White Tiger

by Stephen Knight

  The image of the Japanese hostess with the bleach-blonde hair appeared before the lens of his mind’s eye before it could fully close, and she froze there, captured in every detail: carefully manicured hair, artfully painted eyebrows, somewhat thin lips covered by a sheen of lip gloss, white but slightly crooked teeth, the small beads of sweat on her upper lip, the flakes of cigarette ash clinging to her black T-shirt with the word staff emblazoned across it below the small twin mounds of her breasts... and her dark eyes, aflame with the rising panic borne from suddenly coming face-to-face with her mortality.

  Manning braved the cold and swung his legs out of the bed. He walked to the zoned AC and shut it off, since the bedroom was already cold enough to safely refrigerate meat. He made his way to the bathroom and went through the morning ablutions. Afterwards, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed for the kitchen. The living room was ablaze as the sun made its gradual climb into the sky, bathing the spire of Tokyo tower and its less-commanding office building siblings in orange-yellow light. Manning grabbed himself a glass of too-sweet orange juice and paid homage to the vista. Minato-ku lurched to full wakefulness and faced the day with the traditional gusto reserved for the upper-crust parts of Tokyo, peopled by only the wealthiest of salarymen and foreign dignitaries posted at the various embassies in the area. Manning finished his juice and checked the clock on the wall. Ryoko would sleep until after two o’clock, he knew, so he was free to do whatever he wished until then.

  The Atago Green Hills tower, where Manning lived, was located in a park-like setting. The verdant grounds were tended by a virtual army of Japanese landscapers who wore their gray coveralls as if they were the uniforms of some elite military unit. As Manning strolled out of the main lobby doors—the only such individual in such casual dress—the landscapers were already busy at work, trimming here, clipping there. The facility had an image to maintain, and since the tower complex was neighbored by the Atago Shrine to the north and the Seishoji temple to the south, the real estate conglomerate which owned the complex had to make it conform to the bounds of serenity dictated by the two local landmarks.

  Manning set off at a brisk pace through the park, jogging down the trails at a reasonable clip, weaving around the occasional walker or young mother out with her children, enjoying the bright morning. In his mind, Manning flipped through a menu of cadences seemingly tailor-made for the event when a man was faced with some distasteful memories that physical activity alone couldn’t put down, running cadences he learned by heart during his time in the U.S. Army.

  See that cowboy ridin’ in his truck,

  That cowboy’s tryin’ make some bucks,

  TV doesn’t work and his trailer’s broken down,

  All I wanna hear is that Yee-haa! sound.

  Wake up, gear up, don’t wanna be late,

  Gotta jump on the bull and count to eight,

  And if that bull should throw me down,

  I’ll be saved by a rodeo clown,

  And if that clown should die today,

  Fuck the rodeo it’s back to bailing hay.

  Hang up my spurs and my ridin hat,

  ‘Cause I’m still a redneck without all that,

  ‘Cause I’m HARD CORE!

  Fit to ride,

  Lean and mean,

  Ridin’ machine!

  As the chant repeated itself endlessly in his mind, Manning kept up the pace, running faster and faster, no longer jogging now but virtually sprinting, causing those he passed in the park to turn and look. As the sweat rolled down his back in rivulets and his lungs began to burn, all Manning could see was the frightened face of a young girl whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Take that nine-mil out its case

  And shoot that commie in the face

  All I ever want to see

  Are bodies, bleeding bodies

  Swing that 50 cal around

  And mow those Commies to the ground

  All I ever want to see

  Are bodies, bleeding bodies

  Take that Stinger outta your pocket

  And shoot that Commie out of his cockpit

  All I ever want to see

  Are bodies, bleeding bodies!

  Manning charged past the gate and long stairway which led to the Atago shrine, his feet stomping out a tempo that he couldn’t sustain for much longer. His lungs were on fire, and his breath came from him in great ragged gasps. The sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes like angry hornets; the muscles in his thighs and lower back burned and protested, conspiring to slow him until he was only jogging again, then trotting, and at last barely even walking. Manning clasped his hands behind his head, his chest heaving. It was all he could do to walk now, so walk is what he did.

