Act of Revenge (18 page)

Tran went over to an address on Bayard Street, where he squatted against
a wall near a grocery store and waited. It had not been particularly difficult to
find Leung; gangsters have office hours like other professionals. It was necessary
only to know where to inquire, and Tran knew.

The grocery opened for business: the proprietor and his sons set out
bins and stocked them with fresh vegetables, and hosed down the shining produce and
the sidewalk in front of the store. The man noticed Tran but ignored him, only
taking care not to get him wet. All along the street, shopkeepers were doing similar
things, moving window grates back, setting racks of clothes or boxes of cheap items
out on the street, adjusting awnings, accepting deliveries from the usual worn,
stinking trucks painted with big characters.

At just past eight, a short, stocky man wearing white cook's
pants and a dark zipper jacket came to the door of Li's, opened it, and began
moving in the crates that had been delivered earlier in the morning. Tran crossed
the street and spoke to the man in Cantonese. The grocery store owner, coiling his
hose, watched the interaction with mild interest. The short man appeared to object.
Tran leaned closer, took something from his trouser pocket, and slid it into the
pocket of the man's jacket. He gripped the man's shoulder in either
reassurance or menace; it was hard to tell from across the street. After a few
moments, however, the short man nodded and smiled, and then both men worked together
to take the cartons into the restaurant. The grocer knew what had happened. The
older guy had asked for a job, and the restaurant guy had turned him down, because
he didn't need a guy, because, as everyone on the street knew, Li's
was a tong place and not a serious restaurant at all, but the old guy had slipped
him some cash so that the restaurant manager would carry him on the books, so that
the old guy could claim employment, so he could bring relatives over, or people he
said were relatives. It was
wan shai kaai
, making a
living, the usual mild chicanery of Chinatown. The grocer himself had done any
number of similar things. He forgot the incident, and began pricing his vegetables
with little paper signs.

In the kitchen of Li's, Tran put on an apron and began to set up
for the day. He filled the tea urn and loaded the rice cooker. Mr. Li was surprised
to see that the fellow seemed to know his way around a kitchen. Mr. Li decided to
tell his employers, if they should ask, that the man was his wife's cousin, a
Viet-Ching from Saigon, which would explain his accent and features. He thought the
man was in actuality a Vietnamese illegal on the run, and he thought he could milk
additional funds out of him without anyone being the wiser.

Tran made a pot of
juk
, or congee, the rice
gruel that is the corn flakes of China, and served out two bowls of it accompanied
by pickled vegetables, pickled ginger, sliced salt eggs, and white bean cheese. Mr.
Li was further astounded, because it was very good
juk
,
creamy and smooth, and he rather liked being served breakfast in his own restaurant.
It was almost like owning a real restaurant. He left Tran to chop and clean, while
he sat at the little table at the front of the place and added columns of
figures.

Leung came in at his usual time and sat in his usual place. Mr. Li went
to the kitchen and poured an urn of tea and laid some steamed buns on a plate and
set it before Leung. He thought for a moment of offering Leung some congee but
decided against it. He was not interested in interrupting any detail of the
man's routine.

A half hour later another man came in, this one a smooth-looking elderly
fellow in a gray sharkskin suit and a patterned tie. Mr. Leung got up from his seat
and greeted this man deferentially, because of both his age and his position in the
community. He addressed him as Venerable Yee. Mr. Yee was a wealthy clothing
importer and the president of the Háp Tài Business Association.
Háp Tài means “benevolent ladder” in Cantonese, which
more or less summed up the purpose of the organization, which was, in fact, a tong,
although no longer involved in criminal activities, except when necessary for
benevolence or for climbing the ladder of success, as now. The Chen family was also
a member of this association, which was why Mr. Yee was here this morning.

