by Barry Lancet
“Looks like you’ve been stood up, Brodie.”
The young hostess’s ears perked up. “Are you Mr. Jim Brodie?”
I looked into a pair of questioning pale-blue eyes. “Yes.”
“We have a reservation for you and your friend.”
“Do you, now.”
“Yes,” she said with a hesitant glance at Renna. “For both of you. At the bar. Right this way.”
At the word both Renna’s brow clouded over in a threatening manner and the tentative smile that had worked its way across the hostess’s features lost its purchase.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I promise to keep him on a leash.”
With a weak smile, she led us to the last two open spots. The restaurant was bathed in warm wood tones and golden-orange lighting. We hoisted ourselves onto high barstools with low backs. Some of the guests at the bar sipped pre-dinner drinks and others partook of full-course meals. Two black place mats with folded black linen napkins had been laid out for our arrival, along with what looked like double shots of whisky straight up.
“ ‘Both,’ ” my SFPD friend muttered. “That shadow-hopping sleazebag’s going into lock-up as soon as I catch him.”
“In his own irritating way, Zhou’s always been hospitable.”
Renna’s eyes turned flinty. “A rattlesnake with manners. So what?”
A valid stance from someone who knew the full story, which Renna did. Before Hiroshi “Tommy-gun” Tomita, a tenacious journalist friend in Tokyo, had introduced me to the upper-echelon Chinese operative at my request, he set out a chilling warning I remember to this day:
“With this guy you’ll be stepping into an alternate universe.”
“Don’t go melodramatic on me, Tommy.”
The newshound put his hands on the table and stared at them for an extended moment. “We’ve known each other for a long time, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to keep it that way. You’re absolutely sure you have to talk to a Chinese spy?”
“It’s vital.”
“Okay, then I need your word on two things. First, no matter what happens, next time I call, you’ll be ready for anything.”
“What does that mean?”
“You see? You’ve got the wrong attitude. Can you be ready or not?”
“I’ll be ready,” I said. “And the second thing?”
“No matter what happens, we stay friends. I am your friend and you say you need this, but my advice would be to back down unless it’s do-or-die mandatory. Is it?”
It had been.
“Like I said,” I told Renna now, “Zhou’s paranoid, and he’s a survivor. Which makes him skittish. He tests you. He plays mind games. Nasty ones sometimes. You don’t make it into a trusted position in the Chinese regime otherwise.”
Frowning, Renna eyed the drinks unhappily. “Guy like this, better he’s in your debt than the other way around.”
“Wish it were so.”
“He know you like whisky?”
I thought back to our first encounter in Tokyo. The evening had started with a stunning saké from a Kyoto brewery and ended, memorably, with two pints of beer I was required to finish before leaving the restaurant. They had been Zhou’s idea of a time clock so he could retreat unhampered by any attempt I might make to follow. Failure to finish the brews would get me shot by his sniper on the roof across the street. Plenty of alcohol had laced the evening’s events, but not one ounce of whisky.
“He didn’t get it from me,” I said.
We both stared down at the amber liquid before us with renewed suspicion.
Renna’s frown deepened. “I really don’t like this guy. You want to do the honors or should I?”
“This is going to get embarrassing.”
“Got to be done.”
The bartender came over. “Welcome, gentlemen.”
“I see you anticipated our arrival,” I said, casting a significant look at the drinks.
“Mr. Zhou called ahead with the order and said you’d appreciate having your drinks at the ready.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” I said, glancing at the man’s name tag. “Did you lay out the drinks yourself, Kevin?”
“Yes, sir.”
I nodded agreeably. “What am I looking at?”
“Hibiki, a twenty-one-year-old blended whisky from Japan. It has an oak and fruity nose, with dark cherry, caramel, and light spices on the palate.”
“Hard to resist.”
“A popular one, sir, because of all the awards. And scarce now.”
“Kevin, would you mind bringing me three clean glasses?”
A worried pair of eyes dropped to the two place settings. “Is something wrong, sir?”
Napkins and place mats were perfectly aligned. The crystal tumblers of Hibiki were spotless.
“Not a thing. I’ll explain in a minute.”
Relieved, the bartender was back in thirty seconds with a trio of new glasses. I distributed the two drinks equally among the three fresh tumblers.
“I don’t wish to impose on Mr. Zhou any further,” I said, “but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to join us. In place of our host.”
I nodded toward the fresh pours.
“That really isn’t necessary, sir.”
“I insist.”
I handed him a tumbler, we all raised our drinks, and I said, “Best of health.”
The three of us touched glasses and drank. Or rather Kevin drank and Renna and I faked it.
Kevin gave us a smile of satisfaction. “Thank you, sirs. It is a rare day I can sample a Hibiki of any vintage. I’m most appreciative.”
“As are we,” I said.
Catching a gesture at the end of the bar, Kevin excused himself with reluctance.
“You feel as bad about that as I do?” I asked.
Renna shrugged. “Day in the life for me. A snake’s a snake.”
Renna squinted at the bartender, and we both watched Kevin for several long minutes before Renna said, “Guess the drink’s safe. He’s still standing.”
