Sadiq looked very sad. "Oh, that would be satisfying indeed! But I do not think—"
"On the other hand, if you do not agree, I will make it known equally widely that Mustafa Sadiq had the opportunity to save the home of Aliqqi the Hero, but chose not to, for reasons of his own greed."
Now it was Sadiq who looked alarmed. "But no! That is not—"
"Is it not? You refuse my offer, in hopes that the Golden Chance company will make a better one—but what can they offer you, Sadiq, except money? So you are trading the home of Aliqqi the Hero for money. There is no other way to look at it."
"But the home of Aliqqi is not mine to trade."
"It is, Sadiq. Right now, the fate of your hero's home is in your hands."
From alarmed, Sadiq's features paled to stricken.
"And your neighbors will know," the commissioner finished. "They will all know."
"No," Sadiq whispered. "You cannot. My neighbors will never forgive me."
"Nor should they, Sadiq, if you let this opportunity pass."
"But my daughters . . . No, you must see, if I command the respect of all my nation but yet my daughters must marry beneath themselves because they have no dowries, what have I gained?"
"Beneath themselves? Sadiq, you're a shopkeeper!"
"Commissioner!" Sadiq drew himself up. "Perhaps in your exalted world—"
"Sir?" Detective Lo, inserting himself in the conversation, addressed the commissioner. "If I might make a suggestion?"
"What is it?" the commissioner asked irritably. Sadiq turned narrowed eyes to the detective also.
"Well, it is this. Mustafa Sadiq: If there were not gold on this land in the mountains—if your daughters' dowries consisted entirely of the grazing and melon-growing potential of this land—what would you ask for it?"
"But there is gold."
"Sadiq." Detective Lo, with only the slightest shift of posture and expression, suddenly appeared much changed: looming, volcanic. Both Sadiq and the housing commissioner stilled and stared. "Sadiq." Lo seemed to rumble rather than speak. "If there were not."
"I . . ." Sadiq was silent for some moments, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Lo. Finally he whispered, "Seventy thousand renminbi."
Detective Lo nodded and, saying nothing, turned to the housing commissioner.
"Detective?" the commissioner said. "Are you suggesting I buy this land?"
"I am," Lo affirmed.
"That I give this man money? In addition to a cultural treasure?"
"Seventy thousand RMB is not so much money," Lo said soothingly, "even to a policeman. Divided among Sadiq's three daughters, it will give each a small nest egg, just enough that self-respecting Uighur men will be willing to court them. If, Sadiq, this were to occur, would you agree to the arrangement?"
"I . . . but the gold . . ."
"No one will know." Lo relaxed in his chair, and the volcano vanished, replaced by the chubby policeman. "You will sell your land to Housing Commissioner Wu, who enjoys, from time to time, a rustic retreat, and who, happily settling in here in Turpan, wishes for mountain land of his own where he can wander through the splendor of your rocks and streams. You will also take the opportunity of a business relationship with the commissioner to importune him on the subject of the home of Aliqqi the Hero.
"Commissioner Wu," Lo turned his attention across the desk, "you will enter into a simple business transaction with Mustafa Sadiq, which you will have no reason to keep hidden. In the course of it, you will be so moved by, as you say, Sadiq's silver tongue—and by his reasonable price and lack of avarice in your business dealings—that you will agree that the home of Aliqqi the Hero must be preserved, and you will convey it to the Turpan Historical Preservation and Restoration Commission. When, weeks or possibly months from now, the Golden Chance Minerals and Mining Company seeks the owner of this land to make an offer on it, no one will be more surprised than Commissioner Wu. You, Mustafa Sadiq, will shrug philosophically when that happens. Possibly for a time you'll face some ridicule from your neighbors, but that will be muted and good-natured, as you will be known throughout Turpan as the Uighur who saved the home of Aliqqi the Hero. Your daughters will have small dowries and a heroic father, and your people will have their cultural treasure. A most satisfactory ending."
