Chapter 21
He woke, sunlight shining on the bed. Dominique slept soundlessly. He looked at her sunlit face. Her hair, dark and shiny on the white pillow. Lips parted slightly, like a sliced peach. She looked holy, a lost child of the sun. For a few minutes, he just watched her. He felt good. Good as he had ever felt.
He dressed quietly and she stirred. He huddled next to her, kissed her. She awoke.
“That was nice last night.” She sat up and leaned her head on her elbow.
“Nice,” said Ray, nodding.
“I thought it was more than nice. But that’s the best I can do at this hour,” she said. “Why are you awake?”
“Restless. I have a fax coming in on something at the hotel. I’m supposed to be working, remember.”
“It’s Saturday. Take a break, big boy.”
“I did. And I will. You want breakfast?”
“I want to sleep.”
“Go ahead. I wish I could stay.”
She gave him an odd look, and said, “I know you have to work.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll call once I’m done.”
Dominique smiled, crumpled her pillow, and curled into a ball, half-asleep.
“I’ll call you later,” he said.
Ray bounded down the creaky stairs to the street. It was just past 9:00 AM. He hailed a cab to take him back downtown to the Commodore Hotel. The morning crispness was diluted by the strong sun, and the city passed by in a lazy, offhand brilliance.
He thought about last night. He was back into it with Dominique for certain. This would be his first relationship since Diana. It felt comfortable, felt right. There was history there; they knew each other. But he felt uneasy bringing Dominique—bringing anyone—into his life right now. Given what happened, what right did he have exposing her to the underworld where he operated? He could not guarantee it was over, could not be certain some other nut wasn’t waiting to engage him in some fiery afternoon vendetta. Just the other night, the thing with the guys assaulting him near the hotel. And he wasn’t exactly walking away from it, not with the Project underway, the flowering of his revenge.
The cab headed down Jones Street towards downtown. As the cab pulled over, Ray watched a man walking down one side of the street towards Geary. The man looked remotely familiar—the gait, the clothes, something about him. Ray stared. As the figure turned, he recognized the face of Steven Moran. He wore a pair of enormous sunglasses. A terribly lame attempt at concealment, Ray thought—Steven looked very much like Steven, wearing huge sunglasses.
Ray directed the cab driver to turn left on Post and pull over. Steven walked slowly and peered up at the apartments; he seemed to be checking addresses or windows.
Ray paid the driver and exited. He crossed the street, and picked up a paper at a corner drug store. He pretended to scan the headlines while watching the street.
Steven Moran stood on Jones Street, his wind breaker rippling in the summer breeze. He wore baggy chinos and clumpy black shoes. Ray imagined the Tenderloin hustlers locking their teeth on this most vulnerable piece of meat: Steven’s outfit screamed his lack of street smarts. He looked as conspicuous as a giraffe in rush-hour traffic, but that did not seem to bother him. Steven continued to search the facade of a blue apartment building. Ray recognized it as Tania’s old residence.
Abruptly, as if some sign had been given from one of the windows above, Steven stalked up the steps and entered the building. Ray moved to a small cafe located at the opposite corner. A wood counter ran along the window; he decided he could sit there and keep an eye on the doorway. He entered, ordered a cup of tea, and took a seat next to the window. He pretended to read the San Francisco Weekly—the cover story blared about a cell of terrorists in the Bay Area who were allegedly financing their activities by producing porn films. He stared at the front of 639 Jones Street.
Ray waited for something to happen. Nothing did. No one of interest peered out the window. No one of interest exited the building. He sat there for two hours, and felt the Zen of his unceasing dedication. Then a cramped reality came back to him—he had to take a piss.
A few minutes later, the front door opened, and two Asian men exited. An eye-blink of excitement. Steven paused on the stoop, peering behind him as if waiting for others to follow. He looked nervous, frayed. The two young Asian men walked to a gray Lexus with tinted windows parked on Jones. One of them Ray recognized from the first time he had visited. The Lexus backed up into a narrow alley. Ray jumped up and tried to reestablish a line of sight. The car disappeared into the alley. Ray exited the café and walked quickly into the street, dodging traffic. He crossed the street, and saw the Lexus. A rear door was open. The door closed quickly. The Lexus pulled out into traffic and Ray looked at the plate number—K1410. Repeated the number as he ran out to the street looking for a cab.
