So Evangeline asked Peter for his phone and scrolled to the selfie Peter had taken on the cable car the day before, the accidental photobomb and … was it the same guy, the one from the airport baggage claim, too? She couldn’t tell.
The only other sign of trouble came when the front door opened and in walked Uncle Charlie, the angry investor from Portsmouth Square. But he didn’t stay. A bag of takeout was waiting for him. He paid, glanced into the dining room, and left.
Peter was glad of that. He sensed that LJ was, too.
Michael Kou grabbed the check. Peter let him pay. It might be the only thing they got out of him. But what Peter got was the sight of something dangling from the key fob that came out of Michael’s pocket when he pulled out his wallet, a kind of unfinished triangle.
Peter gestured to it. “What’s that, some kind of smart-guy society?”
Michael Kou looked up from the bill. “What? Oh, just an old Chinese organization. Hong Kong businessmen.” He signed the bill, and they were done. He clearly knew how to brush off a question he didn’t like.
Out on the street, Michael Kou flagged a cab on Washington Street and jumped in.
LJ went to get in the other side, but Peter grabbed him by the elbow. “The man at the Emery Mine today, the Asian guy. He looked familiar. I just made him.”
“Made him?” said Evangeline, who homed right in on this little exchange.
“You mean like in the detective novels?” asked LJ. “You recognized him?”
“You know how?” said Peter. “He had a lapel pin like Michael Kou’s key ring, and I’d seen him somewhere else.”
LJ gave Peter that look again, a little embarrassed, a little apologetic, a little like a twelve-year-old. “At the Arbella Club?”
“He was leaving as I arrived. He looked pissed off then, pissed off this afternoon.”
“Are you in danger?” whispered Evangeline to LJ.
“No more than I can handle.”
“Are we?” she asked.
“You’re civilians. You’re okay. And you can go home if you want. I’ll understand.”
“Go home?” said Evangeline. “Hell no. I have an article to write.”
“But what does that mean? Civilians?” asked Peter.
“It means to keep doing what you’re good at. Helping to reconstruct this journal. If that’s all you do, you’ll stay out of trouble.”
“You seem to be doing a good job with the journal yourself,” said Evangeline.
LJ gave a nervous glance toward the taxi, where Kou was absorbed in his iPhone. Then he whispered, “I have to schmooze a little more. And—oh, shit.”
The front door of the Lucky Li Laundromat was banging open, and an old man was stalking across the street, shouting, “I tellin’ you now, for last time.”
“Good evening, Uncle Charlie.” LJ spoke politely to the old man, no matter how unhappy he was to see him.
“Don’t give me that. I mad at you. Chinatown no good for you. Get Mary and go.”
“Thank you, Uncle Charlie,” said LJ. “I appreciate your words, but—”
The window of the cab went down and Michael Kou said, “Tell that crazy old man you’re in a hurry.”
“Fuck you, too, Michael Kou,” said Uncle Charlie, then he waved a finger under LJ’s nose. “No buts. That what I say to you and your father. Just go. Go.” Uncle Charlie waved his finger in Peter’s face, too, then pivoted, and went back to the Laundromat.
As the cab sped away with LJ and Michael Kou, Evangeline said, “I fear that our careful young lawyer has gotten in over his head.”
“I may have to do more than what I’m good at to get him back onto dry land.”
“But you’re good at so many things.”
“As many as Manion Sturgis?”
“Well, you can drink wine. But can you make it?”
“Touché.”
“Cliché.”
They thought about having a chat with Uncle Charlie, but he had already disappeared from the Laundromat, as if into thin air. So they decided to work off the big meals with a walk back to the hotel.
* * *
AT MASON, THEY TURNED up the hill, as steep as a pitched roof, a dark stretch of apartments and precariously parked cars that led to a San Francisco landmark, the great illuminated American flag fluttering atop the Mark Hopkins Hotel.
Peter took a breath and said, “If you can talk in normal tones while engaged in aerobics, like climbing a hill, you’re in good shape. So keep talking.”
