thousands, all with the same red-striped backpack slung over a shoulder, their faces all alight with smiles.

  Fong found it troublingly reminiscent of the gibbering throngs of children who sang songs in praise of Chairman Mao at the same time as Mao’s policies were sentencing millions of them to death by starvation in the Great Leap Forward.

  Fong almost jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. “So it gives you the creeps too, huh?”

  Fong turned to look at Robert Cowens. “You’re still wearing an overcoat. No one here wears an overcoat.”

  “Evidently no one west of Kenora even owns an overcoat.”

  Fong had no idea where or what a Kenora was but didn’t bother asking for further details. He pointed at the happy singing throngs making their way across the bridge. “What are they?”

  “The Pope’s Romper Room graduates.”

  “I’m sure that means something to someone, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. Could you just answer my question? Why are they all carrying the same backpack and why are they all singing . . . and . . .”

  “Smiling? Yeah, it’s the smiling part that always gets me.”

  “So?”

  “Well, they’re a bunch of happy Catholics – kiddy Catholics actually – but then again religions are always taken most to heart by the very young and the very old – like sweets.”

  Fong looked at Robert. “Are you completely incapable of answering a straight question?”

  Robert smiled. “Try me again.”

  “Who or what are all these teenagers and what are they doing?”

  Robert pretended to think for a moment then said, “They are young Catholics from all over the world who have landed in Vancouver because the Pope told them to show the world the depth of their faith.”

  Fong waited but there was no more information forthcoming. “That’s it?”

  “Yep,” Robert said, “that’s all she wrote.”

  “I heard that young people in the West gathered in large groups in order to get laid.”

  “It used to be that way back in the good old days. Now they gather in large groups to not get laid and to proclaim the beauty of keeping their pants on – and keeping their knees tight together.”

  “You people are perverse when it comes to sex.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  The song ended and there was a moment of blessed quiet, then a new song began. Somehow everyone knew what the next tune was going to be and just launched right in. Thousands of voices singing in sickeningly sweet unison. Many marchers carried guitars. The sun shone. The faces smiled.

  Fong hated it.

  “Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me,” they sang.

  “Who’s Grace?” Fong asked.

  “Grace is a holy state of acceptance, not a person.”

  “But Grace is a person’s name, isn’t it?

  “But not in this case.”

  “Couldn’t this Grace be so amazing that she saved this wretch?”

  “Are you done making fun, Fong?”

  Fong nodded. “Is this a well-known song? Better known than Mr. Waits’s ‘Kentucky Avenue’?”

  “Much better known, although it’s little understood.”

  That interested Fong, “How so?”

  “Well, it was written by an English ship captain who made his considerable fortune by transporting slaves from West Africa to the American South.”

  “Why would their god save such a wretch? That’s obscene.”

  “I agree.” A sudden wave of nausea swept through Robert. He couldn’t tell whether it was the cancer or the smiling throngs that were making his stomach roil.

  And as suddenly as it came, it left. Robert breathed deeply then said, “It’s like a crusade, Fong. In the Third World people struggle to survive. It takes up most of the time of most of the people.
In the West we don’t spend our time on survival. We spend our time on finding meaning . . . or sex.”

  “Which could have some meaning if you weren’t so perverse.”

  “True.”

  “Do you spend your time seeking meaning, Robert?”

  “No, but I’m not– on a certain level I envy them, Fong.”

  Fong didn’t respond. He just looked at the happy vacant faces and wondered if there were enough toilet facilities for so many young people. Then he looked over the edge of the bridge to the parklands beneath and wondered where the security was. Surely things like the Burrard Street Bridge were potential targets. Where were the police officers? Did these people really believe that their silly songs make them immune to the motions of the world?

  The cream cheese squeezed out of the side of the bagel and adhered to Fong’s upper lip.

  “So what do ya’ think?” Robert asked.

  “It’s too much cheese.”

  “Then you should have asked for a shmear.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. Tastes good though, huh?”

  “This red thing is fish, right?”

  “Lox.”

  “Lox fish?”

  “No, the fish is salmon.”

  “So why do you call it lox?”

  Robert thought about that for a bit and even considered telling Fong about gefilte fish which really wasn’t any particular fish at all but decided against it. Instead he said, “Because it’s called lox. Don’t be a pain in the tuchas. So do you like it or not?”

  “It’s good. A bit rich.”

  “Some delis now offer discounts for the local cardiologist with proof of purchase of their blintzes.”

  Discounts and cardiologists Fong knew, but delis, blintzes and proof of purchase remained part of the mystery of the Golden Mountain as far as he was concerned. Fong used his napkin to remove the cream cheese from his lip and said, “The food at this Benjamin’s is very good.”

  “Benny’s. The place is called Benny’s.”

  “Yes, but Benny is a diminutive for Benjamin, isn’t it?”

  Robert nodded, “Yeah, but this place is called Benny’s. If you got into a cab and asked him to drive you to Benjamin’s he’d take you to a funeral parlour, but if you asked him to drive you to Benny’s he’d take you here. Okay?”

  “Fine, very fine, excellent.”

  Robert looked at Fong. “What?”

  Fong pushed aside his plate. “The shipment of spoiled blood should arrive tomorrow. That’s why I told you to leave the rental car at your hotel.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Didn’t you notice that the cop who stopped us about the taillight put a bug on your outside mirror?”

  “No,” Robert almost shouted, “I didn’t happen to notice that.”

  “Relax. We’re safer if they think they know things.”

  “If who knows things?”

  “That’s a good question. Have you succeeded in your part of all this?”

  “Yes, I guess. I let it be known that I represent a large syndicate of investors from the East who want into the blood-trading business. That they are prepared to offer upfront money in return for control of shipping the blood to the East.”

