by Qiu Xiaolong
“Isn’t there a casino boat in the river?”
“Yes, but what about your delegation regulations?”
“As the American host, you can make suggestions. Mark Twain wrote several short stories about sailing on the Mississippi River. So it may have a lot to do with the tradition of American literature.”
“I see,” she said with a giggle. “It is like a Chinese proverb: To steal a bell with your ears stuffed-you simply believe others will not hear the sound.”
So she suggested it at breakfast. No one raised any objection, except Peng, who said something more like a question:
“The boat did not move, I noticed. How can a boat be moored all the time?”
“It used to be a real riverboat, all right,” she explained. “According to the state law, it’s illegal to gamble on land, but legal in the river-as entertainment. As long as it is on a boat, it doesn’t matter whether the boat moves or not.”
“An excuse,” Zhong commented.
“So hypocritical,” Bao observed, “typical of American capitalism.”
“It’s the same everywhere. Gambling is forbidden in China, but the government has recently legalized mahjong,” Shasha said. “Everyone knows mahjong is no fun without money put on the table.”
Still, no one had any objection. Not even Bao, who might be just as eager to experience the forbidden.
“Well, one place is as good as another,” Chen said, understanding it was up to him to say something. “Let’s follow the footsteps of Mark Twain. No point staying in the hotel all the time.”
“Yes, it’s so close,” Catherine said.
So around eleven, they got out of the hotel and into a minivan. Chen took his seat in front, behind the driver, and Catherine sat in the seat across the aisle, her hair tied into a plait with a scarlet velvet string. She was wearing a white shirt, a beige blazer of light material, and a matching skirt. Then he noticed she was frowning. Leaning down, she rubbed her bare shapely ankle. He resisted the impulse to do what he had done that evening in the Suzhou garden. He felt her nearness, as if through the memory. Abruptly, his cell phone rang. It was Detective Yu in Shanghai.
“Breakthrough, Chief.”
“What?”
“Ming was caught!”
“Really! How?”
“It’s a long story. Thanks to the phone record-”
“Where is he now?” Chen knew he had to cut his partner short. It was too sensitive a case to discuss at the moment, with all the delegation members, and Catherine too, sitting in the car.
“I turned him over to Comrade Zhao-”
“Great.” Chen understood why his assistant had done so. For someone like Ming, the Shanghai Police Bureau or Party Secretary Li might not be a safe bet. After all, it was a case under the Party Discipline Committee. “I’ll call you back. We are going to a riverboat.”
This was great, Chen thought. Ming might not be that important to Xing’s entire empire, but at least their activities in Shanghai would be exposed, and those red rats could be punished. Some of the evidence thus obtained might help with the eventual deportation of Xing from the U.S.
Also, the investigation of An’s case could continue, to which he had made a personal commitment. And it might lead, one way or another, to Little Huang’s case.
So he believed that as a cop, he played a positive role in this important case for his country, even though he had long given up some of the Confucianist ideals regarding an intellectual’s responsibilities. Chinese people had been complaining that the government slapped only at the mosquitoes, but not the tigers. This time, however, it was different.
He turned to Catherine. There was no change in her expression. The conversation might not have given her enough clues. He wanted to tell her about the breakthrough in Shanghai, but not in the car. He was not sure about the driver.
Their minivan arrived at the multistoried casino boat moored only two or three minutes’ walk from the Arch. At the casino entrance, they were greeted by a chorus of the money dancing and singing out of numerous slot machines, by the neon lights presenting the temptations of fabulous wealth and success. To the Chinese writers, the casino itself was like a surrealistic kingdom in the Journey to the West, a classic Chinese novel Chen had read in his childhood.
Bao took a few nervous steps forward and backward before perching himself on a high stool before a slot machine. It seemed as if he were instantly glued onto the stool. He played small, holding a plastic cup in his hand, putting in a quarter a time, and pulling down the handle deliberately, like the conscientious worker he had been in the fifties. Zhong and Peng started walking around like hunters in new, unfamiliar woods, and then vanished like water into sand. Shasha went over to the roulette wheel, watching intently, like a character in the movie adapted from her novel.
Perhaps they were still self-conscious, with all the Chinese regulations in mind, so they did not want to stay in each other’s company. And no one wanted Catherine to interpret or explain. So Chen and Catherine were left alone in the first-floor hall, surrounded by the soundtrack of all the coins pouring out of the machines.
“What you gave me was really helpful,” he said.
“What did I give you?” she said.
Was she not willing to talk about it? Perhaps it only proved his guess: she had done that for him-in a way she wouldn’t like anybody else to know. So he’d better not talk about it.
Shasha wandered back to them with a plastic cup similar to Bao’s, with the chips heavier, and different-colored.
“You’d better not try your hand today, boss,” Shasha said with a broad grin.
“Why?”
“As an old saying goes, the one who enjoys the peach blossom luck may not have the money luck.”
“You are joking again, Shasha.”
“Well, try your luck with her,” Shasha said. “I am going to try my own somewhere else.”
But he believed in his luck for the day, with Detective Yu’s call about the great breakthrough. Once more, Gu’s advance came in handy. He took his seat at a blackjack table with ten-dollar chips. He dragged Catherine to his side.
