Riding the Snake (1998) (29 page)

Henry Liu moved painfully to the door. His bad leg had been his life's biggest curse. He had been shot in the leg by an English policeman when he was fifteen. The butcher surgeons in the Kowloon clinic had repaired it badly, and it had never healed correctly. He had had it amputated just below the knee three years ago, but it was now worse than before. It ached when he walked on his prosthesis. His stumped leg was always rubbed raw from the appliance, and late in the afternoon he found it difficult even to stand. Now he stoically endured both the pain and Wo Lap Ling's stern warning. He left with his new instructions: He would guarantee the safety of the City of Willows or give his own life in failure.

After he had gone, Willy sat in silence on the sofa in his darkened apartment. He was too old to run from weak enemies. He would not scurry in fear from a Black woman. He had no better place for his money and political papers than where they were now sequestered. He had fashioned a set of Chinese boxes he felt were impenetrable. The documents were currently locked inside a safe, inside the altar, inside the Red Flower Pavilion, inside the City of Willows, inside the Walled City of Kowloon. He had been at this game for three-quarters of a century. He had come a long distance in his life and crossed many treacherous rivers. He also knew: Distance only tests the endurance of a horse. It is time that reveals the character of a man.

Wheeler's own thoughts pestered him like begging children. He was tired of evaluating himself, but he couldn't stop. Every thought he had led him back to his. own performance. And then, making it worse, he had not been able to shake the memory of Chauncy
Chan being dragged out of his shop, or the sight of the woman bleeding on the floor, or the look of panic and loss in Chauncy's eyes when he turned to them and said, "They shot my wife."

He felt guilt for all of it. He was the conduit that had brought destruction into Chauncy's shoe shop. And then, changing channels on this screen of bad memories, he began reviewing his sorr
y p
erformance that morningWith the smell of cordite in his nos
e f
rom Julian's and Tanisha's gunfire, and panic in his chest, he dove out of the car, fearing for his life, unable to move fast enough, ducking for cover while Julian and Tanisha returned fire with grim expressions.

"What the fuck did you expect, you stupid asshole?" the Prankmeister whispered, but his voice had grown dim. Wheeler had become disgusted with himself. But still, what was he doing? What did he expect? There seemed to be almost no upside in it for him. He could destroy his brother's legend and devastate his mother, sister-in-law, and nephew, Hollis. He could easily end up dead, half a world away, perhaps the victim of a horrible, torturous death. So what the fuck was he trying to prove? And then he felt a surge of protective love and a sense of loss for Pres. He began to choke up in the darkened hotel room, but he still couldn't cry. Something was stopping him. Some sense that he had not purged himself of selfish thoughts. He had failed his little brother. He had not protected him. If after Prescott's murder there had once been some part of him rooting for his brother's exposure, at least that part had finally died. He no longer felt anything but shame for not being there to guide Pres. All he wanted now was to solve his murder and make the ones who had done it pay. In that effort, he could recapture some portion of his self-respect.

Wheeler couldn't live with who he had been; he couldn't stand the memory of the Prankmeister. His old life now looked sad and comical to him. As he lay in bed on the twentieth floor of the Peninsula Hotel at one in the morning, he could finally see how he must have appeared to others. He could finally understand his father's disdain. His cheeks stung with embarrassment for himself and for the hollow waste his life had been.

Then the door opened and she was standing in the threshold of the bedroom, back-lit by the sitting room. She had on the terry
-
cloth robe that she never seemed to believe was complimentary.

"Wheeler?" she said softly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," his voice a whisper.

"Can I talk to you?"

"Yes."

She moved across the room slowly and sat on the edge of his bed. She didn't say anything for a long moment, but he could feel her body trembling slightly.

"I'm scared," she said. "I'm scared and lonely."

He reached out and took her hand. "Me too," he said. Then he put his arm around her and tried to comfort her. She pulled away, unsure what she wanted.

"I need to hold somebody," he said softly. "I need to hold you."

She looked down at him. "I'm afraid we may die before we get home. I'll never see my grandmother or my niece again," she said.

He pulled on her wrist, and this time she allowed him to pull her down on the bed, next to him. He could smell her hair, sweet and fresh from a recent shower. Her body was firm and yet tender. She lay next to him, but somehow apart from him. He could hear her breathing, feel her breath on his neck. He reached out with his right hand and brushed the hair off her forehead. In the dim light, he looked into her black eyes. He could see the strength of ages there. Not just generations, but centuries of Black courage looked back at him. She had been forged by her past relationships, her racial history, and the violent streets of South Central. She was a fierce warrior, but somehow she had not lo;st her humanity. She had fought to retain it while he'd given his away at a country club bar for free. As he lay there, looking into her eyes, he wondered how he'd gotten so far off the road, how he'd managed to place value in such a string of asinine accomplishments. Then she too
k h
is hand and put it against her face, reached forward, and kissed him. He was surprised by it. Surprised she found anything worth cherishing in him. But some of his fear and self-loathing melted with that kiss.

He looked in her eyes and wondered how he could ever be good enough for her.

Chapter
26.

The Other Woman

"For a crook, this bloody fool was an ear-bashing bore," M Julian said as he led them down the steps of the Royal JL Hong Kong Yacht Club, across the grassy park in front of the Colonial Club House, and down onto the concrete docks. The Yacht Club was just around the point from Causeway Bay and looked north, toward Kowloon, across Victoria Harbor. The docks were tucked in behind a massive concrete jetty wall. A magnificent collection of sailboats and motor yachts were nestled there, floating evidence of the Colony's past European splendor. Some of the boats were now falling into disrepair. Their owners had fled Hong Kong, and the dock workers hired to maintain them had taken a holiday. Other vessels had found new owners, with government titles, and they still sparkled in the midmorning sunshine.