Mr. Li ushered the tong leader to Leung's table and hurried off
to fetch a fresh pot and more delicacies. He returned and went back to his stool.
Leung and Mr. Yee saw a thin man in an apron come out of the kitchen with a mop and
bucket and start to wash the floor, but they saw him not. Leung poured tea. They
began to converse, beginning with the usual compliments. Both men understood
jo yan
, a term that means “behave like a
human” and which stood for the norms of behavior expected of a Chinese, even
if that Chinese is a very bad human. When Leung had been a Red Guard, he had done
his best to destroy the idea of
jo yan
, but had failed,
and so here they were, Leung being deferential to this old jerk, Mr. Yee, confident
in his ability to condescend to a man nominally more powerful.

Mr. Yee had the privilege of raising the point of their meeting, which
he did after all ceremony had been satisfied.

“An unfortunate event occurred in the Asia Mall, one that brought
shame upon my associates.”

“The shame is mine,” said Leung, “for arranging the
meeting. Nevertheless, spilt water cannot be recovered. The question is what to do
now. I would welcome your suggestions.”

“You clearly know more than I do about such things, but would it
be possible to assure the associates and family of the lamented Sings that the
Háp Tài were not involved in this affair? As you know, we were simply
asked to provide a private place and we did so, without in the least expecting such
a disturbing event.”

“I understand,” said Leung, “but rest assured, the
Woh Hàp Toùh have no doubts about your honesty. It is perfectly clear
that this was not done by you, or even by a Chinese. It is obviously the work of the
Italians. Indeed, this is why they desired the meeting with the Sings.”

Mr. Yee allowed himself to appear startled, so startled was he.
“The
Italians
? But we have never ever had any
trouble with them; they have their things, we have ours. Are you certain you are not
losing an ax and suspecting a neighbor?”

“My information is correct and comes from a source that cannot be
impeached,” said Leung.

The older man busied himself with pot and teacup to gain time to arrange
his thoughts. “If that is truly the case, then we must bend the chimney and
shift the firewood, and without delay. I am grateful for this
information.”

“I am happy to provide this small crumb if you think it is of
value. Let me say this, however: as usual, these killings have attracted the
attention of the police. This presents a separate danger. The Woh people will deal
with the Italians in their own way and in their own time, but if it is thought that
the Háp Tài were party to an official investigation, one that might
reveal almost anything, then their rage would be considerable and then it
would
be directed at you, both here and in
China.”

Leung let that sink in, and then added, almost offhandedly, “I
suppose the Chens can be relied upon?”

Mr. Yee was quick to answer, “Without a doubt they will say
nothing.”

“I wonder. The elder daughter seems to spend all her time with a
gwailo
girl. No doubt her head is being filled with
pernicious notions. It may make her unreliable.” Leung had made discreet
inquiries about all the Chens and was trying to confirm this odd information.

“Oh, no, that is just Lòuhsì,” Mr. Yee
exclaimed; then, under Leung's questioning, he explained Lucy's
provenance, and finished by saying, “So, you see, she is not a real
gwailo
, she's practically Chinese herself. There is
no need to worry about her.”

“If you say so, and take the responsibility. But suppose I was
describing her to someone, say someone in Hong Kong. I would say, perhaps, yes, yes,
everything is fine here. For example, the Chens—above reproach! The Chen
daughter is always in the company of an
American
girl
who is the daughter of a public prosecutor, and the daughter of a woman, an
Italian
woman, an
armed
Italian woman who interferes with the proper disciplining of wives. Wah! This person
might say, but surely this is yet prudent, for being a
gwaileui
, she could never learn anything of moment from the Chen. Now I
must inform this person that this girl speaks Cantonese and Mandarin perfectly, and
who knows what she has heard and passed on to her so-interesting parents? What do
you suppose this person would say then?”

