Ears said nothing, shook his hand. "You'll pay Richie yourself?"
Victor nodded. "All right, tell me more."
"Easy stuff," Ears had said. "You follow a car out of midtown, near Rockefeller Center. It'll be a little Toyota with Georgia plates. It will have a couple of employees in it from a paper-shredding company."
"I should get into that business," Victor interrupted.
"It's trickier than it looks," answered Ears. "The shredding trucks are expensive and need a lot of maintenance. Anyway, you follow this car. It's going to Brooklyn. Lot of times it goes to the beach. Same lot every time. Same spot in the lot. Most nights. Very late, no one else around. Workers there party a little, smoke a joint, something like that. Then you show up."
"And do what?"
"You send a message."
"What's the message?"
"You don't say anything. You terrorize."
"Who's gonna be in the car. Guys have guns?"
"No, no, it's a couple, three Mexicans. No guns. Nothing to worry about."
"I'm terrorizing Mexicans?"
"We want them very scared. We want them to never go back to this business again. We want the message sent that they better stop what they are doing immediately."
"But you don't want me to talk to them?"
"No—the actual message will be sent another way. All you do is terrorize."
"You care how I do it?"
"No."
"You want creative terrorism?"
"I don't care what kind of fucking terrorism it is, so long as nobody is left around to talk about it."
"You want no talking afterward."
"Yes. We want a long period of silence. Like forever. But it can't look like a hit. No guns."
"You want these people dead."
"We want endless silence."
"Fuck you and your mystery bullshit. I want endless gas station profits, let's be very clear about that. And speaking of terrorism, you sure these aren't some kind of Islamic motherfuckers? I don't want to start messing around with that shit, we got all kinds of funky little mosques all over Brooklyn now, you never know where these guys are. I heard those guys are building bombs."
"Naw, it's just a couple of Mexicans in service uniforms. Don't say anything, just scare them to death. Send a message to their whole organization."
So he did. He had Richie ready with an old beater tanker with stolen plates and all the business lettering scraped off. The truck barely drove anymore and he needed to get rid of it anyway. They'd switched around a watery tankload from Queens. Richie had been told to strain the load, get out all the pieces of paper, tampons, anything that could identify it. Pure shit, Vic had told him, I want nothing but pure shit. Then Vic had positioned his pickup truck at Sixth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street in Manhattan, gotten the call that the Toyota two-door with Georgia license plate beginning with H7M had pulled down Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second. Victor had eased over to Fifth along Forty-eighth and looked to his left, north up Fifth Avenue. All he could see were sets of headlights, but the hour was so late that they were irregular, the traffic down the avenue running light. No one was behind him so he sat at the green light, waiting for the downtown traffic on Fifth to get caught by the red light, which it did. Then he spotted the Toyota two-door. Piece of cake. He pulled out as it passed, ignoring the red light. He'd followed it downtown, then east on Canal Street, over the Manhattan Bridge, looping around to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, onto the Gowanus Expressway toward Bay Ridge, then the Belt Parkway through Bath Beach, Gravesend, Sheepshead Bay. The car stayed in the right lane, was being driven both cautiously and inexpertly, the speed varying. He hung back most of the time, then blew past to have a look. The car had smoked glass, tough to see in. He thought he saw two, maybe three figures, though, caught a tail of music out the top of the window. He eased off, let the Toyota pass him, let a car get between them, then moved up again and called Richie on the cell. Richie had the truck ready, knew how to get to the lot. And then—well, Victor remembered what happened next. Who wouldn't? The figures inside the car, flailing at the glass. Too bad that they were girls. That was unexpected. Ears should have told him but had been smart not to. Because Vic wouldn't have taken the job. But there it was, a done thing. They'd driven the old truck out to Riverhead that same night, dumped the rest of the load in the morning, then driven it into Queens, taken off the stolen plates, and sold it to a scrap dealer for $400. Dirt cheap, no questions asked. The dealer wanted the truck for the tank, and the rest of it went to a yard. That truck was gone, forever, chewed to pellets and sent in a hopper by rail to Pennsylvania for recycling.