No cab showed up for five minutes. Ray paced and stomped the pavement in frustration—the gray Lexus had faded into afternoon traffic.
Ray headed back to the café, borrowed a pen and jotted down the plate number. Then he went to the restroom and took a long-awaited piss. Outside the café, he stood for a moment, wondered if he should try to find the car. Or try the apartment again. He walked into the alley. Several metal doors opened into the building. He listened but heard no movement behind any of them. Then he walked back to the street and made his way into the apartment foyer. The doors were unlocked. He walked quietly up the stairs, and listened at the end of the hallway, peering at the room. The lights glowed weakly. There was no sound. He approached apartment 12 and knocked. No answer. Knocked again, but still no answer.
Ray walked down the hallway, and headed back to the street. He walked back to his hotel room. He stripped off his clothes and took a long, hot shower. The hot water burned his back, the pain dancing on the border of pleasure. It felt good. He thought about what he had seen: why would Steven Moran resume contact with a bunch of Asian gangbangers? He guessed that Steven had been stirred up enough by their conversation to resume trying to contact Tania. Or maybe there was another connection, something he had missed. But Steven had appeared genuinely distressed during the interview. Ray decided to run the plate, and track who owned the car. Probably stolen plates.
Another mystery to drown in. He had realized long ago he made a living chasing ghosts. Sometimes he considered leaving the profession. No more unraveling schemes. No more deciphering the truth from a thousand wayward stories, listening to grifters justify the burnt ends of their lives. He didn’t want them to touch his life anymore. He’d leave this vague bullshit behind and sit in a sunny room somewhere. He’d become a painter. A rough canvas in his hands. Make things you can touch and see. Wake up at noon, give rambling interviews to slutty reporters from Art Weekly. He’d piss on a canvas, make figure eights, sell the work for six figures. Organic art. Neoclassical primitivism, with an emphasis on secretions.
He stepped out of the shower and put on dress pants and a T-shirt. He flicked on the computer, and reversed the Lexus plate; it came back to a Pacific Imports Company at 867 Stockton Street. He knew it was the address of a post office in Chinatown. Something he would check out later.
Ray took a call from Richard Perry.
“Ray, we’ve been on him all day. Same old song and dance. Heading to a bus stop on Bay and Columbus.”
“Let’s extend it,” said Ray. “Follow him home today. Find out his schedule. Any luck with the undercover?”
“We’re in contact. We had the undercover at the wharf yesterday.”
“What’s his background?”
“His name is Don Gaines. Very bright. He has an ability to get people to open up.”
“Anything so far?”
“Cherry gave him some literature with a hate line, as they call it. The calls go to a recording giving the Aryan news of the day. They have a council meeting each month, but Don hasn’t been able to find out where. They’re careful about disclosing the location to newcomers.”
“What are
their numbers here in San Francisco?”
“Cherry’s been talking thirties,” said Richard. “I would bet it’s half that.”
“OK, I’ll call you later.” Ray ended the call.
Ray ordered room service: tea, a ham and pepper omelet, home fries and some oranges. The binder Dominique had given him lay on the table; he picked it up and skimmed it. The history of Asian crime syndicates. He flipped the pages until he came to chapter one.
“During the year 1947 AD, in the city of Hong Kong, a criminal kingpin named Chang Kong Sen organized a cadre of displaced warriors, petty thieves and other adherents to immigrate to the United States. His organization, the most powerful of the Chinese crime syndicates, and the sun around which all the others had come to orbit, was the Black Fist Triad. The Black Fist effectively controlled the city’s lucrative prostitution, gambling and extortion business, known collectively as the “black society.” The move to the United States perpetuated a syndicate that has existed for over 400 years.