Mr. Yee was growing pale around the nostrils. His voice dropped half an
octave. “Perhaps he would say that you were mistaking the shadow of a bow in
the cup for a snake.” He looked at his watch, a calculated rudeness, and
moved his teacup aside with a sharp gesture. “I have business elsewhere, so
let me say this: if you should have the honor of conversing with your elders in Hong
Kong or China, please inform them that the correct behavior of the Chens and their
friends is guaranteed by the Háp Tài. Also, please convey to your
superiors the honor our little organization experiences in being associated with
your glorious and powerful brotherhood, and assure them that our behavior will be as
exemplary as our inferior abilities permit.”

After Mr. Yee had gone, Leung made some notes on a paper napkin, using
the triad code, and then made two telephone calls. When he came back, he had to
squeeze by the man with the bucket, who was now wiping down the counter. Leung
waited outside the restaurant for five minutes, leaning against the wall and picking
his teeth. A dark brown sedan pulled up to the curb, and a thirtyish oriental man in
a blue blazer and gray slacks got out. Leung went over to the man, and they spoke
briefly.

Inside Li's, Tran looked up from his polishing and observed. He
could not hear what was being said, but he had heard enough while he plied his mop.
He did, however, catch the smooth, quick movement of a fat envelope from
Leung's inner jacket pocket to the breast pocket of the blue blazer. The man
reentered his brown car and drove off. Leung looked down the street in both
directions and then walked slowly west toward Mott Street.

Tran picked up his pail and rags and returned to the kitchen, where he
doffed his apron and started out of the restaurant. Mr. Li looked up from his
figures. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go to my other job,” said Tran.

“What? You have another job?”

“Yes, one must struggle to survive in the Beautiful
Country.”

He headed quickly toward Mott Street and the Chinese School, hoping he
was not too late.

Karp had first heard the name William Fogel while working downtown
as a tort lawyer. The man was a prominent member of the New York bar, who had
recently negotiated, against a local hospital, a malpractice settlement large enough
to appear in the business section of the
New York Times
.
Karp studied the name on the yellow message slip and tried to think of why Fogel
would be calling him. Probably something about one of his old tort cases, was his
thought as he dialed the number. The secretary put him right through. Fogel had a
genial voice, like an old-fashioned radio announcer's, and had worked hard to
cover a Bronx accent. He made polite inquiries after Karp's well-being,
recalled the few mutual acquaintances they'd had in the tort universe, dealt
with their well-being, and then, Karp having exhibited his lack of enthusiasm for
this palaver, Fogel came to the point.

“I've got an odd one here, Butch, a client, a new client,
in fact, says he wants to see you, says he's got some information about the
shooting of Edward Catalano.”

“That is odd. A little far afield from your usual run of
clientele, huh? The hit on Catalano probably didn't have much to do with
malpractice.”

Booming laugh, within which Karp detected a core of nervousness.
“No, I guess not,” said Fogel. “In any case, I agreed to
represent him in this matter. I imagine it's fairly routine.”

“Maybe,” said Karp. “Even more routine would be a
guy has information about a major felony, he walks down the block to the police
station and gives his statement to a detective. It's a lot less routine when
the guy retains a high-priced downtown lawyer and asks to talk directly to the
district attorney. I assume he wanted to speak to Mr. Keegan?”

“Actually, no. He asked for you by name.”

“Did he? Getting less routine by the minute, Bill. This fellow
got a name?”

“Yes. He calls himself Willie Lie.”

Karp waited and then said, “Well, I just checked my calendar,
Bill, and I see it's not April Fool's Day, so . . .”

The booming laugh again, more nervous still. “Yeah, yeah, I know,
what a name for a witness. But the man seems legit to me. He's an Asian
gentleman.”

“Is he? Well, you can tell Mr. Lie to walk over to the nearest
precinct and make his statement—”

“Uh-uh, no, sir. That's out. Mr. Lie wishes to deal
directly with you on this matter. He will not be forthcoming absent
that.”

“And I assume you informed your client that all citizens have an
obligation to help the police and that intentionally withholding information could
be construed as hindering prosecution, which, given the underlying crime in
question, would be a felony itself.”

“Yes, I explained all that to Mr. Lie. He still insists on
you.”