by Henry Chang
Follow the flow, the charm advised, test the waters.
She dragged her thumbnail across its jade surface again.
Faith avoids disaster.
As the ferry cut its way into Puget Sound, she kept her focus on the red plastic bag, watching it swirl and bob, the weight inside of the cha siew, roast pork, and the chun pui mui keeping it in the water, while the sealed bag of rice crackers kept it afloat.
The flow washed the red bag onto the shore near a park and a pier leading to a group of big red umbrellas she recognized as part of the sundeck of the Spa Garden.
The ferry gained speed, signaling with a blast of its horn.
She took a breath and sat on a bench by the rail, watching the red bag disappear into the distance, along with the big red umbrellas and the small patch of beachfront park. How blessed, she mused, the wind and water giving me direction.
Her view slowly encompassed mountains crowned by a blue haze, and bald eagles swooping past old forts and lighthouses. She’d lost her appetite and decided to eat after they reached Victoria. Chinese food, she figured, in Chinatown. There were no whales to be seen but the scenic landscapes soothed her.
When they arrived at the Inner Harbor, the weather had cleared considerably. The beautiful bay was sparkling, and she checked into the nearby James Bay Inn. Shortly after, she toured the streets en route to Chinatown, and passed under a Gate of Harmonious Interest. She felt another layer of dread lift. This Chinatown was old, but not very far from the ones she’d visited in Vancouver.
The ferry would return her to Say nga touh, Seattle, the next afternoon.
Red King
He shuffled the deck and deftly fanned the cards out. The articulation had become second nature. He packed the deck, then cut it into halves, folded them back together.
Gee Sin shifted the cell phone, waited for the connection to clear. The line had experienced interference recently. He flipped out a card, replacing it in the deck. Flipping the cards open-faced had been harder to master, having as much to do with the thumb and finger as with wrist and forearm.
He flipped up a pair of jacks.
Jacks in the morning, the king takes warning.
Outside his picture window, the clouds spread over Victoria Harbour under a shrimp-gray sky. He swallowed a Vicodin, chasing it with a shot of brandy, neat. The splash of cold water that followed chilled the fire in his throat. He knew the painkiller would make a beeline to his brain.
It was Tsai’s voice on the international connection to New York, giving Gee Sin the call he knew would come. Tsai, still a 432, Gee Sin evaluated, but up and coming.
Paper Fan saw the gloomy expanse of the Wan Chai waterfront, the Mid-Levels, Mongkok, fading into the soupy mist. He held the cell phone to his left ear with his shoulder, shuffled the deck again, and spread the cards out on the countertop.
“This comes to us,” Tsai said, “from one of our sister Grass Sandals.”
There was a short burst of static over the line. Gee Sin knew some of the local chapters had recruited women into their operations.
“A woman made a donation to a temple,” Tsai continued, “in Say nga touh.”
Gee Sin understood that he meant Seattle, and asked, “Don’t women make donations all the time?”
“Yes, but not in gold,” emphasized Tsai. “They don’t usually donate gold coins.”
“A coin?” Gee Sin remembered the stolen one-ounce Pandas. “What make of coin?”
“A gold Panda.” Tsai paused. “She wasn’t sure what size.”
“But why donate a gold coin?” Gee Sin felt the pulling drifting sensation of the Vicodin. There was more breakup, clicking on the line.
“It’s an old way of thinking,” said Tsai. “From when our countrymen were refugees, during jo non, fleeing from the Japanese. Our hingdaai, brothers, converted all their paper money to gold. Because metal doesn’t burn like paper does, and gold doesn’t lose its value like government currency.”
Gee Sin gave this a moment, then asked, “Was this an older woman, then?”
“No, she fit the general profile. Thirties to forties, short to average height.”
“What else?” asked Gee Sin, the brandy rushing through his blood now.
“The monk said she prayed briefly and left.”
“Is that strange?” He caressed the deck of cards, his vision starting to blur.
