by Ian Bull
The yacht captain lowers the gangplank as the shore whistle sounds. I feel like a WWII paratrooper about to jump over France. Boss Man puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, either to comfort me or warn me, or both.
“Hang in there, showrunner. I believe in you,” he whispers. “If you make this happen the way I want, you’ll get a bonus and the life of your dreams.”
Boss Man dumped a lot on me since Maui, yet he says just the right thing to make me respect him all over again. “Thank you, sir. I’ll work around the clock,” I say.
Tina, Hachiro, and I descend the gangplank to the cement pier. A guard steps forward. In the weak blue light, he looks older than the five guards behind him. “Mr. Snow?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Are you Major Chu?”
“This way, please.” He turns. We follow him down the pier, with three guards in front and three in back, to three squad cars in the parking lot. We pile into the middle car. As the doors slam and we drive away, Second Sight has already pulled away from the pier. We’re on our own.
“You did a great job,” Tina says. She’s trying to make up for Boss Man’s actions.
“Thanks,” I say, but I’m still pissed.
In less than a minute, we reach the high cement walls of Stanley Prison. Bells ring and loud speakers blare Chinese on the other side. A huge wooden door slides open in front of us, but our squad car doesn't move. Major Chen turns around in the front passenger seat.
“Money for the warden?” he asks, as I hand the satchel over. Major Chen slowly counts the money, then faces me again. “And we need money for us, too.”
“No way. And fai dee lah,” I say. Hurry up. “I’ve got a show to do.”
Chen looks up and stares at me, and I stare right back. I’m not scared of him—he’s just a functionary, and if he blows it with me, we both know the warden won’t get his last installment. Tina starts to shake next to me and grabs my arm. Now that she’s scared, she needs me again.
“We need a Chinese killer who can kick like Jackie Chan and punch like Bruce Lee.”
Chu laughs. They like that I mention their Hong Kong heroes. Chu barks at the driver and we head inside. Tina’s grip loosens. Her smile proves her fear is fading and that she’s mine again.
Screw Boss Man. I’m back in production, which is where I’m the best.
Chapter 21
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 9: Sunday Morning
Hong Kong
I’m stuck in the middle section. My seat won’t recline, the screaming kid behind me keeps kicking my chair, the Russian lady to my left vomited her Chicken Marsala into a barf bag and now cradles the smelly mess in her lap, and on my right, Walter Louie took a sleeping pill and is using my shoulder as a pillow. This is no adrenaline rush; this is boring torture.
Fishing was amazing yesterday. From six a.m. until noon, Walter, Uncle Han, and I fished with “Sole Man” Donald Franklin and caught halibut, rock fish, and even a sturgeon. We ate some of it sushi-style on the way back, showered at the Dolphin Club for ten bucks, then Walter and I went to SFO and boarded an international flight to Hong Kong that took off at six p.m. Friday night. I expected to sleep, but instead I’ve been strapped upright like Hannibal Lecter. The sores on my left side throb like moving pistons, and I’m trapped. My only choice is let the pain wash over me. I feel an oozing sore dribble run down the inside of my shirt.
“Good morning, customs and arrival forms, good morning, customs and arrival forms,” the Cathay Pacific stewardess chants while handing out declaration documents and pencils. The barfing Russian passes me two forms as the pilot announces that we’ll be landing soon.
“You don’t need those, bro,” Walter says, now awake and stretching.
“But what about customs? I’m dead in one country and on alert in another, probably.”
“You saved Uncle Han’s butt Thursday night, plus he has a freezer full of fish. Let him return the favor.” Walter leans back and closes his eyes. “Go with the flow, bro. You don’t have to be Randy the Ranger here. Relax and trust.”
“If I could go with the flow, I probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Walter leads me along the suspended walkway inside the massive blimp-shaped Hong Kong terminal. It’s nine a.m. Sunday morning. The jumbo jets spit out hundreds of passengers. They pile on the escalators down to the vast customs arrival area below.