Detective Lo, from the effort of such a long speech, found himself perspiring even in the chill of the Housing Commission office. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, folded it, and replaced it in his pocket. As he did so, the room was silent. Finally, Commissioner Wu said to Mustafa Sadiq, "Do you agree to this?"
Sadiq stroked his moustache for some time. In the end, after a long look at Detective Lo, he turned to the housing commissioner and said, "Yes. I do."
Another week passed before Mustafa Sadiq looked up from the counter to find the round form of Detective Lo Pen-wei occupying the doorway of his shop.
"Step inside," Sadiq finally called. "You're blocking all the sunlight anyway."
"I needed to make sure the shop could accommodate me," the policeman said, pulling the door shut behind himself. "I've tried half a dozen times in the past week to come see you, Sadiq, but the crowds of grateful well-wishers were too thick."
"My neighbors have been generous in their gratitude."
"You've done your people a great service," Lo said. "Why shouldn't they acknowledge it?" He threaded his way carefully through the shop, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. When he reached the counter he folded the cloth and replaced it in his pocket, asking Sadiq, "And your daughters? They're well, I hope?"
"They are, thank you, Detective. The eldest, Qolpan, informs me she will take the small dowry that has recently come her way and, rather than plan a wedding, will enroll in the University in Urumqi. She intends to study minerology, as her fiancé's knowledge of the subject has proven so valuable of late."
"Yes," Lo agreed, "a subject of much practical use. I myself understand not a word of it, of course, but I'm just a policeman. Well, congratulations, Sadiq."
Sadiq shrugged and reached for the kettle. Lo raised his hand. "Wait. I came to ask: Now that you're celebrated among your neighbors, and your daughters are provided for, are you permitting yourself some moments of leisure? If so, perhaps you would care to accompany me to a teahouse, where we can sit in the shade of the grape arbor."
Sadiq regarded him. "And where a Han policeman can shine in the reflected glory of a heroic Uighur shopkeeper?"
"I cannot deny that being seen with you, given who you have become, could be useful to me, Sadiq. In my work, you understand."
"Well, then. I suppose under the circumstances I cannot turn this invitation down?"
"No, I don't think you can."
Sadiq nodded. "I see. And am I to bring the Xiangqi set?"
"You are."
Sadiq put on his white hat and went about the business of closing the shop while Lo waited. There was little to it and they soon found themselves on the dusty streets of Turpan under the bright hot sun.
"Is the housing commissioner well?" Mustafa Sadiq asked as they walked.
"I couldn't say. I haven't seen the commissioner since you and I were together in his office last week. Barring, of course, the public announcement the following day."
"You were in People's Square?"
"It was my duty, as a guardian of the public security. Though, considering Commissioner Wu's lack of popularity among your people, there was surprisingly little rancor in the crowd. Possibly the substance of the announcement had been rumored; the people were in a jovial mood. The commissioner spoke well of you, Sadiq."
"Yes, I was flattered. But," Sadiq said, "though you have not seen him, I think you have heard from him?"
"Briefly, yes."
"He expressed his gratitude for your help in—our mutual situation?"
"He did."
"In a tangible form?"
"It's a custom among my people," Lo said. "The giving of small gifts."
They continued in silen
ce, Sadiq acknowledging gravely the greetings of people they passed, blushing once as someone yelled, "The Hero's hero!" and a small group burst into cheers. Even the presence of the hulking Han policeman at his side did not seem to dampen people's enthusiasm for Mustafa Sadiq.
The teahouse Detective Lo had chosen was very popular in Turpan, situated as it was around a tiled fountain in a courtyard where a grape arbor twined overhead. The water whispered and so did the Uighurs seated all about, as the shopkeeper and the policeman chose a table. Many people smiled and nodded to Mustafa Sadiq, calling their thanks, giving the thumbs-up sign, but, possibly because of his companion, no one approached. Sadiq acknowledged their tributes, and spoke to the proprietor, who promptly brought them tea and a plate of sweet biscuits, for which he refused payment.
From the inlaid box he had carried under his arm, Sadiq lifted out the white chessboard. Lo took the wooden disks from their embroidered cloth bag and set them in their rows.