“Well, it was after the Lantern Festival. Lots of people in and out of the temple. Our female cho hai there reported that the sister monk remembered that the woman didn’t sign the log-in book.”
They waited through a moment of crackling noise.
Tsai continued, “She said the woman was dressed all in black, and reminded her of a movie star in a magazine.”
“You have people in place?” Gee Sin’s words began to slur.
“We’re watching the temple,” Tsai said crisply, “with help from local 49s, Hip Ching say gow jai, fighters.”
“Where are you now?” Gee Sin heard himself asking.
“I’m preparing to go to the airport. JFK.”
Gee Sin didn’t approve of using the 49s, but advised, “Call me when you get to Say nga touh.” He hung up, and put the cell phone down.
The deck of cards beckoned him as a feeling of goodness and compassion washed over him. He squeezed the deck and smoothly flipped out the top three cards.
A King of Hearts.
A Queen of Spades.
A King of Diamonds.
He put the deck down. A black, hak, queen, trapped between a pair of blood-red kings.
Soon, Gee Sin the Paper Fan anticipated, the trail ends.
Fot Mong, Nightmare
Mona felt groggy, looking up as if in a daze, snug beneath a shiny black covering, a blanket. She was observing a candlelit ceremony of some kind, two men in robes, Buddhist-like, in front of an altar. One man wore a red sash, the other a green headband. The shadowy air was thick with incense. Chanting? But not Buddhist.
The man who was the Incense Master wore a grass sandal on his left foot and was exchanging hand signals with the gathering of new recruits.
She was almost swept away by a wave of dizziness.
She’d thought the recruits were dogs at first, obediently seated on their haunches. The murmuring sound cut abruptly to silence and she soon realized these were men on their knees, sitting back on their heels. Their faces were flickering images in the candlelight, glimpses of an ancient ritual. They were reciting an oath.
I shall not betray my brethren …
Angling for a better view, she discovered she was bound onto a black mattress, spread-eagled and naked under the covering. Like a sacrificial lamb.
I shall not betray. The penalty is death. The oaths declined to murmurs again.
Then the Incense Master held up a Ming Dynasty–type dagger, and the recruits turned their attention to her on the mattress. She saw lines of leering lecherous men, evil hock sear wui, snakeheads, rising up from their crouched postures.
They formed a long line as, to her shock, the black satin sheet that was covering her was slowly pulled away, exposing all of her in the dim shadowy light. With lolling, dripping tongues, the men resembled dogs again. Triad mongrels.
She struggled against the ties that bound her, helpless. It only excited the men more. She screamed as the first group of men surrounded her, screamed as the first engorged erection penetrated her.
Yelling, she’d jerked herself awake. She was sitting upright in her own bed, her heart pounding even in the reassuring quiet of her basement apartment. She caught her breath trying to shake the fot mong, nightmare, from her head, clutching the jade charm in her fist.
Beware, it warned, beware.
She’d already transferred half of her bank account to the Vancouver branch of the AAE bank. She’d be able to transport the remaining gold and diamonds traveling overland by bus, or else by sea, on a ferry.
Gradually, her spirit calmed, but she could not find sleep, wondering ho
w she could advance her plans.
Thunder over Water floated to the surface of the charm, tingling at her fingertips.
Find direction, it urged, make haste to go.
Jun bay, prepare.
Carry-all
She took the razor blade from the travel sewing kit and slit open the edge where the padded lining met the hem of the jacket, a cheap black barn jacket she’d bought at the Ming Wah Mall. All the old Chinese wore the same drab discount items from the Chinese mall stores and she wanted to blend into the mix when the time came.
She spread the seam open with her fingers, popping the thread work until the opening was more than the width of her hand.
She grabbed a plastic bag from the makeshift kitchenette, a clear Ziploc bag that was large enough to hold a magazine. She neatly inserted bank documents, a paper-clipped stack of eight one-hundred-dollar bills, and a mini zip-bag containing six diamonds wrapped in wax paper. She added the little red envelope with the key to the safe deposit box, and the Social Security card identifying her as Jing Su Tong.