But Victor had a bad feeling. The strange phone call telling him that the caller knew what he did. The also very strange phone call for Richie from "his cousin." Richie had never mentioned a cousin! The way Richie had been acting, like he knew something was up. The way some of the Mexican workers looked at Vic. He didn't like it. He got the feeling there was a problem.
But the worst thing was the light in the bedroom last night. He was right about that, too. Somebody had been in the house. Cleaning up with Clorox, fucking around with the vacuum cleaner. After he left with Sharon and before he came back. He could smell the Clorox. He'd gone over everything carefully before putting Richie in the bag. Found the basement door cut open. That was the clincher. Somebody had been there, checking Richie out, doing something no good, knew about what had happened.
Which is what Vic wanted to talk about with Ears now, in a general way. The baseball-field bleachers were the best place to meet again. In the open air. Safe, low-key. So he'd put in the call that morning, and now Ears appeared at the edge of the grass, shielded his eyes, and shambled slowly toward the bleachers. A big man with big ears and hands and knees. A gut that exploded. Fat-bango, your stomach is huge. The kielbasy and pasta and beer and steaks and clams marinara sloshing around in there like his stomach was a washing machine, with a little porthole window like Victor's mother's machine used to have. He'd put a cat in there once as a kid, and when it was dead, he cut off the head and slipped it into a kid's lunch box at school. Nice. You used to be a nice boy, his mother had said, but they both knew she was lying. I was never nice, Vic reflected, I never had the chance.
Now Ears climbed the bleacher steps.
"Hey."
"Fucking knees," said Ears, sitting down. "Since when do I come to you?"
"Since I asked."
"Let's say we ran into one another."
"You can say anything you like."
"What's the problem, why the attitude? I know I got to pay you tonight."
"Someone's on to me, Ears."
"Who?"
"Don't know. Your guy?" said Victor.
"Not my guy. If it was my guy, you'd be dead by now."
"Thanks a fucking lot."
"Those girls actually died."
"I guess they did," Victor said.
"But just two Mexican girls."
"You seen Richie around?" asked Victor. "He missed work."
"Nope."
"So I think whoever set this thing up is, like, getting anxious about it. Afraid it's going to come back to them."
Ears shrugged. "You think that, why?"
"Like I said, somebody is on to it."
"What's that got to do with your dear old friend Ears?"
"I want you to tell me who set this up."
"Originally? I don't know. It came down from above. The moon, the stars."
Victor stared at him. "Who spoke to you, Ears?"
"You know I don't have to answer that."
"I got my theories."
Ears shrugged.
"Some guy is hunting me. How did he find me? Somebody is setting me up. Maybe he wants my gas station for himself, you know what I'm saying?"
"Hey, Victor, this is sounding, what, a little wacko, you know?"
Victor sat still, not answering. Maybe Ears knew something, maybe he didn't. Somebody was nosing around. Not a cop, but so
meone else. Somebody working for somebody. Somebody you never heard of, Victor, which is exactly what you always were afraid of. Seemed to know his way around. Not good. Victor didn't like it. He had a feeling that Ears knew exactly what was going on, too. Whack Victor, grab the gas station for himself. Send the killer back to Florida or wherever he came from. Untraceable. Unsolvable, now that Richie was gone. It all made sense now.
"Know what?"Victor said.
"Yeah."
"You're right, I'm fucking wacko. Paranoid."
"There you go." Ears nodded. "I told you, don't worry."
"Anyway, we got a little date tonight."
"I'll have the cash. Some nice girls there tonight, too."
"What time, ten, eleven?"
"Hell, I can go late. Wife and kids are at her mother's."
"Midnight?"
Ears stood to go. "I'll see you then."