Fact and myth have blended together, but it is agreed by most scholars that the triad origins can be traced to resistance fighters who battled the emperors of Manchuria. In the 1600s, the Manchus had invaded China from the north, sacking the Chinese capital of Peking. During the 13th year of rule by the Manchu emperor, a rebellion broke out in the province of Fukien. To lead the emperor's forces, the Manchus called upon the Sui Lan, (the name is derived from a term meaning “fighting monks”), warriors from a monastery known for its vigorous martial arts regimen. A well-trained, disciplined group of 100 warriors led the emperor’s troops at Fukien, where they brutally clamped down on the rebellion. The Sui Lan were awarded imperial powers as a result of their efficient efforts on behalf of the emperor.
The Manchus grew to distrust the Sui Lan and their newfound popularity. After a few years, the Manchus made secret plans to destroy them. They laid a trap by calling upon the Sui Lan to attend a ceremony at a courtyard inside the Forbidden City. A large contingent of bowmen secretly assembled inside the city. A feast was laid out, laced with poison. The unsuspecting Sui Lan fell ill or died from the poison; those who failed to succumb were killed by carefully placed bowmen, who shot the unarmed monks as they sat in the open courtyard. Nearly all the Sui Lan monks were massacred, and the slaughter was kept secret for some time behind the walls of the Forbidden City.
However, amidst the carnage, five monks survived and escaped. In the hills far from the capital, they vowed to avenge the massacre. They founded five secret societies with names that changed frequently, often operating under benign names that suggested a commercial association. They later became known collectively as the Triads. Four triads were eventually stamped out by Manchu troops. One survived, the Black Fist Triad, which adopted the symbol of a black fist on a field of crimson.
The Black Fist dedicated themselves to the overthrow of the hated Manchus, whose Confucian secular lifestyle was an affront to the artistic and intellectual achievements of the Ming Dynasty, regarded as the golden age of China’s cultural achievements. Although the Manchus ruled until the early 1900s, the Black Fist prospered by controlling virtually the entire Chinese black market. Slowly, but inexorably, it expanded its power into every level of Chinese society. Historians estimate that the Black Fist had between 75,000 to 100,000 members. The Black Fist drew most of its support from the coastal cities of Hong Kong and Shanghai, where it operated those cities notorious opium dens and brothels. During World War II, the invading Japanese Army reached a secret agreement with the Black Fist, whereby the syndicate would continue to control the black society in the cities from Nanking to Hong Kong. In return, the Black Fist would provide intelligence to the Japanese regarding the nascent Communist insurgency, which was harassing the over-stretched Japanese supply lines.
Seeing an opportunity to rid themselves of a foe they saw as directly antagonistic to the black society, the Black Fist began a methodical extermination of Communists. Beginning in 1940, the Black Fist rounded up suspected Communists agents with a ruthlessness that surprised even the Japanese. Within four years, the Black Fist was responsible for the murder of nearly 10,000 Communists. Many of the murders bore signs of ritual execution, and took the form of two shots to the forehead and the back of the skull.
In 1945, the American military incinerated two Japanese cities with a devastating new weapon, the atomic bomb. Faced with the possibility of having its cities razed from the earth, the Japanese surrendered within hours of the second bombing. The Black Fist lost much of its power in the vacuum that resulted from the Japanese defeat. As the Japanese controls were thrown off, the Communists from four cities of Peking, Canton, Nanking, and Fukien surged to Hong Kong to avenge the Black Fist purges.
And the Black Fist met them. Fighting with small arms against troops armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, the Black Fist suffered enormous losses. Meeting in December 1946, the last remaining triad bosses developed a plan to leave China and reemerge in carefully selected foreign bases. They selected five cities in which to operate, including two in the U.S.A.—New York and San Francisco.