Walter pulls me into a men’s room on the customs floor. A hushed crowd of men pee, grunt, wipe, flush, and wash. He pulls me into a stall with a baby changing station and lowers the heavy plastic platform and puts his bag on it.
“You going to put a diaper on me now?” I ask.
“Funny. Take off your backpack and stick out your hands,” he says.
I obey.
He unzips his bag, pulls out handcuffs, and snaps them into place on my wrists. He then pulls out a leather wallet and flips it open, revealing a police badge, which he slides into place over his belt. Last of all, he pulls out some white pieces of paper, folded in half.
“Your extradition papers, bad boy.”
“What crime did I commit?”
“Does it matter? Like I said, your job is to relax and go with the flow.”
“Speaking of flow….”
“You should have said that before I cuffed you.”
He un-cuffs me. We exit the stall and drain our snakes in adjacent urinals.
“Are you really a Chinese cop?” I ask him.
“Today I am. Now please, shut the fuck up,” he whispers.
He re-cuffs me and we exit the bathroom. People give us plenty of space as he tugs me by the elbow. Customs officials in dark green uniforms and police officers in blue ask him loud questions in Cantonese, and he laughs and shouts back at them.
Customs is a vast, white linoleum floor with a dozen rows of people inching toward kiosks. Black camera orbs are set into the walkways above us. We’re being watched.
Walter drags me to the police area on the far side, where a dozen officers scan the crowd. Some wear black uniforms, some blue, and some wear green army uniforms with red patches. A soldier raises his rifle and one hand as we get close, making my heart race. Then a plainclothes officer who looks a lot like Walter steps through a metal barrier and shouts hello to him in Cantonese. Walter shakes his hand and they clap each other on the back, talking loudly and laughing.
It’s almost too loud, but they’re being Cantonese. I’ve spent enough time with Walter’s family to know they’re like the Italians of China. Six conversations at once with people shouting over each other at dinner means it’s a happy family.
Walter and his cop friend talk so loudly that soon everyone is laughing at me, and I stare at the floor, playing my role as criminal. Walter’s friend examines my papers, digs through my backpack, then grabs my other elbow and pulls me through the metal barrier. A few more guards shout and Walter shouts back, waving his hands that it’s okay. A senior officer steps forward. He looks a lot like Walter, too—square head, average height, broad shoulders, and in good shape. The officer glances through the papers, stamps them, and hands them back to Walter.
“Lay hui say la,” he says to me.
Walter and his friend laugh as they tug me away.
“What did he just say?”
“He told you to go to hell,” Walter says.
It’s raining hard as we exit the terminal, but the air is warm. Cars drive on the left-hand side of the road here, and it takes my brain a moment to adjust. A gray BMW zooms to the curb and a young police officer pops out. He’s in his mid-twenties, thin, with nervous eyes and sweaty skin. He rushes to open the back door for us. Walter dips my head, and we slide into the backseat as Walter’s friend slips behind the wheel. We drive off, leaving the young officer saluting from the curb in the rain.
“You’re in China. Congratulations,” Walter says, and unlocks my cuffs.
We cross a short bridge and leave the floating cement airport b
ehind—we’re on real land now, and it’s lush and tropical. A gust of rain hits the windshield so hard the wipers can’t keep up. Soon, skyscrapers emerge in the distance.
“Is that Hong Kong?” I ask.
“Kowloon. That’s where Sammy and I grew up,” Walter says. “Right, Sammy?”
“How’s Uncle Han doing?” Sammy asks, in perfect English with a slight British accent.
“Stronger and meaner than ever. That guy is never going to die.”
“Are you guys related?” I ask.
“What makes you ask that?” Sammy asks. We catch eyes in his rearview mirror.
“You look alike. Like cousins,” I say. “Same with that last customs officer.”
Walter laughs and leans into the front seat. “Told you, Sammy! The guy has cop eyes.”
“That doesn’t make him a cop,” Sammy says, dismissing me with a wave.