"Detective Lo," Sadiq said, as Lo prepared the board. "Since you are a man who thinks ahead, let me ask you: What do you anticipate the reaction of the housing commissioner will be when he discovers there is no gold on my land in the mountains?"
"His land in the mountains," Lo corrected, waiting for Sadiq, who was playing red today, to make the first move. "Well, as to that. First, I imagine he'll be incensed at the incompetence of the Golden Chance company, as time passes and no one contacts him. He'll find himself with an internal struggle, whether to reveal his possession of the pirated report."
He waited while Mustafa Sadiq moved his right-rank cannon to a position in front of his general, an unconventional opening.
"And do you think he will?" Sadiq asked. He poured tea from a hammered copper pot into clear small glasses with silver handles.
"Oh, yes. He'll finally grow impatient and make the contact himself. When Golden Chance admits to mystification as to the report's contents, and produces the actual assay of your former land, the commissioner's anger will know no bounds." Lo responded to Sadiq's move with an unusual move of his own, shifting his left-side horse also toward the center ranks.
"You will be sent for?" Sadiq asked, stroking his moustache.
"Undoubtedly." Lo watched as Sadiq moved his right-rank horse. "My outrage will match the commissioner's own. That the miscreants of Turpan should have the subtlety to sow forged reports among the debris in a vandalized office—this new escalation is shocking, contemptible, and a serious threat to the public security." Lo advanced a soldier. "I'll vow redoubled efforts to capture these criminals. Unfortunately, they left us no evidence as to their identities. However, I will reassure the commissioner that, with time, the Public Security Bureau will no doubt bring them to justice."
"As the first to believe the fabricated report, and as the one who brought it to the commissioner, I'm afraid you'll be left looking a bit of a fool, Detective Lo."
Lo shrugged. "A condition I've grown used to."
"And you'll have made an enemy of the housing commissioner. Even if he harbors no suspicions, he'll need someone to blame." Sadiq slid his chariot along the horizontal.
"The housing commissioner," replied Detective Lo, "will not, I suspect, be much longer in Turpan. Corruption is a serious crime in today's China. Agents of the Public Security Bureau, such as myself, have recently begun making contact with the mining companies, warning them against unscrupulous officials who might try to take advantage of their high offices for personal gain. The companies have been warned to be particularly alert to forgery and false documents. If such a thing were to be reported, the Public Security Bureau would not be able to turn a blind eye."
Lo reached out a hand for his cannon, but a voice over his shoulder said, "I wouldn't do that." Lo turned to see a broad-backed Uighur man in a gray tribal cap. "I don't mean to interfere, of course," the man went on. "But Mustafa Sadiq has just played his chariot. In this opening, you must respond with your chariot also."
Detective Lo looked to Sadiq, then back to the other man. "I'm Ahmet Erxidin," the new man said. "I'm honored that a Han policeman enjoys our ancient game."
"Xiangqi is ancient among my people too, Ahmet Erxidin, and many enjoy it. I'm Lo Pen-wei of the Public Security Bureau. I appreciate your advice."
"Ahmet Erxidin is renowned for his skill at Xiangqi," Sadiq told Lo. To Erxidin he said, "My friend, will you have tea?"
"Thank you, I will." The gray-capped man moved a chair and sat. "Mustafa Sadiq is too kind," he said to Lo. "My skill is only what it is, but I do spend a great deal of time at the Xiangqi board. I'm always seeking new opponents. Perhaps, if Mustafa Sadiq is not available, you would consider giving me a game? I can be found in this teahouse most days."
Lo beamed. "I would be honored. To sit in a teahouse playing Xiangqi is one of the joys of life in Turpan."
The proprietor brought a third silver-handled tea glass. Mustafa Sadiq poured tea for the newcomer, and for himself and Detective Lo. All lifted their glasses, and before they drank, Sadiq said, "I offer this toast: To my friends."
"To my friends," they each said, and drank.
