“Your dog under control there?” Voice like a deeper version of Andy Devine’s. Matt alternately whining and growling, but staying.
“That depends,” Wil said.
The man rested a hand on the Beretta. “Do him and you a favor and put him someplace.”
“Fuck yourself. He lives here.”
“For the present.”
Matt let out a yip that threatened to escalate if Wil didn’t renew the command. The woman said, “Mr. Hardesty, I’m Special Agent Lorenz—Treasury Department: Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.” Flipping open her ATF badge to Inez A. Lorenz. “That’s Special Agent Maccafee. I think we can move beyond this, don’t you?”
“Meaning you’re finished tossing my house?”
“We would deny that,” the man said, his pale eyes still locked on Wil’s.
“Why am I not surprised?”
The man looked at Matt, thumbed open the snap restraining his nine, back up at Wil. Your move…
“He have a badge?” Wil asked Lorenz. “Or is that your job, too.”
The man’s face broke an expression reminiscent of a sheriff’s captain Wil knew—someone who, if it were up to him, would light a cigar as Wil sank into the La Brea Tar Pits. At a look from Lorenz, Maccafee badged him, slapped it shut with a pop, jammed it into his pocket.
Lorenz said, “Are we cool now, Mr. Hardesty?”
Up close, she appeared about the same age as Kari Thayer—mid-to-late thirties—the thought of Kari, whom he’d been with on and off for a year, given the turbulence with her son and ex-husband, spilling over favorably into his appraisal. Still, it was the same old tired act. Laughable except for how practiced she and Maccafee were at it.
That was the intellectualization; the reality was he was pissed.
“Cool with what, Lorenz? You showing up here after I nearly make the I.V. blotter?”
“We pick the time, we pick the place,” Maccafee said.
“Waco comes to mind,” Wil fired back.
“Here and now, friend. You say the word.”
“That somewhere in your manual, too?”
Lorenz dropped to one knee and called to Matt, who came to her after a brief look at Wil.
“Some watchdog,” Maccafee said. “Remind me to bring a bone next time.”
“And what next time would that be, Agent Maccafee?”
“Jesus, Inez,” Maccafee said without looking at her. “We gonna do this in the driveway, or what?”
16
They sat on the deck, breeze rising off the water.
“You want to tell me about my house?” Wil asked, his burner still on simmer.
Lorenz responded before Maccafee could. “Looks inviting, Mr. Hardesty. Maybe you could show us around after we talk.” Maccafee smiling the smile.
“I figured as much. And now?”
“We felt it was time you knew who you were dealing with,” Lorenz said.
“I wasn’t aware I was dealing with anyone.”
“Luc Tuan Tien,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“The man whose property we observed you entering yesterday.”
Wil swung his glance to Maccafee. “In your capacity as…”
“You wouldn’t want to take a walk, would you, Inez?,” he said. “Give Seinfeld and me some quality time alone?”
Lorenz said, “All right, Mac. To answer your question, Mr. Hardesty, in our surveillance of Luc Tien. You see, I’m trying to be straight with you.”
“Arresting use of the term. Tell me, was it you who tossed my bedroom? If it was, take Polaroids next time.”
Her smile was after a fashion. “Naturally, we were curious about you, so we ran your plate. Yours is quite a history, isn’t it?”
“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t spend a lot of time with it.”
“Can’t blame you there,” Maccafee taunted. “You might still have your wife and son.”
Wil calculated the distance to the big man’s nose, felt a fist curl in on itself. But Maccafee wasn’t through.
“The name Brandon Smith mean anything to you—younger guy, good looking, owns his own body shop? Seen in your ex’s company?”
Baiting him, Wil told himself, jail time for nailing an ATF, a similar effect on his license. Just to get leverage on him? It made no sense. Maybe if he knew something, but that was it, he didn’t. Which only made him more intrigued as to why they’d gone to the trouble.
“Mac…” Lorenz warned.