She was breathing more heavily, too, even though she ran three miles every other day. “Your son and his friend talked a lot, but they didn’t say a damn thing.”
“LJ usually plays it close, but he’s scared—”
“Who do you think is watching him?”
“The same people watching us, leaving me phone messages to watch out for hit-and-runs.”
“Phone messages? And you didn’t tell me?”
Peter shrugged. “I try not to raise red flags.”
“Maybe they’re the same people who sent an assassin into the restaurant tonight.” She looked over her shoulder, as if he might be following them.
“Assassin?” said Peter. “Now that’s a red flag.”
“I think it was the same guy I saw at the baggage carousel yesterday, who also followed us on the cable car. He was in the restaurant. He liked lo mein.”
“So that’s why you wanted my phone?”
“Yes, but the picture on the cable car isn’t definitive, so maybe—”
“Maybe he might not be an assassin.”
“But somebody’s watching us.”
“So we’d better be careful.” Peter liked it when she said “us.”
Before they crossed California Street, they looked in every direction for fast-moving vehicles, cars without headlights, or white panel trucks, the kind that might still be in the hit-and-run business. Then they crossed in front of a cable car and strolled into the turnaround at the Mark Hopkins.
Peter stopped and looked up at the big fluttering flag. “If someone is watching us, how about we show them how well we dance?”
“Dance?” There was an idea she liked and didn’t like at the same time.
“There’s dancing every night at the Top of the Mark. And we’ve been dancing around each other for quite a while. Let’s see how it feels to dance together again.”
But … she was still committed to separate beds. And though she hadn’t told him, she was seeing Sturgis again tomorrow. And dancing at the Top of the Mark was just too damn romantic. Of course, Peter had been doing the right things so far … giving her space, cracking jokes, letting her find her way into another case, which always excited her, whether she wanted to admit it or not. And it was the Top of the Mark. So maybe—
The doorman came down the steps and opened the door of an idling black limo.
Peter didn’t think anything of it until a familiar voice said, “Let’s go for ride.”
They both turned to see Wonton Willie leaning out of the limo. “My cousin own. He say, ‘You know big-time lady writer? We give tour. Maybe she give limo company nice write-up.’”
Evangeline looked at Peter and whispered, “No fucking way.”
“Nice talk for a big-time lady writer,” said Peter out of the corner of his mouth, then he tried to see into the front seat, but it was too dark.
“Come on,” said Willie. “It’ll be fun.”
The doorman made a gesture, inviting them to step in.
Peter said, “Big-time lady writer has a deadline.”
“Wrong choice of words,” she whispered. “Just say, ‘I have some work to finish.’”
Wonton extended his hand. “Finish work later.”
She slipped her arm around Peter’s. A gentle tug, a few steps, and they’d be in the hotel, safe.
“Relax,” said Willie in a lower voice, so that the doorman could pretend not to hear. “If I want to kill you, you be dead already.”
“How
can a girl resist an invitation like that?” said Evangeline.
“Just keep Mace in pocketbook, hey.” Willie waved his hand.
Peter decided they should play along. So he nudged Evangeline into the car.
She dropped into the rear seat, as far from Willie as she could get. Then she pulled down the armrest.
Peter climbed into the jump seat facing Willie. But before he said a word, he glanced into the front. Just a driver—unfamiliar, not one of Willie’s regular “boys.”
Willie said, “So, where you like to go?”
“Someplace safe,” said Evangeline.
“You safe right here. My cousin best driver in San Francisco. Car got bulletproof glass, armored door panels, puncture-proof tires. Don’t even need seat belt.”
So Peter stopped looking for his.
Willie said to the driver, “Go down to Market, then Embarcadero, then bring ’em up Powell. Nice views up Powell.” He turned to Evangeline. “You like the nice views?”
“I wish I brought my camera.” She peered out the smoked glass window.
Willie pointed to the little bar where the left rear door would have been, if the limo hadn’t been tricked out like a high-end party chariot. “Drink? I got Cristal.”