  Later, after the sweat had dried, he walked to the Starbucks coffee shop near the edge of the park, on Atagoshiti-dori. He ordered a small coffee, for which he paid almost ten dollars. He didn’t pause to add any cream or sugar, just gulped it down hot and black, almost scalding his tongue in the process. As he walked toward the door, intending to make his way home, he spied an early-morning edition of the Japan Times, the nation’s leading English-language edition. The deaths of the Chinese had made the front page, and Manning scanned the article, looking for any mention of possible suspects. There were none, and not even a gaijin was mentioned. It all looked good. Manning let out a small sigh of relief; even though the Japanese police were known to be quite assiduous, they couldn’t bring an assailant to justice if they didn’t know who that person was.

  Manning was about to put the paper back on the shelf he had taken it from when he checked the motion. He placed his coffee on the shelf instead, and opened the paper fully to read the text below the centerline.

  The girl’s name was Yamada Junko. 26 years old, still living at home with her parents and younger brother. Manning folded the paper and placed it back on the shelf, then pushed through the door and out into the already-sticky day. He sipped some more of his coffee, then started walking back toward his apartment building.

  Yamada Junko. At least the memories that would haunt him had a name.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tiburon, Marin County, California

  “Lin Yubo, the police are here.” His manservant stood by the study door, waiting, and quite motionless. Han’s almost deathly stillness had been known to unnerve some of the younger servants. James Lin—when in the U.S., he took on his American persona, including a Westernized name—closed his laptop screen lid, allowing the machine to hibernate automatically. He was about to ask Han what police? when his desk telephone rang. The caller display screen told him it was his daughter-in-law. He experienced a brief spark of irritation. What did she want now? To complain once again that her fickle husband was abusing her, if not physically then by sinking his engorged yang into the steaming hot ying of every whore on the Western seaboard? She should have learned to accept it long ago. Didn’t she have a luxurious home that was the envy of her circle of ma jiang-playing wives and elder mothers? Didn’t she have everything that money could buy, except for a monogamous husband? Many wives would gladly trade their right arms to be in her position and situation. Let it ring, he decided, taking his hand away from the receiver. She should also learn that he was not at her beck and call. He’d talk to her later, at a more relaxing hour of the late evening, by which time, with luck, his younger son—no, his only son now—would have returned to the marital home and consoled his distraught wife.

  “If it’s another ticket, take care of it,” he told Han, rubbing his fingers together to signify a small bribe.

  “They insist upon speaking with you personally, Lin Yubo. A gweizi and a lost soul. They are detectives, not uniformed traffic policemen.” Han paused, then added, “They are San Francisco policemen.”

  Lin almost smiled. A “lost soul” was Han’s nickname for any Chinese who had joined the police force. It was absolutely not a compliment. Han believed that after opium addicts, l
ost souls were the lowest form of life on the planet, preying upon their own kind. Lin was inclined to agree with him although he knew they also had their uses, as informants and occasionally as agents.

  But Lin lived in Tiburon, across the Golden Gate Bridge from the city of San Francisco. What brought city police detectives to his residence?

  The phone stopped ringing. Did his daughter-in-law also have his cell phone number? Lin hoped not. “Do you know them?” he asked, dismissing Wu Qing from his thoughts for the moment.

  “The gweizi’s name is Ryker. Six months ago he tried to embarrass Lin Dan,” Han said. “The unfortunate incident with the gweizi opium whore.” Han’s encyclopedic memory for faces and events easily matched Lin’s own. Lin remembered the enormous bribe that had changed hands to ensure that all charges against Lin Dan were dropped and the actress who had died after injecting poorly cut heroin was forgotten about. Lin had bought her family’s silence through an agent posing as an insurance claims officer, who had warned that any attempt to publicize the incident would result in court action and a reclaiming of the “insurance settlement.” Only one of Shannon Young’s cousins, perhaps more suspicious than the rest, certainly less intelligent, had refused to keep silent and threatened to take the matter further. What remained of the cousin lay at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, weighed down by iron chains. Lin didn’t even have to give the order; Alexsey had known what must be done to protect the family name.