  “Good. And who did you ‘let this be known’ to?”

  “The businessmen I was introduced to through my contact.”

  “And is the business community in Vancouver very large?”

  “Not particularly. So the word should get out quickly.” Robert took another bite of his bagel. “So, just for the record, let me get this straight. You don’t mind them following me, you just don’t want them following you, which is why you hopped out of the rental car yesterday in the middle of Granville Street? Right?”

  “Right. But Robert, why shouldn’t they follow you? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Just false representation is all.”

  “That’s illegal in a business dealing? Really? How interesting.”

  Robert swallowed Fong’s sarcasm with the last of his bagel. Then he waited for his stomach’s reaction –nothing. He got up to get a coffee refill. As Robert moved away, Fong again watched him closely. The man laboured as if his legs were too heavy for him.

  Robert returned with a steaming cup of coffee and took a long sip. “They do this great out here. He took another long pull clearly savouring the flavour and the heat of the beverage. Again his stomach offered no complaint. He glanced at the television set hung in the corner behind the counter. There was a retrospective of TV game shows playing silently on the screen. Robert pointed at it. “Do they have game shows in China, Fong?”

  “Game shows?”

  “On TV. Where people compete against each other for money or prizes.”

  Fong nodded, “Yes, we have American game shows.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Jerry Springer is very popular and my ex-wife watched this game show all the time. She learned much of her English by watching this show.”

  “That’s frightening.”

  “Her English is somewhat short of perfect.”

  “With Jerry Springer as the model it’s amazing that it even passes for English.”

  “Lily’s English is, indeed, quite unique.”

  “Fong, the Jerry Springer show is not a game show.”

  “You are mistaken Robert, on the Jerry Springer show the people compete against each other to outdo each other . . .”

  Robert chuckled and said under his breath, “A twenty-first–century Queen for a Day.”

  “They give out queenships on television in America?”

  Robert shook his head, “Not even Americans do that. But that’s not my point.” For a moment Robert faltered, as if he didn’t know if he should proceed, then he clearly made up his mind and continued, “Of late I’ve found that some moments in my life have begun to stand out. Do you find that? Insignificant moments really but they are indelible – bright, sharp, always in focus while important things fade back into the murk.”

  Fong nodded but didn’t agree. Memories that stay in “focus” are bits of knowledge that shine like diamonds in the dirt. They are to be treasured. Only time tells you exactly what they really mean and why you continue to remember them. His first wife, Fu Tsong, had taught him that. “There are lines from some plays that I worked on years and years ago that are still fresh and alive in me, Fong. While there are lines that I will speak on stage this evening that are already fading into the past.” “Like what?” Fong had asked. Fu Tsong had only smiled and touched his face with the tips of her elegant fingers and said, “Look at the way you are looking at me. I can’t wait for you. You bowl me over. You knock me out. Your eyes kill me.” Her delivery was so natural, so personal to him that Fong wondered momentarily if these were really lines from a play. But when she unbuttoned his shirt and put her palm on his chest he didn’t care where the lines came from. The only thing that mattered was that his amazing wife had said them to him and meant them.

  “Fong?”

  “Yes. So what is it about an American TV game show?”

  “Well, it’s one of those memories. There was this show – this game show – this American game show on television when I was a kid. On this show couples were pitted against each other in various contests – sorting things, tossing balls into bins, figuring out puzzles – things like that. And every time you won a contest you gained five seconds on your clock.”

  “Five seconds on your clock?”

  “Yeah, each couple had a clock and you earned five-second increments by winning contests. The couple who won the most seconds on their clocks got to try a final contest against the clock. If they had earned twenty seconds then they had twenty seconds to solve the problem, if they earned twenty-five, they had twenty-five. At any rate the final challenge had been the same for months and months because no couple could complete it. And if you didn’t complete the final challenge all you got to bring home was a board-game version of the televi
sion show or a can of Coke or something. But if you completed the final challenge you won something significant, a car, a house – something big. Well, no one had won the prize for – well, what seemed like forever. As a kid every week I watched this show to see if some couple could win the final contest.”

  “What was the final contest?” Fong asked.

  “Three wooden boxes each about a foot and a half tall and four inches wide – somewhat shaped like a two-litre milk carton – were set on a table like three small towers. The object was to stack the three towers, one on the next.”

  “This was the contest? Why was that difficult, were the boxes off balance with their bottoms all at different angles?”

  “No. Nothing like that. The cardboard boxes were perfectly flat and completely normal.”

  “Then what was the problem in stacking the three boxes.”

  “The problem was that you weren’t allowed to touch the boxes with your hands. Instead the husband and wife were each given a single piece of wood dowelling about three feet long. Only the wood dowellings were allowed to touch the boxes and you were only allowed to hold the dowelling by one end and only with one hand. Week after week the couples would put one dowelling on each side of a box and try to lift it and place it on top of another box. But every time, the lifted box would tilt and fall over. If you think about it, it would be very hard to keep the pressure exactly equal on either side of the carton – two people, two dowels. When they went to lift the carton the thing would flip over one way or the other. Only one time did a couple manage to get that middle box on top of the first one without knocking it over. The middle box, however, was so badly balanced that there was no possibility of putting the third box on top of the other two.

  “Then one day a small, googly-looking couple won the introductory contests in twenty seconds to fifteen seconds. The host informed the couple that they would have only twenty seconds to complete the final contest to win the car or house or whatever it was. And that twenty seconds was a very little amount of time. When they came back from the commercial break the couple was standing in front of the table with the three carton towers on it. Both husband and wife held their piece of dowelling – and I’ll never forget this – there was a shot of the two of them and they were completely calm, no hopping up and down, no nervous anxiety. The game show host asked if they were ready. The husband looked to the wife who nodded back at him.