Before Evangeline could make a crack about the drug dealer’s champagne of choice, Peter asked, “Is it open?”
“Popped and chilled, hey.” Willie pulled the clear bottle out of the ice, produced three flutes from his armrest, poured, and toasted, “To my new partners.”
If it hadn’t been Cristal, Peter might have done a spit-take. “Partners?”
Willie smiled, so that his gold-rimmed tooth glinted. “Drink your drink.”
The limo dropped down California Street. Late at night there wasn’t much traffic. So they reached Market in no time, with the Ferry Building directly in front of them. Then they turned along the waterfront.
“You like my town?” asked Willie.
“I liked it even before you took possession,” said Evangeline.
“When did that happen, exactly?” asked Peter.
“When the Feds took down Wo Hop To. Everybody scramblin’ now to see who goes up. Well, Willie and his tong goin’ up. You know what the ‘tong’ mean?”
“Meeting hall,” said Peter.
Willie laughed, impressed. He said to Evangeline, “You boyfriend real smart, like his son, hey.”
“Like his son.”
“Tong also mean ‘social group.’ That’s what me and my boys are. Social group. Sometime tongs do things so people get what they want … some gambling, some drink … maybe some girls. All nice and social. And if you need protection, you no trust SFPD. You come to your own. Been that way since the Chinese come to Gum Saan, right?”
Gum Saan. Gold Mountain. Peter thought of Wei Chin, Mr. Sam Who, and wondered if he had needed a tong … or if he formed his own.
“Do we need protection?” asked Evangeline.
That’s why Peter liked having her along. She always asked the blunt question.
“Maybe,” said Willie. “You no pay me tribute, I no happy. I got to pay, too.”
“We all have our bosses,” said Peter.
“Who’s yours?” Evangeline asked Willie.
“Dai-lo.”
“Dai-lo?” she asked.
“Big Brother, from Hong Kong,” said Willie. “Triad boss.”
“Triad? What’s that?” asked Evangeline.
“Chinese organized crime,” said Peter. “Heaven, Earth, and Man. The three elements of the universe, operating in synergy for the good of all. The Triad.”
“Their symbol is triangle,” said Willie.
Like Michael Kou’s key fob? thought Peter. The other guy’s lapel pin?
“Poetic, hey?” said Willie. “It also stand for Trust, Loyalty, Honor. Those important, too.”
Peter said, “The Chinese are a very poetic people, even the ones engaging in extortion, money laundering, drug trafficking, human trafficking, and prostitution.”
“Now why you want say that?” Willie scowled with almost theatrical anger, feigning insult. “You talk me down, I no pour you no more Cristal.”
Peter held out his glass, as if he sensed that Willie was blustering for show.
Willie grinned and poured. “You know, a lot of guys want to take control in San Francisco. We got big power vacuum. And sometime civilian get caught up, and if you do bad to Triad, no can of Mace gonna help you.”
Peter continued to act as if he had heard all this before, from much tougher guys, even if he hadn’t. “Does the Dai-lo want the gold journal?”
“Not the journal.” Willie made a wave of the hand. “Nobody give shit about old writing. Dai-lo want gold. That what you lookin’ for, right? Chinese gold bags? There been talk about Chinese gold bags long time, since Ah-Toy. You know Ah-Toy?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” said Evangeline.
Willie gave her a look, as if he was trying to decide if he really liked her or thought she was really annoying, or a little bit of both. “You know, Lady Mace, you bein’ watched to see if you get gold bags.”
“By you?” she asked.
Willie nodded.
“By a blue Ford Explorer?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know about no blue Explorer. I ride with Yee Limo.” Willie sipped his Cristal. “Only way to go. But we even watchin’ you in your hotel room, lady.”
“I’ll turn off the light when I shower, then.”
Peter liked the wisecrack. Never let them know you were creeped out.
The car turned and headed up the hill at Powell Street.