Pressing the air out, she zipped the plastic bag and slipped it beneath the lining of the jacket. She inserted her hand and spread the plastic flat, patting it into place. From the sewing kit, she got a needle and ran six loose loops of thread and closed the edge at lining and hem. It will be easier to open when the time comes, she thought, remembering Make haste to go.
She kept the Seattle non-driver’s license in her pocket, the photo ID describing her as Tong J. Su: 118 pounds. Twenty-eight years old. She’d memorized the numbers 2, 11, 8: all auspicious.
At the foot of her bed, the black rubber “Prago” bag was a knockoff, a zippered shoulder bag big enough to hold travel necessities, and then some. She’d also found it at Ming Wah, where cheap copies of the world’s best designs were available. Into the shoulder bag she tossed a Chinese newspaper, a senior citizen’s discount bus voucher, a souvenir Chinatown letter opener. She clipped the travel brochures from Trans World Asia together, tossing them in. She’d made advance arrangements for Vancouver, a week’s stay at the Budget Hotel near Chinatown. She’d also booked a tour, a bus shuttle from Victoria to Vancouver.
Beware, beware.
She caressed the red bangle with her thumb, urging forth luck and courage.
She placed eight gold Panda coins into the inside zipper-pouch of the black carry-all. In her pants pocket was a thousand dollars in folded hundred-dollar bills. She’d still need heaven’s help, she knew, but at least the numbers were on her side.
Having a Ball
A huge Chinese crowd thronged the lobby of the Westin, milling and mixing its way toward the music inside the ball-room. The gourmet-dinner portion of the event had concluded, the awards had already been presented, and the liquor was flowing freely.
Jack straightened his jacket and joined the shuffling, swaying procession heading toward the bright lights and raucous laughter. Inside the cavernous ballroom, a Filipino rock band was banging out “La Bamba.” The crowd near the stage bopped and hopped to the beat. Young Chinese-American ORCA interns were letting off corporate steam as Jack scanned the crowd for Alex. Lots of men in tuxedoes and old money all around, thought Jack.
All the sophisticated ladies wore jazzy gowns and the scene was loud, jamming, and everything looked fabulous. Jack made his way toward the stage. More women, shiny dresses, glittering jewelry, and coiffed hair. A flute of champagne in every delicate hand.
He heard quick exchanges of repartee everywhere. Everyone looked rich and carefree.
Alex suddenly emerged from a group of designer tuxedoes and shimmering outfits. She was radiant in a gold dress and heels, with all the fine accessories, reveling in her moment. She came toward him with a long lingering smile, followed it with a kiss on his cheek.
“Finally,” she said. “Glad you could make it.”
The group of CADS and ORCAs noticed Jack, and his familiarity with Alex.
“Ladies’ room calling,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be right back. Go ahead and mingle.”
“Sure,” Jack said, scanning the hundreds of exquisitely dressed Chinese. He watched her walk away, a gold sheath swaying to the music, until she disappeared into the masses. He wasn’t the mingling type, he thought.
One of the CADS greeted him with, “You must be the lawman Alexandra told us about.” Another lawyer-type turned and said, “Why don’t you regale us with some of your adventures?”
Jack was momentarily speechless, holding his thoughts but displaying a smile on his face. Regale? he mused. I’m here to entertain you? He bit down inside the frozen smile. Adventures? Murder and horrific brutality were adventures? He wondered if it was too soon to dislike them, and decided to wait until Alex returned.
Abruptly, ADA Bang Sing stepped from the group and came to Jack’s social rescue.
“Detective,” Sing said, “I hate to talk shop but can I have a word?”
“Sure,” Jack answered, gratefully. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”
They stepped away, joining another crowd beside one of the mobile bars.
“Don’t mind them,” Sing explained. “They get a little obnoxious after a few drinks.” He paused, then grinned.
“You know how lawyers are.”
“Yeah, right,” Jack said, smiling. “But thanks anyway. Anything new with the Johnny Wong case?”