“So we’re in the clear unless there was something on the glasses?”
Renna shook off the idea. “Too tricky in a place like this.”
“Good. Hate to waste a good whisky.”
We touched rims a second time and swallowed in earnest. I’d had the twelve- and seventeen-year-old Hibiki but not this one. Suntory’s star blend was smooth, subtle, and silky. Everything Kevin mentioned and more passed over my palate. I had no complaints.
Renna sighed. “The bastard knows his whisky but that doesn’t buy him a pass. Give me Zhou’s full name and I’ll run him through the system.”
“Can’t,” I said, thinking back to my first meeting with the Chinese diplomat-cum-spy.
“You have a name?” I’d asked the stranger who had claimed the seat across from me.
“Ten of them. Take your pick.”
“Any of them real?”
“As real as anything else in this world. How does ‘Zhou’ sound?”
A spy and a philosopher. Tommy could pick them.
Settling down his drink, Renna’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“Zhou is not his real name.”
“Got a photo?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“This is new territory for me, Brodie. Exactly what the hell are we dealing with?”
“You sure you want to know?”
Renna’s eyes burrowed into mine. “What kind of question is that?”
“More than one person I know has come to regret what I’m about to tell you, if you give the go-ahead.”
CHAPTER 17
RENNA leaned back in his stool. The low backrest strained under the pressure of the police lieutenant’s overpowering frame. His expression darkened.
We’d been through a lot together. The Japantown incident for starters, in which Renna had nearly died from an exotic poison in an unimaginable way. So he took any warning out of my mouth s
eriously. But he also had two decades of police enforcement under his belt, so there was pride and a justifiable self-confidence.
“You think you need to pamper me?” he said.
“Been trying to spare you.”
“You mean news worse than Mikey and the Tanaka woman getting axed?”
“Yeah.”
Renna scowled. “Least you waited until Miriam wasn’t around. Let’s hear it.”
I took another sip of the Hibiki. “Zhou’s gone to China Rules.”
Renna ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, that doesn’t sound good, whatever it is.”
“It’s as bad as it gets.”
“I need more.”
“China Rules can be boiled down to a single axiom: ‘If you want to live a long life, trust no one or no thing. Not Party, country, friend, or sky.’ ”
“I’m going to need a translation. Start with the ‘sky’ bit.”
“In China, the sky can fall without warning. Attacks can come from unexpected directions. You hit a trip wire and spoil some VIP’s moneymaking scheme, it falls. In going about your job as usual, if you unknowingly become an obstacle to the ambitions of a powerful businessman, politician, or influential Party member, it falls. Someone in your clique butts heads with a stronger clique and loses, it falls. Or, worst of all, someone within your own circle sells you out. If any of those happen, you end up in a dark cell. Possibly in a place off the books where your relatives or associates or your lawyer will never find you.”
“How does that relate to the snake?”
“Zhou’s steeped in the paranoia of his trade. On top of that, he has all the headaches of climbing the Party ladder at home, where deception and treachery is a way of life, especially with runaway corruption. Guanxi, the traditional mutual system of support, is crumbling in places.”
“How so?”
I filled Renna in with short, bold strokes. For centuries the Chinese have relied on guanxi—circles of personal influence among relatives, friends, and business associates. These are carefully nurtured relationships built over time with a balanced give-and-take on both sides to establish trust and loyalty. These networks of contacts act as both springboard and safety net.
Chinese society has been rife with turmoil and uncertainty for hundreds of years. From the early feudal dynasties to the rise of the communists and Mao to today, there have been never-ending waves of warring factions, revolving-door politics, and new regimes that have left the everyman with nowhere to turn, so guanxi circles sprung up. Prudently established bonds allowed people to find others of like mind they could depend on. Those who survived and thrived developed an “extended guanxi family.”
The arrow, sword, and musket of the warring years of old have been supplanted by today’s battles on the political and business fronts. Corruption influences minds and destinies. The weapons are different but the danger is larger than ever.
“So why is guanxi losing ground?”
“In a word, money. Greed. The new affluence. Loyalty has become a commodity. It can be bought and sold. New money is breaking the old bonds. Not always, but enough of the time. And the large supply of cash is shifting alliances more swiftly than ever before.”
“Okay, I get that. But how does that play out in my backyard? We’re on the other side of the Pacific, for Christ’s sake.”
“Chinese money is spreading its influence around the world. Zhou is going to presume it has reached the States and bought some influence in some spheres—until he can see it hasn’t. Which is on a case-by-case basis, by the way.”
“And today you’re the ‘case’?”
“Yep.”
Renna paused, marbles rolling. “So it’s like he’s standing on a solid patch of ground in the middle of a quicksand swamp and looking for the next safe place to step?”
“Yeah, just like that. He’s got to test every step before he commits.”
“So he doesn’t trust you even though you’ve played it straight with him before?”
“Not doesn’t. Can’t. From his point of view, he has no way of knowing if I haven’t been corrupted since we last met.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You know that and I know that, but in his world he sees quicksand in every direction.”
“Which means he’s armed and dangerous.”
“Fangs at the ready.”