Suddenly, Willie leaned forward. “I got three day. Three day.” He pushed three fingers into Peter’s face. “Before big sit-down with Dai-lo. You give me something. I get in solid with Dai-lo, you get in solid with Wonton, your son in solid with everybody. Then we have big party when he marry Chinese girl.”
“Half,” said Peter.
“Half what?”
“Half Chinese.”
“Yeah, well, some people don’t like that. Some people don’t like she marryin’ white boy. But the world changin’, hey.”
“And if I can’t deliver in three days?” asked Peter.
“Dai-lo no happy with me. I no happy with you.” Willie sat back.
The car climbed Powell Street, turned onto Sacramento. The downtown buildings leaped up in front of them.
“You like view?” said Willie to Evangeline. Then he looked at Peter. “You help Willie, Lady Mace get apartment with great view next time she come San Francisco.”
A few more turns, and they were back in front of the hotel.
The doorman opened the door and peered in.
“We all friends now, so”—Willie made a wave—“you can leave.”
But something happened … or perhaps a dozen things happened, all at once.
Peter heard the driver say, “Oh, shit.” Then the Plexiglas separating them from the front seat slammed open.
At the same instant, the doorman went flying, struck by a guy dressed all in black, with a hoodie pulled low over a Giants cap. Then the guy shoved a pistol into the limo.
Before Peter could react, two shots exploded into Wonton Willie’s chest.
Two muzzle flashes lit the interior of the limo.
Evangeline screamed.
The gun swung in her direction.
Two more muzzle flashes. Two explosions right in Peter’s ear.
But these came from the front seat.
Willie’s cousin was more than a driver. He was a bodyguard. He put two bullets into the heart of the assassin, who dropped on the paving bricks.
Evangeline looked at Peter. He looked at her. They both looked at Wonton Willie.
After a moment, Willie gasped, then gasped again, then laughed and said, “Kevlar … wow … good fuckin’ idea to wear Kevlar.”
* * *
DENTS IN KEVLAR, WIND knocked from Willie, no other wounds, except for Peter’s ringing ear and
Evangeline’s shattered nerves, and, of course, one Chinatown hood, dead on the turnaround in front of the world-famous Mark Hopkins Hotel.
Before SFPD got there, Willie said to Peter and Evangeline, “Tell cops truth.”
“I’ll tell them what happened,” said Evangeline.
“You here to write about Chinatown, so you talkin’ to all kinds Chinatown character.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she said.
“Damn sure is, hey.” Willie was getting back to normal. “And you”—he looked at Peter—“you here to do work for big law firm.”
Peter said, “That’s the truth, too, hey.”
“Just leave Chinese gold out of it.”
Peter thought that would also be a good idea.
When the flashing blues appeared, Willie said, “Shit about to get real.”
“Get real?” said Evangeline.
* * *
DETECTIVE PATRICK NAUSEDA INTERVIEWED Peter and Evangeline, but not separately. That was good. They could keep their stories straight, and since most everything they said was true, keeping stories straight was not difficult. He was young, polite, neatly dressed, the good cop.
The bad cop was named Darcy Immerman, a compact cube of San Francisco kickass female, who got out of the unmarked cruiser with a scowl on her face, glared at everyone in the courtyard, pointed at Willie and his driver, and said, “You and you, dummy up and we go downtown. Answer nice and we do this right here.”
“Nothin’ but the truth on the hotel steps,” said Willie.
And they started the Q & A dance.
Lieutenant Nauseda kept asking questions until Detective Immerman folded her notebook. Then he said to Peter and Evangeline, “I would ask you to stay in town until our investigation is complete. If you must leave, please contact us.”
“We’re scheduled to fly back east on Monday,” said Peter.
The detective wrote that down, then gave Peter and Evangeline his card, “Call me on Sunday. I’ll let you know what we’ve decided.”
Evangeline asked him, “Are we in trouble?”
“Hard to say, ma’am. Witnesses to a gang hit. The good news is that the hit man is dead. The bad news is that the gangs are getting restless. If I were you, I’d write about something else the next time you come to San Francisco.”
Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush Page 26