  “Since then he has not intruded into our sphere,” Han went on. “The lost soul is Fong Chee Wei. Overtures were made but rejected some time ago. His family owns a restaurant in Chinatown. He is their only son.”

  Their only son. Lin closed his eyes, focusing on that phrase. He drew air deep into his lungs, held it for a count of five, then released in a slow sigh. His tension levels dropped; his sadness at Lin Jong’s death remained. Lin Dan’s older and infinitely more capable brother had been gone a month now but every day Lin still expected him to call from Shanghai to discuss business matters, or even to walk in the door, paying his father a surprise visit.

  Lin focused on the present. The past was too painful to contemplate. “I will see them in the conservatory,” he said. Han nodded and left the study. Lin tapped his fingernails on his desk, a calming rhythm. What did the S.F.P.D. want? Impossible that their visit could be in any way connected with Shanghai and Lin Jong. He closed his eyes again and prayed to the gods who watched over his ancestors that Lin Dan had not once again shamed himself with some white whore eager to prove her utter worthlessness by allowing strangers to fill her mouth, cunt and anus with their semen, and her veins with drugs.

  He left his study and made his way to the conservatory, a place of peace, filled with exotic plants including the rare orchids whose cultivation were his private pleasure. There he checked temperature and humidity levels, and adjusted both fractionally even though he knew automatic sensors would have done the same in a short while, compensating for the ever-changing external daytime temperature.

  Han stepped through the door that connected to the entrance via a short hallway that acted as an airlock to protect the precious flora. Two men followed him inside, the tall gweizi, Ryker, and the Chinese policeman, Fong, young and quick-witted, his clever eyes taking everything in. Han closed the door behind them and led the visitors into the middle of the room. They stood there for a moment, looking uncertain, until Lin stepped out from behind the curtain of fronds that had concealed him from their gaze. He enjoyed seeing their surprise.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I am James Lin. You told my manservant you wished to speak with me personally.”

  The gweizi said, “Mr. Lin, I’m—” But Lin held up his hand, stopping him.

  “I know who you are. Let’s stop wasting time. State your business, Detective Sergeant Ryker, and then leave. You are not welcome here.”

  Ryker’s spark of anger, clumsily hidden, did not escape Lin’s notice. He stared at the American’s soft face, disliking it intensely. The eyes were all wrong, the nose too big and protruding. The corners of his lips bore deep creases as if damaged from being frozen in a cynical smile too long. Lin estimated his physical age to be in the late-thirties although he could easily pass for someone much older. Ryker said, “All right. Have it your own way. Has anyone spoken to you about events that took place last night at the Mandarin Oriental?”

  Mention of the hotel made Lin think immediately of Lin Dan who thought nothing of hiring an entire suite to impress his “lady friends.” Once and only once Lin Dan had paid the bill using his corporate charge account. Lin had punished that outrageous impertinence by sending Lin Dan to India for three months to nominally assist in setting up an international call center for end customer technical support. To add insult to injury he made Lin Dan report his daily progress via the Indian general manager, which had resulted in enormous loss of face. The mistake had not been repeated.

  But now Lin felt the first stirrings of uneasiness in his stomach. What was this gweizi trying to say? Han’s expression remained impassive but his eyes radiated concern. Lost Soul Fong made an art out of studying the surrounding flora. Lin might have expected Ryker, a Westerner and an American at that, to maintain embarrassing eye contact but he, too, seemed to find many things to interest him in the conservatory, allowing Lin a moment to deal with his fluttering emotions. He reined them in, brought them under tight control, and said, “What has happened to my son? Tell me.”

  Ryker said, “Mr. Lin, your son, Lin Dan, was murdered last night.”