Copyright © 2012 by S.J. Rozan
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FICTION
MARIEL
by David Dean
David Dean's July 2011 EQMM story "Tomorrow's Dead" received nominations for the Edgar Allan Poe and Derringer awards. He joins us this month with a less hardboiled story, but one whose characters may make you think twice next time you see an apparently innocent little girl riding her bike around your cul-de-sac. The author is a former chief of police who recently retired to spend more time writing. We have several more of his powerful stories scheduled for 2013.
The neighbor watched Mariel approach through his partially shuttered blinds. She cruised down their quiet cul-de-sac on her purple bicycle, her large head with its jumble of tight curls swiveling from side to side. He thought she looked grotesque, a Shirley Temple on steroids. Mariel ratcheted the bell affixed to her handlebars for no apparent reason and stopped in front of his house. He took a step back from the window.
His house was one of three that lay along the turnaround at the end of Crumpler Lane and normally she would simply complete her circumnavigation of the asphalted circle and return to her end of the street. This time, however, Mariel's piggish eyes swept across his lawn and continued to the space between his house and that of his neighbors to the north, who despised the child as much as he did, if that was possible. A crease of concern appeared on his freckled forehead and he took a sip of his cooling coffee.
Suddenly she raked the lever of her bell back and forth several times, startling him, the nerve-wracking jangle sounding as if Mariel and her bike were in his living room. He felt something warm slide over his knuckles and drip onto his faux Persian carpet.
Hissing a curse about Mariel's parentage, he turned for the kitchen and a bottle of stain remover. "Hideous child," he murmured through clenched teeth. "Troglodyte!" What was she looking for? More than once he had chased her from his property after he found her snooping around his sheds and peering in his windows. Though he had complained, her mother had proved useless in controlling the child. She was one of those "single moms" that seemed to dominate the family landscape of late, and had made it clear that she thought he was overreacting.
He recalled, with a flushing of his freshly razored cheeks, how she had appeared amused by the whole thing and inquired with an arched brow how long he had been divorced—as if the need for companionship might be the real motive behind his visit! He felt certain that on more than one encounter with the gargantuan and supremely disengaged mother, he had smelled alcohol on her breath, cheap wine, if he had to hazard a guess.
But what now, he wondered? Usually Mariel crept about in a surprisingly stealthy manner for such a large girl, but now she commanded the street like a general, silent but for the grating bell that even now rang out demandingly once more . . . b
ut for what?
Forgetting the carpet cleaner, he set down his morning mug and glided stealthily back to his observation point at the window. He felt trapped, somehow, by this sly little giant so inappropriately named "Mariel." What had her mother been thinking, he asked himself with a shake of his graying head, to assign this clumsy-looking creature such a delicate, feminine name? When he peeked out again it was to find Mariel's bike lying discarded on his lawn, the girl nowhere to be seen. The crease between his eyes became a furrow and he rushed through his silent house to the kitchen windows.
Carefully parting a slat of his Venetian blinds, he looked out on the path that led between his property and the next and on into the woods. A large head of curly hair was just disappearing down it and into the trees. A shudder ran through his body and beads of sweat formed above his upper lip like dew. Damn the girl, he thought, feeling slightly nauseous as suspicion uncoiled itself within his now-queasy guts.
Unbidden, the image of the dog trotted into his mind, its hideous prize clasped between its slavering jaws. It had reeked of the rancid earth exposed by the recent torrential rains. He remembered with a shudder of distaste and a rising, renewable fury how it had danced back and forth across his sodden lawn, clearly enjoying its game of "keep away." He remembered the shovel most of all, its heft and reach, the satisfaction of its use.
"That was her dog," he breathed into the silent, waiting room, then thought, Of course it was . . . it would be. His soft hands flexed as if gripping the shovel once more.
Mariel stood over the shallow, hastily dug grave and contemplated the partially exposed paw. The limb showed cinnamon-colored fur with black, tigerish stripes that she immediately recognized. She hadn't really cared for Ripper (a name he had been awarded as a puppy denoting his penchant for ripping any and every thing he could seize between his formidable jaws) but he had been, ostensibly, her dog.
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Page 3