“You need to explain the rules for me,” he said, thinking he might be able to talk to her about the latest development in the midst of the game.
“It’s simple. Nothing but your luck,” she said, seating herself beside him.
His proved to be extraordinary. For the first several hands in a row, he drew a twenty or twenty-one. As his luck ebbed a little, the dealer’s sunk much lower. Chen won even when she suggested he throw in. Soon chips piled up in front of him.
“You’re really an experienced hand.”
“No, it’s the first time.”
“First timer’s luck,” she said smiling, clapping her hand with his, “from Shanghai.”
He found it impossible to talk about things in Shanghai, with the game going on like this and with people standing behind them, watching.
A bunny girl came to his table. Tall, buxom, she looked like anything but a bunny to him. She placed drinks in front of them, and he tossed a chip on her platter-in imitation of an American player. He was too busy picking up his cards and putting down his chips. He lost track of time flowing like the river outside, until a familiar cough startled him. He looked up to see Bao standing beside him, holding an empty plastic cup. An unmistakable sign. Bao had lost all his coins.
“Join me,” Chen said, placing a handful of chips in Bao’s cup.
“It’s a twenty-dollar chip,” Catherine said.
“Thank you,” Bao said with a weird expression on his face, a mixture of emotions, perhaps. “I may not have your luck. So I think I’ll go on playing my small way.”
“I don’t know how long mine can last,” he said, turning toward Catherine, as Bao dragged himself away with a heavier cup. “If anything, you are my luck.”
It was true. The breakthrough in Shanghai would have been inconceivable without her help, he contemplated, turning out another ace i
n his hand. She leaned over and whispered, “He hasn’t gotten any more phone calls from L.A. ”
It was possible that Bao, too, remained in the dark, unaware of the consequence of the information he had given to the L.A. caller. Chen nodded instead of making a response.
Another good hand-eighteen. He staked a couple of chips more. The dealer did not show any expression on his face and drew another card-
His cell phone rang. He whisked it out, glancing at the number on the tiny screen. It was from Shanghai. Not from Yu, but from Comrade Zhao. It took him a few seconds before recognizing the number.
“Sorry, I have to take the call outside. It’s too noisy in the hall,” he said to her. “Keep on playing for me.”
He hurried out to the deserted deck. Chinese and Americans must all be too busy dealing with money, losing or winning.
“How have you called me here, Comrade Zhao?” he said, standing by the rail with its white paint peeling off under his touch. A gull came wheeling over out of nowhere.
“Don’t be so alarmed, Chen. I’ve got your cell number from Detective Yu. It took me several minutes to have it from him. A most capable and loyal assistant.”
“I’m sorry, Comrade Zhao. It’s not his fault. I told him not to give the number to anybody. I didn’t mean to keep it from you-”
“You don’t have to explain. I was pleased that Detective Yu delivered Ming to me directly. Excellent job. Now I see why you insisted on his sharing your authorization,” Zhao said. “So, our work has come to a successful conclusion!”
“A conclusion?”
“Xing is on his way back to China…” Zhao paused, and then went on, “in exchange for Ming flying to the U.S. ”
“How could that be?”
“A story too long to tell on the phone, Chen. We-some agents- talked to Xing in Los Angeles. They promised him no death penalty for his return and his cooperation with the Chinese government.”
“What? Death penalty or not, Xing’s finished back in China. A crab in an urn-or worse, in a bamboo steamer. No way for him to get away. He knows that better than anyone else.”
“Well, it is all thanks to the arrest of Ming through your information. It’s the last straw for Xing. He knows he has no choice.” Zhao added, “Besides, he is a filial son, like you, and his mother is so worried about Ming.”
“But how could Xing be willing to surrender himself for the sake of his half brother-whom he has never acknowledged in public?”
“Let me put it this way. The arrest of Ming might have been only one of many factors in this complicated case. Through Ming, we got all the necessary criminal evidence of Xing, which would prompt the American government to make the deportation decision. Xing is not dumb. He has no hope for political asylum. Even before Ming’s arrest, he tried to flee to another country, but his effort has been thwarted by U.S. law enforcement.”
“That may be true,” Chen said, recalling Xing’s interest in selling his L.A. mansion. “So in exchange for Xing’s voluntary return, Ming gets away scot-free?”
“I have not had the time to read the detailed report from our agents in L.A. There might be something in it.”
“But Ming may have been involved in An’s murder, as I have reported to you earlier.”
“You don’t know for sure, do you? You have nothing to prove her death was related to Ming or Xing. Your bureau will continue to investigate, of course, and the criminals will be punished,” Zhao said emphatically. “It is a successful conclusion, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
“So that’s it-the end of it,” he said, trying to gain time to think. Perhaps he should not push Comrade Zhao into saying something definite, irrecoverable. “Our determined effort to push the anticorruption campaign to the end?”
“It is a priority in our effort, to control the damage, as we have discussed. Bringing Xing back to China will make a huge difference. For someone like Xing, long years in a dark cell could be a more severe punishment than a death sentence.”