But Maccafee had his notebook out and was running down an entry. “Feel free to update,” he said to Wil. “Body count attributed to Shawn Wilson Hardesty: L.A., Hawaii, Bakersfield, La Conchita?” Blinking to drive it home. “That one must have endeared you to the neighbors.”
Six years ago, the shoot-out in the tunnel.
“Something else, aren’t you, Maccafee?”
“Precisely my point. What’s a Dumpster jockey like you doing showing up in a federal investigation?”
“Investigation of what?” Wil said.
Lorenz reached down, put a hand on Matt, one-paw-on-the-other intent on their interaction, but pleased by the attention. “Mr. Hardesty,” she said, “what do you know about Asian gangs?”
Wil read her, decided it was up-and-up. “About what I’ve read—home invasions, carjacks, extortion. Mostly their own because the victims don’t trust our authority figures, imagine that.”
Maccafee snorted; Lorenz tapped the arm of her chair.
“That is one level, yes. Some years ago in New York, our agency became involved in the breakup of a gang known as Born to Kill. Money laundering, drugs, robbery, slavery, murder—you might have heard of it.”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Vietnamese,” she said. “Young and nothing-to-lose. Castoffs from their own country who banded together once they were here. Viet Kieu they considered themselves. Which, if you know the culture means—”
“Strangers in a strange land,” he said. “I’ve run across the term.”
“Three guesses where,” Maccafee said as Lorenz kept on.
“Some were illegals. Others bounced off the foster parent program and into collaboration with a man who attempted to mold them into a kind of crime family. At first within their urban environment, then nationwide.” Her hand stroked Matt’s fur. “That was a first.”
Maccafee said, “Giving pause not only to the established tongs, for whom they showed zero respect, but to law enforcement in general.”
“As usual and unfortunately,” Lorenz added, with a glance at her partner, “we were late reacting. And difficulty coordinating is a given.”
“Agency wars,” Wil put in.
Maccafee looked off; Lorenz didn’t.
“Right enough. Too often the gangs have nothing on us. But that’s another story. The fact is, we caught a break. We scored an informant who proved instrumental in bringing down the lead people. You see, it’s not as easy as rounding up whomever we suspect. Our own limitations—”
“Rules of law, you mean.”
“To be argumentative. Actually, I was referring to the code of silence among the victims.”
Wil drank from his bottled water. “But now another group has formed to fill the vacuum.”
“That is where we were going, yes,” she said after a glance at her partner. “Except that—”
“These aren’t your average thugs,” Maccafee put in. “At least the ones we’re after.”
“A wild guess,” Wil threw in. “Worse than baddies number one.”
“And their pretenders, of which there have been a number. Plus, they’ve formed alliances I won’t mention.”
“Always the way, isn’t it?”
Maccafee stared at Wil as he might a pinned bug. “They’re particularly effective in setting examples. One who owned an interstate trucking firm wasn’t buying the pitch. So they cored out his eyes with a grapefruit spoon—after they’d gutted his wife in front of him.” He ran a hand over his pink scalp, rubbed his hands t
ogether. “You ever read Dante?”
“Enough to get the reference,” Wil said, beginning to appreciate the man’s directness, if not his style.
“Every day these guys find new levels. Meantime, what Special Agent Lorenz is trying politely to say because she’s had more schooling than I have, is that we’ve had our losses. Enrique Camerena mean anything to you?”
DEA, the agent tortured to death by Mexican drug lords: Wil knew it from not only the papers, but from a friend who’d known him. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, hot damn,” Maccafee said. “Think Camerena with brains behind it.” He went to lean on the rail as Lorenz regarded Wil.
“Mac at one time was paired with an agent, a good man who knew his job. Indications were he’d been burned with a gas torch and fed to pigs.” She straightened in her chair. “I hedge because from the remains it was hard to tell. Any of this sticking to the wall, Mr. Hardesty?”
17
In the cool they’d moved to the living room, Lorenz making a show over his signed print of Moonrise over Hernandez, New Mexico while Maccafee went back to his horizon.
Great window for seeing your dead, Wil thought.