Julian headed down the main concrete pier. "The lout was basically a drug-runner," he continued. "We seized his apartment and his office building, which was in his mum's name, then we find out he's got this piece of all-right floating down here. This was in July, just before the hand-over. I didn't bother to tell the lads i
n t
he police building I found the thing. With all of the confusion, this bauble slipped beneath the radar."

They were now approaching a fifty-five-foot, pearl-white, custom motor-sailer with teak decks and a large center cabin. Its name was painted across the stern in English script:

The Other Woman 'Hong
K
ong
'

Julian jumped aboard and unlocked the main salon with a key that he pulled from a hook under the aft starboard seat locker. They moved into the beautifully appointed salon, and Julian started opening the teak shutters to let the light in.

"This is a bit more cozy," he said. "I've been taking her out, from time to time, keeping the brightwork fresh, but the marine licensing board is about to have a go at it and I'll be forced to step away. Been lucky to have use of her these last six months," he said, then went down the few steps to the galley, opened the refrigerator, got three beers, and moved back and handed one each to Wheeler and Tanisha.

Wheeler smiled and looked longingly at the frosty bottle of English Red Crown in his hand. His mouth watered for a swallow. He could almost feel the alcohol going down his throat, unlocking and warming his stomach, washing away the burning nausea that he experienced every morning.

"What is it you wanted to see us about?" Tanisha said.

Julian had called them at nine and asked them to meet him at the Yacht Club. Now he sat on the big sofa in the main salon in tan slacks, a T-shirt, and boat shoes and looked at them.

"I just came from the hospital over in Ling Tim where we took Mrs. Chan. She'd been on the critical list since yesterday, but she packed it in this morning at eight thirty-five."

Wheeler's heart sank. He looked at the beer in his hand. His throat burned. He wondered if there was any Scotch whisky aboard.

Julian continued, "Chauncy went into a flat spin after she died. Started screaming at the docs and the like, then he took off. I tried to stop him, but he was in a bloody lather. I found out an hour ago that he got his kids and disappeared.

Tanisha realized that with Johnny probably dead and Chauncy gone, they had just sevened out.

"You want my take?" Julian continued. "This was always a doggy business. Even if we got to that park, we wouldn't be able to breach the Triad headquarters. They have fighting sections, suicide assassins, called vanguards. They're martial artists armed to the teeth with Russian weapons. You saw the firepower they had yesterday. We'd need a division of Royal Marines to get in there," he said, with a sigh. "I've decided to bugger off. Been thinkin' about it for months. I can smell my own death coming, so I'm gonna leave."

"You mean you're gonna run!" Wheeler said, setting the untouched beer down.

"It's over. I'm out of rope and up to my knickers in trouble with my Chinese chums in the Colony police. You'd best be off, too. The police and the Triads are obviously in league, and Willy's at the center of it. We didn't endear ourselves to that buncha teara
-
bouts yesterday when we fired on them. Johnny's in the orchard and I don't need my name on a bloody invitation to the Ice House to know I've used up my stay."

"Where are you going to go?" Wheeler asked.

"That's not something I plan on sharing with you, laddie. . . . Not that I don't trust you, but it's bloody hard not to talk when somebody shoves a live fucking rodent up your arse."

When Wheeler and Tanisha got back to the hotel, she had managed to convince him that without Julian and Chauncy, they had no way of proceeding. Tanisha wanted to go home. She had called and left a message with Captain Verba earlier, saying that she had more family problems in Cleveland and needed a two-week leave. She asked his voice mail if he could postpone her I
. A. D
. hearing. Now it was time to face that situation.

While Tanisha went upstairs to change, Wheeler sat in the lobby and tried to think of some way to continue. After reviewing everything, he realized they had no options left. He had failed Prescott in death, just as completely as he had in life. Wheeler watched the flow of people in the Peninsula lobby, feeling such a depression he almost couldn't deal with it. Self-loathing swept over him. Finally he stood and walked to the concierge desk and ordered two tickets on the next flight out to Los Angeles. The first available seats were on a Singapore Air red-eye that left Hong Kong's Kai Tak Airport at one A
. M
. that next morning. While Wheeler was at the concierge desk booking the seats, Tanisha called from the suite and said she would meet him in the Pen Room grill off the lobby. He arrived there and found her in the leather booth in the back. They hadn't eaten since breakfast, but neither was hungry, so they just ordered Cokes.

"I'm sorry," Tanisha said. "I know this meant a lot to you, but I don't think we could have pulled it off, even if we had Julian and Chauncy and half the honest cops left on the Hong Kong police force. It was a nice try but it wouldn't have worked. We needed to find an edge--a smart way to do it--and there doesn't seem to be one."

He knew she was right. It had been insane, and it might not even have solved Prescott's murder. If only they had been able to prove Willy had cut a deal with Beijing. Wheeler was sure he could have exposed their plot and at least made the bastards pay for Prescott's death. But they couldn't go up against the most powerful criminal organization in the world in their own backyard without help. All he had managed to create in Hong Kong was more misery and death.

Then a shadow fell across their table and Chauncy Chan was standing there. He seemed to have shrunk in size, his shoulders slumped, head down, his eyes sunk deep in his head. He was rubbing his hands together in front of him. He looked like he hadn't slept since they last saw him, a day ago. "I was waiting in the lobby," he said. "I saw you come in."

"I'm so sorry about your wife," Wheeler said.

Chauncy nodded, the pain and sorrow visible on him like a second skin. "I've taken my children to my cousin's house," he said, his voice now almost frightening in its coldness. "My wife was very ill. She had a sickness, but she was my life," he said. "She was my strength. Her death cannot go unpunished."

Wheeler got up and motioned for Chauncy to sit, but he remained standing.

"I know how to get into the park inside the Walled City," he said.