Rounding a bend, endless rows of high-rise apartments appear in the tropical lushness. Most of them are peeling and worn. “That’s Mei Foo Sun Chuen, where Sammy and I grew up,” Walter says, nudging me and pointing out the window. “There are ninety-nine towers in there. It’s Blade Runner, dude. Families on top of families.”
“You sound so American,” Sammy says with a snort of derision.
Walter shrugs and smiles. His cousin is right. Walter was a geeky kid from crowded and muggy Kowloon who ended up in a house on foggy 46th Street in San Francisco, three blocks from cold Ocean Beach. He spoke no English then, but he sure sounds American now.
“Thank you for helping me, Sammy,” I say, “I appreciate it.”
“You call me Detective Louie,” he says. “Nobody but Walter calls me Sammy.”
“You’re doing pretty well for yourself, cuz. You’re wearing an expensive leather jacket and driving a brand-new BMW Class 5 Sedan. I sure don’t drive this out in Orinda, California.”
“I’ve paid my dues,” Sammy says.
The road curves, and we descend into the tunnel under Victoria Harbor, going so deep I feel pressure on my eardrums. Within a minute, we emerge in Hong Kong, packed so tight with skyscrapers, cars, noise, people, and buses that it feels like New York on steroids.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“A place you’ve been before,” Walter says. “Sort of.”
We make a right and head uphill, the streets getting narrower as we climb. The noise fades as the buildings get closer. After a dozen hairpin turns, Sammy stops the car in front of a temple surrounded by a metal spiked fence.
“Stay between us,” Sammy says to me as Walter and I exit the backseat.
We walk past two immense gray pillars and enter the courtyard of another temple to Guan Gong. Built out of dark wood and white stone, this temple is festooned with red and gold flags. The place feels old. High rises punch into the sky all around it, so it must have some mojo to still be here. A dozen people wander the courtyard, lost in thought. We enter the dark temple, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. Every square inch is covered with wood and stone carvings. Huge, coiling rings of burning yellow incense hang from the ceiling. On the dais in front is a red-faced Guan Gong statue, smaller than the one in San Francisco, and standing between thick red curtains.
“He’s got his cudgel in his left hand,” I say.
“It’s called a guan dao,” Sammy replies.
“Lord Guan stateside carries it in his right hand. Why the difference?”
“You talk too much,” Sammy says and leaves to light some incense.
“Every police station in China has a small statue to Guan Gong. Those statues always have the guan dao in the right hand,” Walter whispers. “But the triads and the Heaven and Earth Society also honor him. They put the guan dao in the statue’s left hand.”
“Aren’t the triads run by criminals?” I ask.
“No. Heaven and Earth is a fraternal organization, like the Masons. They fought the British. They keep order when the police can’t. They give loans to people here and in the States when regular banks won’t. People rely on them for security and protection.”
It sounds like the Masons, yet also like the Mafia, but I keep my mouth shut.
“My family has been in Southern China for a long time,” he says, and points at a small wooden statue of a strong and husky Chinese peasant carrying two heavy buckets hanging on either side of a long pole perched on the back of his neck.
“He’s a Louie,” Walter says.
The face does look similar. “What’s he carrying?”
“Live fish. We raised fish in our rice ponds and carried them to market in buckets of water. And we also carried news and gossip, market to market. When the British came, we carried the messages to fight their Occupation. When we moved to the city, we joined law enforcement. And we keep our messages and connections going, no matter where we go in the world.”
I have to give Walter and his family credit—they know who they are. Me, I’m a half-Irish, half-Mexican mongrel who embraces neither side of my heritage.
Sammy comes back. “Time for your donation,” he says to me.
“Another donation? I just gave one at the temple in San Francisco.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?” Walter says. “You wanted to go to China, and you made it. Now you have to keep your streak going. I suggest 5,000 Hong Kong dollars,” he says. He points at a woman in a black robe with a small black pillbox hat sitting behind a wooden desk stacked high with incense rolls. She’s also got an iPad with a credit card swipe.