In early 1947, the remnants of the once-powerful triad departed mainland China. Funds had been sent abroad to ensure long-term financial health for the organization. In San Francisco, the Black Fist faction was headed by Chang Kong Sen, a 47 year old exporter who had been educated in the US before the war. Guided by Sen, the triad began to muscle turf away from the various disorganized local gangs, extorting protection fees from small businesses and organizing a network of brothels and card parlors, often operating in hidden rooms dug into the basements of respectable Chinatown businesses. During the next two decades, they developed independent businesses in the entertainment and fashion industries, as well as finance and law. During the 1980’s, the New York-Boston faction came under the control of a woman, Victoria Kong Chang, who was to become one of the triad’s legendary rulers.”
Ray put the notebook down. He went to his computer and checked his email. He had a message from his friend in New Jersey—she would be faxing over a list of numbers by the afternoon. He went back to his notebook and, after lying in bed, dozed off.
He woke suddenly to a telephone call from the front desk announcing that a package had arrived. Ray went downstairs to pick it up: surveillance footage from Perry.
Back in his room, Ray drew the curtains. He always liked the room as dark as possible when he watched video. Darkness quieted the mind. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the DVD into the player. The digital footage appeared. In the distance he could see Bobby Cherry under the gray sky of the Bay. Seagulls wheeling, seals bellowing in the distance. Ill-dressed tourists wandered in and out of the frame, children stuffing their faces into cotton candy puffs. A performance artist he knew, the Gold Guy, doused in gold paint and standing absolutely still, tourists watching curiously. And Bobby Cherry doing his best, earnest in his efforts. He handed out literature to the crowd, talking occasionally to sympathizers, whispering code words about the white militia, the coming race wars. The secret camps were in Idaho, where you shot high-powered rifles into the mountains and kept your skin covered from the sun to glorify the paleness.
Ray paused the button occasionally, and zoomed into Bobby Cherry, looking for something in the terrain of his skull. Watching video footage was now commonplace, the novelty worn off for the youngest generations. Yet sometimes you caught someone unexpectedly, without warning. You saw the nakedness, the raw gesture. You looked for the way a man touched his chin, hidden wiring from the mind revealed in the face. Something true and real. At least you convinced yourself it was.
Ray needed to find something. He thought of her again, and heat seared his face. For the next hour, he sat in the antiseptic room, bathed in the silvery-blue light. Meditating a plan with no flaw.
Chapter 22
As she relaxed in her apartment, Moon Lee’s cell phone rang. She saw the caller ID read “County Hospital.” She picked up after the first ring.
&n
bsp; “Hello, this is the County Hospital Records Office calling for Moon Lee.”
“Who is this?”
“County Hospital,” a woman said. “Is this Moon Lee?”
“Yes it is. How did you get my number?”
“Are you the emergency contact for Tania Kong?”
“Oh my god, is she all right?”
“She’s been in an accident.”
“Oh god!—”
“She’s in with the doctors now. She is OK. Before I release any more information, I need to have you confirm a few things.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Moon Lee reached for a pen and paper.
“Your date of birth?”
“June 9, 1984.”
“Your address?”
“Haight Street San Francisco. When can I see her?”
“I’m sorry, but I don't see that address listed here.”
“Why do you have to make it so difficult—”
“Can you confirm the address for Tania we have on file?”
“Yes, its Ashtanga Yoga Center in Inverness.”
“OK, great.”
“When can I see her? And why are you asking…”
The line went dead.
* * *
At 2:30 PM, his inbox showed the e-mail he was waiting for had arrived. Ray clicked the little envelope and opened up a scan with an address and phone number handwritten in black ink. Shavonne had gotten him what he needed.
The number was registered to a place called Ashtanga Yoga Center. It was located in Inverness, a small town near Drakes Beach. He had spent many summer afternoons there. The center was located on Juniper Road, a long highway lined with small cottages that ran by an inlet surrounded with old evergreens. It was a perfect place to hide.
Ray felt real good about the Ashtanga Center. He dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered: “Hello, Ashtanga Center,” hanging a question on the pause. Ray asked for directions and the woman explained that all meetings were by appointment only. He made an appointment to tour the Center later that afternoon. He dressed in tan-colored dress pants, a powder blue shirt, and then headed to the garage.
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