David Rotenberg - The Shanghai Murders

Fong was going to correct her but thought it unwise to teach Lily any more English names for male genitalia. So he merely said, “I try not to bet my picker, unless I’m sure of the horse.”

Lily was still trying to work out the idiom as he left.

Passing by Shrug and Knock Fong couldn’t resist yelling at him. So he did. Shrug and Knock shrugged it off and smiled. “How’s that report coming along?”

In his office Fong found a message to call Li Xiao, the detective working on the martial arts angle. Fong called the number, which was in Kwongjo, Canton. When his call was forwarded to a beeper, he left a message that he had returned the call. Then he checked to make sure that his door was locked and sat down to his typewriter.

The report to his Hu-ness took a solid hour to write and was clear but vacant. It did not muddy waters but it made absolutely no effort to clean them. There was no speculation of any sort in it and certainly no flow chart leading from the Dim Sum Killer to anyone else. When the report was almost finished, his private line rang. He thought it would be Wang Jun so he picked up. “Talk.”

But it wasn’t the older detective, it was Li Xiao returning his call.

“Sir?”

“Who is. . . Li Xiao, I’m sorry. How’s Kwongjo?”

“Like the Wild West in American movies. This place is too close to Hong Kong.”

“They really eat lamb’s balls down there?”

“Lamb’s balls, bull’s balls, fuck, they’d eat rat’s balls if they were big enough to pick up with chopsticks.”

The two men laughed together. Li Xiao was one of the few men on the force, outside of Wang Jun, whom Fong admired. He felt that Li Xiao really had talent and was an incorruptible cop in a force that fought a daily battle against internal corruption. He was the best detective, bar none, who worked under Fong. He also liked the young man. He liked his tough, wide body and his pimpled face. He liked the honest ugliness of him. If there hadn’t been such an age difference he would have tried to pursue a friendship with this young man. But age is real.

“You’ve found something?”

“Maybe, sir. Kwongjo is the centre of so much of this martial arts stuff. We’ve spread the net pretty wide and have been concentrating on the weapon.”

“And?”

“I’ve got a rumour, is all.” He then told Fong what he’d found. He ended with, “If you want me to pursue this I’d have to get to Taiwan. That’s where the trail leads.”

Few things sickened a Chinese man in authority more than having to ask a favour of the Taiwanese. Fong literally felt dizzy with the prospect of having to go through those channels. “You think that’s necessary.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I know what a pain this must be, but the trail goes there. There’s nothing more on the mainland that I can find. If you want to let it go, then fine, but I can’t do more here. I’m sorry.”

“Come on back to Shanghai, I’ll authorize the airfare, but not a word about this to anyone, okay?”

“Sure. Am I going to Taiwan?”

“I don’t know. Just get back here now.” Fong spent ten more minutes polishing up the report, trying to make it thick with useless details. Finally satisfied, he pulled it from his typewriter and headed toward the door. He dropped it on Shrug and Knock’s desk. “Give this to your uncle, huh?”

Fong was around the corner before there was a smartass reply, a shrug, or a knock.

Wang Jun was waiting for him downstairs. He glanced at the sun and said, “Let’s walk.”

Fong replied, “You have a copy of the driver’s statement?”

Wang Jun patted his side pocket.

“Good. We have a guest this morning.”

“Really? Who?” Wang Jun said with a slow smile.

It was not possible that Wang Jun knew about Amanda Pitman coming with them this morning. Yet the older man’s smile was troublingly knowledgeable.

“A lady perhaps. A blond American perhaps?” suggested Wang Jun. He licked his thick lips.

“How the hell. . .”

Doing his best hard-boiled American TV detective Wang Jun snapped, “I’m a copper, ma’am, remember that.” Clearly unwilling to reveal his sources to Fong, he went on, “We could do a show for the Americans. Shanghai PD. They’d love it. I could play the lead and you could play my short lovable but stupid assistant whom I constantly pull out of problems as I hop in and out of lovely ladies’ beds. What do you think?”

“I think two things.”

“And those would be?”

“I think you have an active fantasy life and I think you should stay out of my business. All right, Wang Jun?” The latter was said with enough conviction to stop the older man’s smile.

Wang Jun had touched a sore point with Fong and he knew it. He also knew other things about his young friend from his interrogation of Geoffrey Hyland the night before-some of them quite troubling.

“So where to first, the bird and fish market?” asked Wang Jun.

“Yes, that’s where the driver first brought the Zairian consul,” replied Fong.

“We’re just going to walk the route?”

“No, I’m going to walk the route, you’re going to track me. The killer must have watched Mr. Chomi the whole time. I want you to play the killer. As I go, figure out where he must have watched from. Then we’ll see if anyone remembers seeing someone standing and watching.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“Have you got any other suggestion?”

“Hell no, it’s a great day for the Bird and Fish.”

Amanda knew it was stupid but she didn’t know what to wear. It was hot and bone dry out there but she was pretty sure that shorts were inappropriate. She had good walking shoes and as she put them on she was surprised at herself for being pleased that they were low-heeled. So she wouldn’t appear too much taller than him? No it couldn’t be that, just a practical shoe is all.

She finally chose a simple skirt and blouse and a linen jacket and headed down to the lobby. Over the city map, the concierge insisted that the route was easy. He traced it for her several times with his thumb and finally drew a line on her map with a pencil. Unfortunately the map didn’t have the exact street that Inspector Zhong had mentioned but the concierge assured her, “It is right here.” Of course he was pointing to a place on the map with no streets whatsoever.

“It’s not far, maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

“It looks longer than that,” Amanda said.

With a ha-you-westerners look he suggested, “Maybe a taxicab?”

That did it. She folded her map and strode out into the hot April morning.

Dust was blowing as she made her way toward the centre of the city along Yan’an. Everywhere there were things that caught her eye. Phrases popped into her head unannounced but pleasing in both their incisiveness and sound.

Because of her height she had a better view of the city around her than she did in the West. She did not tower over people but she was definitely tall. And blond. And the object of many stares and the odd comment. Surprisingly she didn’t mind, although she was pleased that she had brought her sunglasses and her linen jacket, which she buttoned across her blouse. They could look but they’d have to imagine for themselves.

After passing by the Russian-built exhibition centre with its Red Star atop a fine spire, she came across a man in green pants who was descending into an open manhole. Three other men, all of whom also wore green pants, watched. As the first man’s head disappeared beneath the pavement, Amanda wondered if he would ever return. But before she could contemplate this more thoroughly she glanced down at her watch. Twenty minutes had already gone by and she was nowhere near where she believed the bird and fish market to be.