Victor shook his hand. Firmly, no bullshit. With a nod of the head. So Ears could relax. Solid. Reaffirming trust.
And the last time I'm ever going to do that, Victor thought.
17
I like New York, realized Chen as he walked past horse carriages waiting at the edge of Central Park for tourists. Now I understand why people visit here, even people from China. New York was not as good as Shanghai, of course, but everyone knew that. New York was old, now, losing strength, and Shanghai would soon be the world's greatest city. Want proof? New York hadn't even rebuilt the World Trade Center and it was many years since it had been destroyed. In Shanghai, the government would have rebuilt those buildings in a year and made them bigger. But of course that was expectable now, for China's economy was growing three times faster than any other country's and would be the leading global power within ten or fifteen years. Especially since America had wasted so many resources in the war in Iraq. And kept borrowing money, weakening the dollar year by year. He knew that some people said that Russia would come back up, because it had oil and because global warming would strengthen its agriculture, but he had been to Moscow and St. Petersburg and it seemed to him that Russians were weak and drank too much. They had problems with drugs, too. He had also been to Paris and London and Berlin and Rome, among other places, and it was his objective, well-educated opinion that these cities were slowly dying and could in no way compare to Shanghai. But of course the real reason was that Asians were smarter than whites. All the tests proved it! The Americans knew this, too, which was why they wanted Asian immigrants. To lift the average. To compete with China!
He walked along the southern edge of the park toward the Time Warner building. Later he would do some shopping at Saks. He had three girlfriends, each the same size, and he'd decided just to get three of everything and give one of each to each girl. Of course, anything you could buy in New York you could buy in China, but they would be excited to see the Saks box and wrapping paper.
Chen stopped at a park bench and pulled out his phone, which worked in America, of course. You could get that, you just had to pay more. He dialed Ray Grant's house, and a woman answered.
"Ray Grant, please."
"The older Ray Grant can't come to the phone," she said. "I assume you mean the younger Ray Grant."
"Yes, that is correct," he said, being careful about his pronunciation.
"Just a minute please."
"Hello?" came a male voice.
"Ray Grant?"
"Yes?"
"This is Chen."
"Well, hello there, Chen. I don't remember giving you this number."
"I am calling to hear from you how you are finding Jin Li."
"I am working on things," said Ray.
"I expect you will find her. I am now waiting."
"I told you I'm working on it."
"When do you expect to be finding her?"
"Soon."
"That is good. I need her for my business work."
"I'm sure she misses working for you."
"My men almost found her. She was living in a building filled with papers and old stuff."
"Sounds like you're doing fine without me."
"No, no. I want for you to find Jin Li."
"I want to find her, too."
"Maybe my men come to help you find Jin Li."
"I don't need them."
"They are hate you, and if I say to do it they will come get you, or come hurt your father."
"That would be a very bad idea."
He remembered the injuries to his men. They feared this Ray Grant now, he knew. "I will call you in two days. I want you to be a successful finder of my sister by then. Do you understand? Two days, I call."
Ray Grant hung up.
When Chen returned to the apartment in the Time Warner building, his men were in the living room watching television. They stood immediately when he came in.
"Boss, you had a delivery while you were out," one of his men said.
"What is it?"
The man shrugged. "The building guys say we have to give them very big tip so we did. One hundred dollars for each man."
"Get it."
The men pushed in an enormous wooden crate on wheels. Made of fine lumber, nearly fifteen feet long and six feet high, it carried elaborate markings written in both English and Chinese about how to dismantle it, as well as the tools necessary attached to the crate itself. The box itself was a piece of expert carpentry. The men set to work on it and a few minutes later the crate's sides dropped away to reveal a huge and magnificent bull with horns, ferocious eyes, and flared nostrils, one hoof lifted and long tail raised in aggressive passion.
The bull was plated in gold. Such a thing must have cost, what—hundreds of thousands of dollars?
A tasseled rope hung around the bull's neck, holding an elegant silk pouch.