“No,” Sing replied. “He’s still cooling at Rikers. But he’s getting more calls from Hong Kong.”
“He’s allowed calls?” puzzled Jack.
“E-mails,” Sing said.
“About what?”
Bang Sing shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
Jack took a breath, saw the group of CADS from the distance. They were partying hearty to the booming beat, and oddly enough, he felt happy for them. They deserved it. For their time and commitment to righteous causes. Party on, by any means necessary.
At the bar, they pounded beers. “Thanks again,” Jack repeated, wondering now about Sing’s relationship to Alex. Relationship?
“Sure thing,” Bang Sing toasted, “sure thing.”
It seemed as if the crowd parted for Alex as she returned, a vision more lovely than Jack had recalled. She took him by the hand, led him away from ADA Sing and the crowded floor.
They lit up cigarettes near a side exit, refreshed by the cool night air.
“This is great,” Jack said. “But for the record, I did try to call you last night.”
“Last night?” Alex sounded puzzled.
“It was late,” Jack continued. “Some man answered.”
“Man? Who?” she challenged.
“Don’t know,” Jack demurred, “didn’t ask.”
“Well, the bunch of us went room-hopping,” Alex recalled. “Drinking nightcaps. Why didn’t you leave me a message?”
“It was late. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Jack crushed out his cigarette.
“Interrupt?” she said skeptically. “Interrupt what?” She paused. “Were you annoyed?” Another pause as she finished her cigarette. “Wait … you weren’t jealous, were you?”
“Jealous?” Jack laughed, “Me? Why would I be jealous?”
Alex smiled a knowing smile, shook her head at him. “Right. Who’d be hitting on me anyway, right? The lady’s got baggage, going through a divorce, has a kid, drinks too much …”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Jack defensively. “I never said that.”
Alex took his hand again. “Come on, let’s go,” she said quietly.
“Where?” he asked as he looked back toward the ballroom. “You’ve got music, alcohol, right in there.”
“I’ve had enough drinking and dancing for a weekend,” she offered. “Plus I owe you a rain check. From New York.”
“Yeah,” Jack remembered. “Espresso, with sambuca.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” he heard her say. “Then again, you’re a cop.”
He put out his cigarette, said, “Okay, sure,” and followed her back throug
h the crowd.
In the Mood for Love
Her suite was small but featured two single beds and some countertop space that also served as TV stand and coffee table.
“Weren’t you rooming with someone?” Jack asked as Alex prepped the coffeemaker. She was a bit tipsy in her heels, and he noticed the bottle of sambuca had already been opened.
“Joann left already,” she answered. “She had an eleven o’clock flight.” She dimmed the light from the table lamps.
“Red-eye back to New York, huh?”
“Right.” She poured shots of the sambuca liqueur.
Jack could smell the coffee brewing, then the fragrance of herbal shampoo, or body spray, as Alex nudged up beside him, high heels off now, in her bare feet.
“So, how was your weekend?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
“You wouldn’t believe it.” He wanted badly to tell her, to brag a little, but knew better. She helped him out of his jacket, draping it over the lone chair.
“Try me,” she challenged.
“Let’s just say I caught a bad guy.” He grinned.
“Always the good cop, huh?” she quipped, taking a sip of the liqueur. She clicked on the bedside radio to a bluesy saxophone tune, then dialed down the volume to low.
He noticed a wood-and-brass plaque with her name on it and an inscribed crystal bowl on her night table.
“Congratulations,” he said admiringly.
“Thanks,” she replied with a big smile. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
He resisted the urge to hug her, to taste the sweetness of the sambuca that glistened on her lips.
“What?” she said as she noticed his stare. “Is there something on my face?”
“No, it just feels good to look at you.”
“You drunk or something?” she teased.
“Nowhere near as drunk as you are,” he teased back.
“Oh yeah?” She poured a little more liqueur over the coffee in the little Styrofoam cups and took a sip. “Here you go,” she said, abruptly planting a soft kiss on his lips, the taste of espresso trailing her smoky breath.