  Perhaps it was because he’d recently had practice at receiving such news, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much. Or perhaps it was because Lin Dan had never been his favorite, which fact wounded Lin more grievously than his actual death. Both my sons are dead. Lin focused on this incredible thought and examined it from every possible angle. Of course, that was why Lin Dan’s wife had been trying to talk to him. The police must have gone to her first. That brought into question the matter of timing. If Ryker and Fong had visited his daughter-in-law to convey the news and, obviously, to study its effect upon her, and then came here directly, why had it taken her so long to call? Because she had entrusted them to break the news to Lin rather than undertake this arduous task herself. He knew he should view this as a weakness of character but he took into account the fact she had revised her position and found the strength to call him, for which he was grateful, even if he had made the mistake of not picking up the phone.

  Both my sons are dead.

  “Murdered, how?” he said, surprised his voice still worked. “And by whom?”

  Ryker’s gaze held steady but his stance, his passive body language, suggested he was trying to be as compassionate and understanding as possible. Lin wanted to slap him. He neither wanted nor needed any sympathy from a gweizi and certainly not from a policeman. To Lin’s surprise Ryker’s eyes widened a fraction. So, the gweizi had sensed his mounting aggression. Perhaps he was more intelligent than he looked.

  “Mr. Lin, maybe you should sit down. Is there anywhere we can—?”

  “Tell me what I wish to know, detective sergeant, or I will pick up the phone and make a single call that will ruin your career.”

  Ryker flinched. His compassion drained, to be replaced by cold anger; Lin could deal with that. “Your son was stabbed through the heart,” he said. “Before this, he was ritually dismembered. We believe he would probably have bled to death if not for the fatal stab wound.”

  Lin forced his tongue, teeth and lips to form the word: “Dismembered?”

  “We believe that the same person who stabbed your son through the heart also severed his penis.”

  “What have you done to apprehend the person responsible for Lin Dan’s death?” Han said, causing them to look at him and thus giving Lin a precious moment in which to think. He centered his chi by breathing deeply while he assimilated this unexpected and staggering news. The Shanghai police were still investigating Lin Jong’s murder but were no closer to defin
ing a suspect let alone making an arrest. The method of Lin Jong’s death had baffled them, and Lin too. He had jealous rivals and enemies aplenty but none, in his opinion, was responsible for Lin Jong’s bizarre execution. What message was it supposed to send? Lin knew all the traditional ways—had employed them himself on many occasions during his long and bloody climb to his present exalted position. Sometimes an entire conversation might be conveyed by the way a man died, and by how long it took him to die. Such dramas often forced both sides to stop and rethink their positions, and might lead to truce and peaceful settlement of differences or renegotiation of territory, rather than a long and costly war. But he’d encountered nothing quite like this before, not in the business sense. Which suggested the arrival of a new enemy, unfamiliar with the old ways but wishing to make a statement. Or so Lin had assumed until this pivotal moment, when layers of fog evaporated to reveal the truth. This was not some play for power on the streets of Shanghai, or punishment meted to Lin Jong for some offense he’d committed against a rival, knowingly or unknowingly. This was personal. This was aimed at James Lin, chairman of Lin Industries and head of the Lin clan.

  Ryker said, “Forensic evidence is being examined. Hotel staff have been questioned. We’re anxious to speak to the woman who was with him last night. At the moment she’s our prime suspect.”

  Han took a half step toward Ryker. Seventy and frail looking, he nonetheless projected an intimidating physical presence. “Who is she? What is her name?”

  “If I knew, maybe I’d tell you.”

  “If you know, you will tell us!”

  Lost Soul Fong said, “How about giving us some space here, grandpa? Getting a little crowded.” He put his hands on his hips, casually opening his jacket to reveal his gun in a hip holster and his detective’s badge clipped to his belt, a less than subtle warning. Lin knew that Han could easily snatch them both before either policeman had a chance to react. Now that would conjure an interesting situation. Han came down off his toes, stepped back to his former position and gave an apologetic half-bow, acknowledging his unforgivable lapse of manners.