“Rising Dragon,” Maccafee said without turning from it. “That’s what they call themselves.”
“Viet Kieu homage to the old country.” Lorenz.
Wil thought of all the dragon memorabilia shipped home. Prevalent as the time-warp documentaries that still ran on the cable channels. “Defiant comes to mind,” he said.
Lorenz opened her attaché. “Like other gangs, Rising Dragon members are identifiable by their tattoos.” She fanned out shots of more or less the same rendering: a dragon rearing back on itself, claws poised to seize so the jaws could rip and tear.
Some were poorly done with inks that bled through the design; others showed an almost photographic skill. Higher-ups versus foot soldiers, Wil assumed.
“And you think Luc Tien is involved?”
“Now there’s a brilliant observation.”
“Enough, Mac, I mean it,” she said to him, a sword through silk.
“Right. You gonna be much longer? Because I’ll be in the car.”
Still without a look back, Maccafee clumped down the stairs; Wil could hear his feet on the gravel, car door closed, the radio punched up.
“So, what kind of trouble?” he asked Lorenz.
“Excuse me?”
“That got him demoted.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“Tom’s a legend in this business. Name it, and he’s done it.”
Wil shifted on the couch. “You’re also clearly his superior and a lot younger. Which either makes you the best ATF’s got, or somewhere along the line our man stumbled.”
She didn’t respond.
“Moot point,” he said, tired of it all. “You plan to let me in on what you want?”
Hesitation, then, “You’re working for the brother—Vinh Tien. Jimmy Tien’s father.”
“Did I say that?”
“Vinh Tien’s contesting of the investigation is documented. Via him, you have access.”
“The operative term is had. That was made clear yesterday.”
“Which puts you a leg up on us.”
“So get a warrant,” Wil said. “Take him down.”
“In time.” She looked at Matt snoozing next to his bowl. “Great dog. Where’d you get him?”
“Friend of mine who died,” he said. “You’d have liked her.”
“Can’t have too many friends, can we?”
And suddenly there it was, the piece configuring itself to the space, so apparent that he kicked himself for not already having seen it. It was the reason they’d tailed him to Rattlesnake, through Jimmy’s old neighborhood, why they were here.
We scored an informant. Fed MO in spades.
“Jimmy was working for you, wasn’t he?” Wil said.
She broke a smile. “Mac bet you wouldn’t see it.”
“And you went with me?” he said. “I must be slipping.”
“Don’t get all pumped up. I’m a fan of long shots.”
Be careful around this one, a little voice told him. He said, “Was it your idea to have Maccafee try and get me to nail him?”
“Let’s just say we work as a team.”
Damned careful. “So how’d you leverage Jimmy?”
She went to stand where Maccafee had, rolled her right shoulder.
“Not without difficulty, and for too brief a time. Do you always have sunsets this beautiful?”
He said, “It’s the weather down south—chubasco by name. Problem with the shoulder?”
“Chica with a knife I thought I could talk out of it. Rookie mistake.”
“What about Jimmy?”
She shrugged. “A good enough kid, but not our main thrust right now.” A flight of pelicans crossed the horizon, razor sharp in silhouette. “Are you thinking his uncle had him killed? Is that why you were out there at the house?”
“Lady, so far I don’t know jack, and I’m getting real tired of it.”
She turned from the window, herself an etching. “Luc Tien is our target, that must be apparent. And trust me, he’s easily capable of killing the kid. Which would tend to put us on the same side now, wouldn’t it?”
“Not as yet it wouldn’t.”
Her bottom lip formed a line against her teeth. “Information—dots we can connect, that’s what we need. Things you can learn that we can’t.”
“In other words, you want me to do your work for you.”
“What I want is to bring down a very bad man.”
“Lady, that’s you. Which doesn’t mean it’s me. And how far do you think I’d get when it became known I was anybody’s conduit.”
“Now I see. Except where it suits your purposes.”
“We all have our failings, Agent Lorenz.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that.”
“Big news, if it hasn’t dawned,” Wil said. “My scope’s a tad more limited.”
