Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

“Come on up. I’ll make some coffee.”

A pause. “Perhaps that is not a good idea.”

“Ah, that sort of talk. I’ll come down.”

Karp was used to his wife dashing off at odd hours. “Will you be late?” he asked mildly.

“No, be right back. I just have to have a word with someone.”

Karp listened to the elevator descend. He got up, checked the twins, and then knocked gently on the door of Lucy’s room. No answer. He entered and saw that it was dark, but heard not the calm and steady respiration of childhood sleep, but a caught breath.

“You okay, Luce?” He moved carefully toward her and sat on the bedside. He felt her forehead. Clammy. “Can’t sleep?”

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

“I don’t think so. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Silence. “Is it what happened with the Chens?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Lucy, listen to me. There’s no problem that we can’t fix together. But you got to come clean. I’m worried. Your mother’s worried. .”

“Hah!”

“What, you don’t think she cares about you? Are you nuts? Whatever this is between the two of you is making her miserable.”

“The only way she would really care about me is if somebody was trying to kill me,” said Lucy with finality, and then pulled her quilt over her head in an unambiguous signal that she wished to converse no more.

Down on the street, Tran shook hands with her formally as he always did. They walked up Crosby through the warm blue evening. They inquired after each other’s health, remarked on the pleasant and seasonable weather. Marlene spoke her correct schoolgirl French, Tran his soft and nasal Vietnamese variety.

“So? What did you want to talk about?” Marlene urged when Tran seemed reluctant to begin.

“A delicate matter, I think. This afternoon Lucy called me and told me that she and the Chen girl were being followed by some Chinese boys she thought were gang members. Let me explain also that Lucy had earlier expressed to me fears that she might have been followed by someone of uncertain motives.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Icily.

“I did not. The relations between you and your daughter at the present time are such that if she thought I was carrying tales to you, she would not share confidences with me; hence she would have no adult guidance at all in a certain restricted sphere. I trust that what I tell you now will not be flung in her face.”

Marlene fumed briefly, but she took the point and grumblingly agreed. The score she gave herself in the motherhood category dropped yet again. “Who was following them?”

“A pair of boys associated with the White Dragons. They were hired by a man who called himself Leung Wenri. Their target was Janice Chen rather than Lucy. They were supposed to follow, and show that they were following, and put a fright into the girl. Which they did.”

“This has something to do with the shootings in the Asia Mall, doesn’t it?”

“That is a reasonable assumption,” said Tran after a moment. “It is possible that the elder Chens are somehow involved. Perhaps they agreed to have their shop used for these assassinations. Perhaps they were not told it would be an assassination. Now they are frightened. The assassins wish to impress upon them how vulnerable they are.”

They reached the end of the street, and Tran turned and started back the way they had come, Marlene at his side, as if they were some Edwardian couple taking a turn around the gardens.

“Do you think the girls are in any real danger?”

“Not from those two, at least.”

These words sank in. She stopped short and blurted in English, “Oh, Christ, Tran! Don’t tell me you whacked them!”

He gave her a pained look. “I assure you, Marie-Helene, they are entirely intact, aside from a little fear. One of them soiled his underclothes, but that is, I believe, the only damage. I thought it would be useful if they went back to Mr. Leung, so that whoever hired him would understand that the girls are not entirely bereft of friends useful in such matters.”

“This Leung is not the principal in the shootings, you surmise?”

“I would be startled to learn it. From what I can gather, he is a petty gangster. It is unlikely that he would dream of assassinating men such as the Sings.”

“These are the victims?”

“Yes. Sing Peichi and his son, Sing Zongxian. From Hong Kong.”

She stopped again and examined her friend’s face. He seemed hesitant, as if unwilling to discuss the subject. This was a sure way to attract Marlene’s avid attention.

“And why, pray, would one consider the Sings, father and son, as being outside the reach of the petty gangsters of the world?”

Tran saw she would not let it drop, sighed, and resumed strolling. “I suppose you know what a triad is?”

“Of course. The Chinese version of the Mafia.”

“Which is what most Westerners think, but, like most aspects of China, the truth is somewhat more complex. How to explain this? A Mafia is a feudal organization: that is to say, it is a strict hierarchy, ordered and controlled from the top, bound together by loyalty and the conferring of valuable gifts, with violent sanctions for those who break its rules. In comparison, a triad is more like a trade association or a chamber of commerce, except the trade is largely criminal and the commerce illegal. And being Chinese in origin, they are naturally festooned with all manner of ritual and superstition. Shall I explain how they operate?”

“Yes, but first tell me how you came to learn all this.”

Tran gave her a sidelong look and pursed his lips in a manner that reminded Marlene of Sister Marie-Michel, the elderly nun who had introduced her to the French language.

He said, “You know, Americans are the only people in the world who believe it is their natural right to know the entire history of a person with whom they converse; worse, they feel obliged to deliver their own complete annals, whether desired or not.”

“Allow me to tender my apologies on behalf of Americans everywhere. You were saying. .”

“I was not saying. But, suppose you imagine me in 1975, on a beach in the Philippines, after eighty-six days at sea, in rags, penniless, my only possessions a pistol and three books. Four years later I possess enough money to travel to New York and open a restaurant. Now, I have but two real skills: one is the teaching of literature, somewhat rusty, and the other the efficient generation of death and terror, sharp and well honed. Which do you suppose afforded me the most profit in those years?”

“You were actually in a triad?”

“Tchah! Don’t be foolish, Marie-Helene! I cannot be in a triad. I am Viet, not Han. Triads are not-you have this marvelous phrase- equal opportunity employers . But since the war and our diaspora, we Vietnamese have acquired a reputation throughout the Pacific and elsewhere as men of desperation, with little respect for life or property. In my case, sadly, it was even true. If something particularly nasty is to be done, the Chinese especially look for a Viet-Kieu . In Europe it is Albanians; in the Pacific, Vietnamese. Thus I prospered. I worked for a gang associated with the Ssu Shih K Hau triad, which was a branch of the 14K triad group of Hong Kong. Are you satisfied that I know whereof I speak? Thank you, very good. To resume: triads act like clearinghouses and substitute families for the Chinese criminal classes. They are networks and are further organized into associations of networks, triad groups-the 14K and the Wo in Hong Kong, the Hung Pang in Thailand, the Hung Men in Malaysia, and so forth. Now, imagine I am a criminal who wants someone killed, or I wish to open a house of prostitution. .”