“Comrade Zhao, you must have heard of the death of our interpreter in St. Louis, Little Huang.”
“Yes, I have heard of it. But what can you do in another country? You are not there as a police officer. Anything you try to do outside of your delegation status may cause diplomatic troubles. So that’s the other reason I have to make this call to you. We believe that the delegation has completed its mission. No need for you and your delegation to stay there any longer. It is the Americans’ responsibility to solve the homicide case. They will do their best.”
He wondered where Zhao had learned about his other activities here. That, too, could have been a reason for this phone call. Chen decided not to bring up his theory about Huang being a victim of mistaken identity. Things were happening too fast, and were more complicated than he had grasped. Besides, Zhao could easily brush his theory aside for lack of evidence. Those phone records hardly proved anything.
“Anticorruption is a long-term battle, Chen,” Zhao went on, “not a matter of an isolated case or two. The Party Discipline Committee is very pleased with your work. Once again, you have proven to be a loyal, resourceful Party cadre in a difficult situation. Indeed, we need young, reliable comrades like you to continue the anticorruption effort in the future.”
“Thank you, Comrade Zhao, but-”
“It’s a long phone call. We’ll talk more upon your return. What about a celebration dinner in my hotel? I know you like good food-the chef here has won the gold award for Sichuan cuisine. The carp in hot broad-bean sauce is a must. I have a bottle of Maotai for you. Remember the two lines by Liu Guo-Had General Li met with the First Emperor of Han, / he could have easily been a duke?”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
General Li, a legendary figure of the mid-Han dynasty, might have achieved more under another emperor. Liu Guo, a down-and-out Song dynasty poet, spoke about his own frustration through the tragedy of that unlucky general. What the equivalent to a duke in today’s official world would be, Chief Inspector Chen had no idea, but he was far from reaching that level yet.
“At your age, I liked the two lines very much. But what happened during those years, you know. Now the time is totally different. A young man like you can and should do something,” Zhao concluded. “You will not let me down, I believe.”
Closing the phone, Chen remained in confusion, his thoughts muddled and muddy like the waves rolling under his gaze. He had never imagined such a conclusion for China ’s number-one corruption case.
Perhaps Comrade Zhao had said what could be said, and the rest was unspeakable, or unknown even to the old man.
The Party authorities had planned to punish Xing and all the associated officials, Chen did not doubt that. But the situation had developed out of control, with too many-and at too high positions-involved in the case. So that might have been one of the reasons that the Party Discipline Committee had initially enlisted Chief Inspector Chen, as Yu had guessed. He was part of the show for the Chinese people, while at the same time secret negotiations had been under way with Xing in the States.
Would Xing cooperate by revealing all the secrets? No one could tell. Nor was it that important. After all, the Beijing authorities could have pushed to the end, as declared in the People’s Daily, with or without Xing’s cooperation. Rather, Xing’s return was significant more as a sort of successful hushing-over, so the sordid details of the government corruption would never come to be known. So that was it. Some of the red rats might be punished, but selectively, not at the expense of the political legitimacy of the Party. It would be just enough to show people the Beijing government’s determination to fight the evil.
And the message for Chief Inspector Chen was unmistakable: the investigation was at an end. He should be satisfied with the conclusion, and with the acknowledgment made by the Party authorities of his work.
But what work? The chief inspector wondered.
What about An?
And for that matter, what about Little Huang?
>
Had Chen not pursued his investigation the way he had, the two might not have fallen, one of them totally innocent. He could choose to tell himself, of course, that he had no choice, that it was a matter of life and death for him, and for the country too, and that there are different perspectives on everything. As a Party member police officer, he had reasons to be contented with his work, as Zhao had declared.
Still, Chen could not get rid of a haunting sense of guilt. Instead of brooding over it, he tried to think what he could do upon his return to China. An’s murderer still had to be caught, though probably not by him. As for the young interpreter, however, the case might never be traced back to those really behind the scene, thousands of miles away, who might be raising their cups in celebration at this moment, behind the high wall of the Forbidden City, where the order for the murder in St. Louis had come from, Chen supposed, rather than from L.A.
A siren resounded over the river. For all the satisfactions expressed by Zhao, his phone call came close to an undeclared suspension of Chen’s emperor-special-envoy assignment. It was undeclared, perhaps, because he was still abroad with the delegation. So he’d better go back into the casino hall. It might not matter much if his fellow writers lost some money, but it would be another story, he thought of the diplomatic troubles mentioned by Zhao, if something unpleasant happened to them in the boat.
When so many things are absurd, nothing is really absurd.
To his relief, Chen saw them all gathered in a corner on the first floor, next to Bao, who was still sitting on the stool, pulling the slot machine handle, his cup quite full now. Shasha held a cocktail in her hand. Peng and Zhong kept smoking. They might have lost their pocket money, and they appeared relieved at the sight of Chen. It had been a long phone call from China. Catherine came to him with a check in her hands.
“I waited for you for a long time. I didn’t think you were coming back to the table, so I cashed in your chips,” she said simply. “It’s quite a lot of money. There’s no point pushing your luck too far.”