She shuffled the tattoo photos before scooping them into the attaché. “Just where I was headed,” she said. “What if we could help you with your case? Finding out what happened to Jimmy?”
“Interesting thought. And Wen.”
“Surely we’re past these word games.”
“You’ll tell me how, of course.”
“As thoughts occur. But I’m equally certain you’ll think of ways.” Smiling as she stood. “Goodnight, Mr. Hardesty.” Extending her hand from the lamplight. “Agent Maccafee and I will be in touch.”
18
The funeral for Kan Wah Yee promised to be one of Chinatown’s events of the year, second only to the Lunar holiday. All morning the flower shops had run their deliveries: funeral home and grave site, mom-and-pop establishments up and down Grant, the banners and decorated lampposts, the wreathed shop windows looking like something out of the twenties and thirties, the great tong funerals of that era. Traffic-control officers at the key intersections braced themselves—Broadway-Columbus, California-Grant near Old St. Mary’s, where a second memorial service was even now being held. Someplace the politicos could pay their respects in more familiar surroundings.
Besides, the granite foundation stones had come from China.
“Lung cancer,” they’d whisper somberly, reminding themselves to have their secretaries schedule checkups.
“All that opium,” they’d wink and grin to each other, though you had to be careful with this crowd. Never could tell what was going to upset whom these days, even the casual attempt at humor. Though even old man Yee would have gotten a kick out of that one, they’d agree later in the bars. And how about some of these squint hardcases: faces like they hadn’t shit in weeks.
From his spot in Portsmouth Square, Detective Sergeant Arthur Loh of San Francisco’s Asian Organized Crime Task Force pictured it, and happily so. He’d take outdoor duty anytime.
His luck of the draw: the official civic unveiling of the Kan Wah Yee bust and plaque concurrent with the Old St. Mary’s service, the hearse and limousines waiting for the slow parade down Grant. Yee’s privately commissioned flower-strewn bust not only befitting Chinatown’s no-shit, honest-to-Buddha godfather, but already sending a message to mah-jongg players everywhere.
Kan Wah Yee lives. Through us.
Meaning Yee’s Gateway Arch Benevolent Association, of course; they were on the plaque as sponsors. Understood and underlying, however, was the real sponsor—Po Sang, the West Coast’s most powerful and influential tong. Be mindful, you pretenders, you dividers, you independents inclined to fancy that our grip has loosened, the plaque told them. We are here, as this bust is here, part of the city.
Stone-faced and no less merciful.
Even the ones fresh off the boat understood that.
Looking around, Loh nodded to Detective Sergeant Terry Leong, a fellow Forcer there for the same reason he was: to see which among his mug-shot collection showed up, get a sense of the emerging power structure. Loh lit a stogie against the wind, the fog already rolling in off Russian Hill. Hundred-and-five degrees in Sacramento but overcoat weather here in the City. Making him yearn for the beaches of Orange County where he’d grown up.
Arthur Loh trailed smoke, raised his eyes to the Transamerica Building, the pyramid’s top already in shroud, Coit Tower becoming a ghost. Back down to the flowers, then, the uniformed school kids who’d just finished singing This Land Is Your Land, This Land Is My Land to polite applause. Spotting then three new arrivals he knew by name: William and Raymond Chang plus their Hong Kong money guy, Benny Lum. Here to pay respects and show solidarity, doubtless. Limo arrivals from the Washington Street side in their two-thousand-dollar suits.
Answering the question about who would inherit the earth.
Not the meek, Arthur thought, that was sure.
Not in this town.
He saw Terry Leong shoot a knowing glance his way, begin easing his way through the crowd and out—where Arthur Loh was headed in a minute. Spell-the-wife time: watch the Niners play somebody in a meaningless pre-season game, the father-son thing with Junior while Valerie recharged at her French-cooking class. Picturing her with flour on her nose, her big glasses taking it all in, Arthur Loh smiled. And almost missed the three young men in knee-length raincoats moving toward the front.
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