"Bring me that bag," Chen ordered.
The pouch was removed and handed to him. He excused everyone, then opened the bag and removed a note written in flowing Chinese calligraphy on elegant yellow stationery with a blue border. The stroke work had been performed at a very high level. At the bottom was a New York address and phone number.
The note read:
Mr. Chen,
Imagine my pleasure when I heard that you were in New York. I have admired your recent accomplishments in China but have always been too shy to tell you. Please accept this modest gift as my way of welcoming you to New York, where we often hope for a "bull market." This term may not be well-known to you. It means we hope there is optimism in stocks and business. Of course China right now is enjoying its own "bull market." I am sure you are very proud of your country. I would deem it a great honor if you would be my guest to dinner so that we might discuss mutually beneficial opportunities.
Yours sincerely,
William Martz
Chen ran his hand along the raised backbone of the sculpture. He had to admit he was impressed that a New York businessman had found him, and so quickly. This was the way international business should be done, with a token of respect and graciousness. He would find out who this Martz was and whether the man was worth any of his time. The gift of the bull suggested the answer was yes.
18
Every city has bad places. And this is one of them, Ray thought as he drove right into the Victorious Sewerage yard, the smells of excrement and diesel exhaust coming in his window. He hopped out of his truck and walked up to the construction trailer set in the back. The sign said, BEWARE OF DOG. He pulled open the door. A middle-aged secretary looked up. She had a lot of makeup on, considering where she worked.
"Hey, I'm looking for Richie," he said.
"Haven't seen him."
"But he works here."
"I don't know where he is. Let me call." She picked up the phone. "Victor, there's a man out here . . . looking for Richie." She nodded, hung up. "What's your name?"
Ray didn't answer.
The secretary didn't like this, he knew. She picked up the phone. "Victor, maybe you should get out here now, you know?"
The door behind
her desk swung open and out stepped a man taller and older than Ray, muscular and lean, a thumb inside his belt. He had thick black hair and was chewing cinnamon gum. "Yeah?" he said to Ray.
"I'm looking for Richie."
"He ain't here." He stopped chewing, frowned. "You call earlier?"
We're recognizing each other, thought Ray. That's what's happening. "No. Where is he?"
"Don't know. Should have reported to work."
"You know a girl named Sharon?" Ray ventured.
The receptionist watched Victor's eyes anxiously.
"Mister, we're busy here and it's time for you to leave." Victor took a step forward. "What's your name again?"
Ray shook his head. "Can't give you that. But I can tell you Sharon says she had a great time with Richie the other night. A great time. Hot. A smoking hot time."
Victor's mouth was frozen. He didn't blink, studying Ray, his body, his stance.
"What d'you mean?"
"Richie will know. Ask him."
Victor twisted his head as if looking at a bad TV picture. Ray watched as his chest rose and fell more quickly, the subtle enlargement of his pupils, his brain juicing him up for a fight.
"One more part of the message, if you don't mind."
"Yeah?"
"Tell Sharon's boyfriend he needs to work on his golf game."
Victor nodded coldly. "I see."
"Just tell him that."
Ray gave the secretary a polite smile and stepped quickly out of the office, alert to any movement behind him, and opened his truck. In the rearview mirror he could see Victor standing in the trailer window, talking into a walkie-talkie. Almost immediately a man stepped out of a shack nearby and hopped into one of the huge tank trucks. A blast of diesel smoke shot from his stack as he started up. But Ray was too quick for him, already had the pickup truck in third gear and gunned it across the gravel, slamming over the ruts, toward the turnout to the avenue. The green truck bolted for the same spot, but Ray got there first, even as the truck's bumper crushed the back panel of the red pickup, kicking it sideways. Ray fishtailed forward through the gap into the avenue, almost hitting an ice cream truck tinkling its mechanical ditty, and moments later was way down the avenue, gone but not forgotten.
The Finder: A Novel Page 19
