David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

“Do you really think three peasants are capable of planning and executing the murder of seventeen foreigners on a boat?” Fong snapped.

“Well . . . maybe . . .”

“So you greeted the foreigners on the dock?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what?”

“I went on board the ship when they told me to.”

“Who told you to?”

“The Chinese guy who was in charge.”

“The boat owner?”

“No, the old Taiwanese who piloted the thing.”

“Then what?”

“The boat got out into the middle of the lake and I served drinks.”

“Champagne.”

“Yeah,” she said, surprised that he knew that. “Just champagne.”

“Were there any other kinds of liquor on board?”

“No.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“Well yeah, but it was none of my business. I was being paid. So I did what I was asked to do. I served them drinks. I danced for them on this corny runway thing then I spent some time with the two Americans.” She paused then added, “You know . . .”

That hung in the air for a bit. Fong asked, “Did you have any champagne yourself?”

“No. They wouldn’t let me.”

“When did the crew leave the ship?”

“Just after I finished with the Americans. They were . . . well, sort of too drowsy to . . . you know. So they didn’t do anything.”

“How long after you left the dock was that?”

“A guess? Maybe an hour and a half . . . two, tops. Then the other guys came on board.” Fong held his breath. She shrugged, “You know, those odd-looking peasant guys.”

“Why do you say they were odd-looking?”

“Well, they all sort of looked the same, you know. Weird. Looked like the old guy who was on board. Farmers, you know.”

“Of course,” Fong thought, “it was a celebration. Iman would have been invited.” He smiled at her and asked, “How many of them were there?”

“Dozens. Hundreds. A lot – counting’s not my idea of fun. They seemed to be everywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many up close. You may have noticed, I’m a city girl.”

She touched his arm. He shrugged her hand away. “How do you know they were farmers?”

“They carried tools.”

Fong saw the scraped-off faces of the Chinese men in the bar. He closed his eyes and asked, “Hoes?”

“I don’t know what you call them. The wide, short, sharp things used for . . .”

“Hewing. Building terraces. I’ve seen them,” he said almost in a whisper.

“If you say so – how would I know what they are?”

But Fong wasn’t listening to her. He had retreated into the recesses of his mind. A terrible truth sat there. All the island farmers did the killing onboard that ship.

Dizziness threatened to engulf him but he breathed it away and asked, “And these farmer types took over running the ship?”

“I guess. The guests seemed really sleepy, except for that old guy who they all looked like.”

His mind supplied the unwanted image of islanders entering the rooms, slashing blows of the hewers, gunshots, gutting, castration – fury – chi. He looked up at her. “How did you get away?”

“The fisherman.”

“What?”

“I was out on the deck and a fisherman . . . you know, one of those guys with the birds, yelled at me to jump. I thought he was nuts. The clothes I was wearing cost me a fortune. Besides, I don’t swim much.”

“How did he get you to jump?”

“When I saw how excited he was I figured that maybe I’d better listen to him. Know what I mean? Anyhow, I didn’t have to jump, he brought his boat in close and helped me down. I didn’t even get wet.” She stopped for a moment. “I didn’t kill anyone. Shit, I didn’t even fuck anyone. Or any other stuff. I just took off my clothes. Is that a crime in the New China? If so, since when?”

They were on their way to the China news agency across town as Fong finished telling them about his conversation with Sun Li Cha.

“It makes no sense, Fong. One girl for seventeen foreigners.” With a smile she added, “Chinese women are extraordinary, but seventeen to one seems . . .”

“You forget the girls pushing the broken-down bus Chen saw outside of Ching that night.”

“Russian craftsmanship strikes again,” added Chen.

“That breakdown probably saved their lives.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to be . . .”

He never got to complete his apology. “So how did Sun Li Cha get there, Fong?”

“She drove, Lily.”

“She has a car?” Lily asked, astounded.

“Evidently her business is thriving.” Lily frowned. He didn’t. “Are we getting close to the news bureau, Captain Chen?” The younger man nodded. “Who are we talking to there, Lily?”

“There’s a Reuters correspondent, a CNN guy and an Associated Press stringer.”

“Were they all there in December?”

“Not the Associated Press guy, but the other two were.”

“They’re all covering the story of the murders?”

“Well, they were until the government threatened to remove their credentials.”

“So there’s been no coverage overseas of the murders?” Fong asked incredulously.

“There was a furor for a while, then came the arrests. The recreation model was displayed prominently to the press as proof that prosecutions were imminent.”

“And now?”

“I think not much.”

“But that’s not the point, is it, Fong?” asked Lily. “Isn’t the issue how they got word of the story in the first place?”

“It sure is Lily, which is why I think maybe you ought to conduct these interviews.”

“Me?”

“Who else knows CNN and that other Western stuff better than you?”

Lily thought about that for a moment. “True. But I can’t meet them looking like this.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes you’re wearing. They look fine to me. Right, Chen?”

Chen blushed. “Maybe Lily has different standards than we do, sir.”

It had never occurred to Fong that Chen would be attracted to Lily. Well, why not? The young man’s marriage was falling apart. And Chen was a lot closer to Lily’s age than he was.

“Turn here, Chen,” Lily said, indicating a street at the right. It led to an area of high-class restaurants and fashionable shops.

“There.” Lily said, pointing at a large, Western-style store. “Stop the car, Chen. That looks promising.” She hopped out and leaned in the window. “What’s my budget?”

Fong had no idea if they even had a budget. Chen reached into his wallet and withdrew a credit card. “It’s got about four hundred American dollars left on it.” As Lily took the card, Fong stared at Chen. “Left on it?”

“It’s a smart card, sir.”

Fong nodded as if he understood what was said to him. But he didn’t. He’d been on the wrong side of the Wall for a long time. How could a credit card be smart – or dumb for that matter?

The store spread out before Lily like a cave freshly opened to the light. She stood on the entry dais some six feet above floor level. The Western influence was evident everywhere. This was a place for the privileged. There seemed to be more shopgirls than buyers in the store. To one side a few Western women were speaking too loudly as their bored husbands tried their best to be interested in more than just the price of their wives’ selections.

Two Chinese women moved with cool precision through the aisles, careful not to catch each other’s eyes. Each knew the compromises necessary to have the money to shop in such a store. Neither was anxious to broach the subject. Both were beautiful. Both were young. Both made Lily feel ugly and old for a moment. But only for a moment.

A shopgirl approached Lily and bowed slightly. Lily put on her best I’m-a-ranking-party-member look and moved past the girl who obediently followed in her wake.