I hand her the credit card Julia gave me. “Put five thousand Hong Kong dollars on it.”
She runs the transaction and hands my card back with a dozen sticks of incense.
I light it all and jam them in the sand jar in front of the statue. “Help me keep this roll going, Lord Guan, and let Julia know I’m alive.”
Sam leads Walter and me into the stone courtyard. The rain has stopped, and misty clouds roll over lush Mt. Victoria behind us. There’s a crowd of people outside now, mostly families, reminding me that it’s Sunday and everyone’s day off.
“Three people are at Stanley Prison right now with cameras, taping prisoners fighting each other,” Sammy says. “An American man and woman, and a Japanese man.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I’ve been working the grapevine since Uncle Han called me. We have another cousin, Lawrence Chu, who’s a prison guard there. It’s been going on since last night.”
“Damn, how many cousins do you guys have?”
“We use the term loosely,” Sammy says.
“How far away is Stanley Prison?” I ask.
“On the other side of the island. Thirty minutes if we take the Aberdeen tunnel through the mountain,” Sammy says.
“Let’s go,” I say, walking back to the parked car. Both Louie boys shake their heads.
“What do you want us to do about it?” Walter asks.
“I want you to arrest them,” I say. “They’re part of an international conspiracy that tried to kill me. Twice.”
“Don’t rock the boat. The warden’s been paid off, and everyone on the staff has been given a taste of that trickle-down money, including Cousin Lawrence. We wait until they’re done.”
“You’ve got to try.”
“People can’t know how much the Louie family knows,” Sammy says. “That’s our advantage. We’ll wait for Lawrence’s call. Once it’s done and they leave, then we can go there.”
My legs shiver with so much energy I could run through the Aberdeen tunnel myself. One face, one name—that’s all I need. Walter grips my shoulder, pinning me into place.
“Don’t rush. They still don’t know you’re alive. You can find out a lot more if you take your time. Stay hidden. Watch. That’s what you do best anyway.”
“I need a camera,” I say.
“I have a camera kit in the trunk of the car. Uncle Han said to buy you one.”
I suddenly love mean Uncle Han, who cursed at me all through my teenage year
s.
“We can drive through the Aberdeen tunnel and wait on a turnout above the town of Stanley. That’s the best we can do,” Walter says.
Chapter 22
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 8: Saturday Night
Malibu, California
“American Express says he just made a donation at a Taoist temple in Hong Kong,” I say, and hand Major Glenn his phone back.
Glenn raises his eyes, surprised. “The guy’s got drive. We left him by the side of the road in Big Sur three days ago.”
“I’m not surprised by anything Steven Quintana does,” Trishelle says.
That comment earns a “shushing” motion from Glenn, who dashes into the living room and cranks up the weird stereo music another notch. Trishelle and I both grab our ears.
The fact that he made it to Hong Kong makes me both proud and furious. Why can’t he put that relentless energy into something safe? But he did use the black AmEx, so he must trust me a little.
I walk into the living room and see Rikki’s periwinkle bowls filled with sea glass on the coffee table. I picture her walking on the beach with her daughters, collecting them all. Rikki’s gone because of me, and I can’t fix that—but I can keep Steven alive, if I do this right.
At my insistence, the curtains are open, and the wide window shows off the lights from Santa Monica, reflecting in long streaks of red, orange, and white on the water. Passing boat lights flicker. If someone is spying on me, let them. The open curtains also keep cautious Glenn out of the living room. Staring out the window, even if it’s public, gives me some privacy.
Trishelle walks up and touches my back. “He’s alive. That’s good news.”
“We made love before he left,” I confess.
“Lucky you.”
“But it wasn’t good enough for him to stay,” I say, jamming my hands in my jeans.
“We’ll find a way to get him back.”
The front gate buzzer sounds. Glenn checks the monitor. “It’s your agent.”
