Peter May - Snakehead

Soong took great delight in displaying his knowledge of the facts and figures. He said, ‘The roof weigh nine thousand ton and cover six-and-a-half acre. It generate its own electricity and take just twelve minutes to close. Pretty impressive, huh?’ But he gave them no time to respond. ‘You come with me, now. We got important stuff to talk about.’

They followed him under a bewildering array of hanging signs arranged to guide fans to their seats, and into a stairwell that led them up from the main concourse through club level to suite level. Soong arrived panting at the top of the stairs. ‘I used to take lift,’ he said, ‘but now I take stair for health.’ He grinned again. ‘Only exercise I get, apart from sex.’

Fuller and Hrycyk gave small, dutiful laughs. Li did not. There was nothing amusing for him in the image of this fat man grunting and sweating over the delicate frame of some poor Chinese girl working to pay off her debt to a snakehead. Soong’s wealth and confidence, his eccentricity — the sneakers and the baseball jacket — reminded Li of those corrupt petty officials back in China who lined their pockets at the expense of the people. Overweight, overbearing, overconfident.

A door led them into a long, curved and carpeted concourse. Large windows gave on to stunning views of the illuminated field below. After a lengthy walk around the curve of the stadium, they arrived at the elaborate wood-panelled entries to the row of private suites. Opposite, a panorama of windows looked out on to the freeway, the lights of the afternoon traffic a dazzle of reflections in the wet. Li could see rain caught in the headlamps, spray rising like mist. Soong opened the door to his suite and they found themselves entering a large room with a conference table at its centre and a hot buffet counter along one side. Facing the entrance, sliding glass doors opened onto a single row of seats with a spectacular aerial view of the field. Overhead they heard a soft thunk that vibrated gently through the building. Soong looked at his watch. ‘We make good time,’ he said. ‘The roof just close.’

Eight sombre-looking middle-aged and elderly Chinese gentlemen in uniformly dark suits and dark hair, white shirts open at the neck, sat around the conference table, noisily slurping green tea from tall glasses. A fog of smoke filled the room from their cigarettes. Ashtrays were full. They had been here for some time. Wary, hooded eyes fixed on Li as Soong made the introductions. These were the leaders of the various business associations represented Chinese commercial interests in Houston. The tongs. And they were clearly ill at ease sitting down with agents of the INS and FBI and a police officer representing the country from which they had all, at one time or another, made illegal exits.

Soong, by contrast, had the appearance of a man supremely comfortable with his own status: as city councilman, director of the Houston-Hong Kong Bank, member of the Astros board. When Fuller, Hrycyk and Li were seated at the table, he offered them green tea from stainless steel flasks. Fuller and Hrycyk demurred. Li accepted. It was a long time since he had drunk green tea. There was a comfort in it. A taste of home. He lit a cigarette and, catching Hrycyk’s eye, reluctantly tossed him one. Fuller coughed ostentatiously into his hand.

‘Any chance we could open one of these windows?’ he said. ‘A guy could get lung cancer just breathing in this place.’

‘Sure,’ Soong said, nodding to one of the dark-suited gentlemen at the far end of the table who got up and slid open the door. As air rushed in, smoke got sucked out, drawn high up into the enclosed roof space of the stadium where it quickly dispersed.

Li said in Mandarin, ‘Whereabouts in Canton are you from, Mr. Soong?’

Soong scrutinised him quickly, searching for some ulterior motive in the question. ‘I’m afraid my putonghua is not very good, Mr. Li.’

‘Neither is my Cantonese.’

‘Then perhaps we should speak English,’ Soong said in English.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Hrycyk said. ‘Agent Fuller and myself can’t speak Cantonese or Mandarin.’

And Li glanced at the INS agent, momentarily discomposed. Hrycyk clearly knew more Chinese than he was prepared to admit.

Ostentatiously avoiding Li’s question, Soong folded his hands on the table in front of him and composed his brows into a frown of concern. ‘I have to tell you, gentlemen, that the people of Houston Chinatown are not happy today, after yesterday’s raids.’

‘We picked up more than sixty illegal immigrants, Councilman Soong,’ Fuller said evenly. ‘These people had no papers, no right to be here. They were breaking the law.’

‘Of course, Mistah Fullah,’ Soong said. ‘Chinese not above the law. We know this. But even illegal immigrants have rights in United States, yes?’

‘Citizens of the United States have rights,’ Fuller said. ‘Illegal immigrants do not.’

Soong said, ‘But many of these people escape from persecution in China. They have right to claim political asylum. They have right to bail, and legal representation.’

‘In my experience,’ Li said, fixing Soong with an unblinking gaze, ‘illegal emigrants from China come to America for economic, not political, reasons. Except, of course, for those who have broken the law and are escaping prosecution.’

Soong was unruffled. A slightly puzzled, almost amused, frown settled around his eyes. ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Mistah Li, but I understood that your own sister is seeking political asylum. From persecution under Chinese government’s one-child policy.’

Li felt a hot flush darken his cheeks and wondered how Soong knew about his sister and what had happened in court only a matter of hours before. But it made it almost impossible for him to argue his point. He caught Hrycyk smirking at him across the table.

Having dealt with Li, Soong turned his attentions back to Fuller. ‘It is important,’ he said, ‘that Chinese people have confidence in American system. There are many illegal immigrant in America, Mistah Fullah, but if Chinese people feel they are being…singled out…then this is ve-ery dangerous for good relations in community. ’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Fuller asked sharply.

Soong was unruffled. ‘I mean, Mistah Fullah, that Chinese people want to be good American citizen. We want to make money, pursue American Dream. Not break the law. But, if always there is fear of raid on business and home, then bad Chinese element, they go underground. And that no good for you, or us.’ He paused to let his point sink in. ‘These people you arrest, you make gesture, you release them on bail, then people believe in American justice, people in community happy to help police again.’

Hrycyk blew a jet of smoke at the ceiling. ‘And I don’t suppose this anxiety to release all these illegals back on the street has anything to do with the money they owe their snakeheads? About three and a half million by my reckoning.’

‘We are anxious like you, Mistah Hrycyk, to put snakehead out of business,’ Soong said earnestly. ‘All gentlemen round this table have legitimate business. Banking, import-export, retail sale, restaurant, entertainment.’

Li scrutinised the faces of the commercial interests around the table. They were all deeply reserved, eyes dark and impenetrable. Whatever was going on behind them was well masked. And none of them looked as if they might be about to give voice to their anxiety. They seemed more than happy to let Soong do it for them.

Soong continued, ‘Illegal activity of snakehead bad for our business, scare people, depress economy. That why we wanna help. Stop street gangs, illegal gambling, protection racket. These things bad for everyone. But if people scared of police, then the gangs only have more power. You let people out on bail, like sister of Mistah Li, and people not so scared.’