“We still need to reel him in.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work harder.”
Then Kevin the bartender walked over and placed a shallow white porcelain bowl in front of each of us. Something neither Renna nor I had ordered.
We eyed the new offering with suspicion.
CHAPTER 18
I SAID, “What have we here, Kevin?”
“This, gentleman, is a house specialty,” our server said with evident pride. “Glazed oysters with Osetra caviar. It’s Mr. Zhou’s favorite.”
We stared into the bowls. Tender oysters swam in a pool of cream sauce laced with dashes of bright green pureed lettuce and beads of zucchini. Islands of black caviar nudged each oyster. Kevin gave a slight bow, said “Enjoy,” and departed.
“Well?” I said.
Renna’s eyes turned glassy with desire and mistrust. Like those of a man crawling in off a desert might if a bottle of vintage wine were thrust into his hands. Was this unexpected nectar from the heavens going to soothe or, in his distressed, dehydrated state, rip his insides apart?
“Can’t pull the ‘new glasses’ move with this,” he said eventually.
“Nope.”
“I think we can risk it.”
I nodded. “There are worse ways to go.”
The dish turned out to be Danko’s home-run swing. The oysters were plump and delicate. The caviar provided a potent and contrasting texture. Tying the seafood together was a rich buttery cream sauce lightly accented with a zesty white wine and subtle flavorings.
Had the dish been poisoned, we would have died happy deaths.
“Man, that was good.” Renna hauled his bulk out of his seat. “Going to make a pit stop. Back soon.”
He lumbered past the cheese bar and disappeared around a corner. A moment later Danko’s front door whipped open and a stiff wind brushed the back of my neck. I turned in time to see a thuggish Chinese gangbanger strut up to the reservations desk. His almond-brown face was gaunt but young. His black hair was streaked with tawny highlights, long on top, and cropped to a buzz on the sides. A black leather jacket hung open to reveal a T-shirt decorated with a gang slogan in stylized gold Chinese characters.
The hostess forced a smile. “May I—”
“Sure, bitch. Which one’s Brodie?”
“I’m afraid—”
“Screw you, woman. I’ll do it myself.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Brodie, I know you’re in here. We need to talk. Catch me outside. But make it quick.”
Scanning the crowd, he backed up toward the door. Every diner watched his retreat. His glance alighted on me and a cruel smile crossed his lips. He pointed a gloved finger my way, mouthed “You,” then he edged out into the cold and was gone.
I rose and headed for the exit in his wake.
The disturbance brought the manager from the neighboring dining room. “Sir, you do not have to go out there. I can have the police here in five minutes.”
“He’ll smash your windows in two,” I said.
“Do you know the gentleman?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I would strongly suggest that—”
I waved him off. “Just have my friend join me as soon as he gets back.”
Outside, the gangbanger had zipped up his jacket against the brutal evening bluster. The zip-down in the restaurant had been for show. Now his hands were jammed in his jacket pockets, the bulge at the right fuller.
I said, “What have you got for me?”
“Trouble, white man.”
Chilly winds off the bay slapped my face and mussed
my hair. This was no fledgling spring breeze. The city had them, just not tonight. Which seemed fitting on the day of Mikey’s funeral. His death had stirred things up inside me, and one way or the other I was going to stir things up where they needed to be stirred.
Starting with this Chinese punk in front of me, if I had to.
Two look-alikes in matching black leather lounged on the hood of an old, wide-bodied Lincoln Continental nudging the curb ten feet away. They looked fifteen but were probably nineteen or twenty.
“Make sure your friends keep their distance,” I said.
“You behave, won’t be a problem.”
“What do you have for me?”
“How you know I got anything?”
“I know.”
“Maybe I got nothin’.”
“Then we’re done before we started, which doesn’t make sense, does it.”
“You’re not running this meet, white face.”
A sudden gust flicked my hair back.
“Keep pushing, you’ll learn different real quick.”
With one eye on the bangers, I swept the area and found what I expected a half block down. A helmeted rider sat on a bike partially tucked away behind a corner liquor store. His face was hidden under a dome of hardened black plastic.
“You better get some respect,” the banger said.
I wondered if he and his friends were from the Jackson Street Boys, the Wah Ching, or one of the newer gangs. None of the three displayed their gang affiliation. Which showed some smarts.
“He speak to you in English or Chinese?”
“Who?”
“The Mainland guy who sent you.”
The skin between his eyebrows bunched. “How’d you know that?”
“I know a lot of things. All you are is a messenger.”
A scowl rolled across his lips. “You better watch your tongue.”
“That’s a two-way street.”
“How you know about the Chinese guy?”
I nodded at the biker down the street. The gangbanger looked and the corners of his mouth drooped. He hadn’t expected to be under parental supervision.
“They’re watching,” I said. “Guess you didn’t impress them as much as you thought.”
“You’re gonna be dead, white boy, you sass me again.”
When they wanted to sound tough, Chinese hoodlums in town adopted the phrasing of black gangbangers or some mixture thereof. The dusty stylings of old-school Triad gangs out of Mainland China lacked a contemporary flare.
