Peter May - Snakehead

Li said, ‘If you’re lying I’ll put it about that we cut a deal, and you’ll be a dead man anyway.’

‘Guan Gong,’ the dai lo said again, and met Li’s eye directly.

Li shouted, ‘Go!’ And the dai lo ran, still handcuffed, his white stripe catching the sunlight as he went, feet hammering on the hard concrete.

Hrycyk and Fuller were out of the car in a second, weapons drawn, running toward Li.

‘What the fuck’s going on!’ Hrycyk screamed.

‘He got away,’ Li said.

‘You let him go?’ It was Fuller this time, glaring at him, full of incomprehension.

Li shrugged. ‘He gave us what we wanted.’ And he started walking back toward the car.

Fuller and Hrycyk exchanged impotent glances, then Hrycyk looked along the hard shoulder to where the distant figure of the dai lo was heading down the slip road, almost out of sight. ‘Fuck it,’ he said, and headed back along the concrete to where Li was already waiting for them in the car.

The sunlit grey stone edifice of City Hall, a jumble of squares and rectangles carved into a black sky, looked out across what looked to Li like a large swimming pool. Lined with trees and picnic tables, the long turquoise blue rectangle of water stretched between the municipal building and Smith, where the curve of a blue glass tower reflected its neighbouring white skyscraper like a building toppling in an earthquake. Both dwarfed the City Hall.

Li and Hrycyk stood outside on the cobbled concourse, waiting for Fuller. Hrycyk was impatient and could barely stand still. ‘Gimme a cigarette,’ he said to Li. He had insisted they stop and that Li buy his own pack. Li handed him one and lit another himself. Hrycyk was shaking his head. ‘I still can’t believe you did that,’ he said.

‘What, gave you a cigarette?’

Hrycyk hissed his irritation. ‘Let the kid go.’

Li shrugged. ‘Seeing is believing.’

‘I mean, is he stupid, or what? As soon as his people find out we’re asking for Guan Gong, they’re going to know he told us.’

Li let the smoke creep from the corners of his mouth. ‘I guess he never stopped to think about that.’

Hrycyk gazed at him. ‘You know you’re a devious bastard, Li.’ He meant it as a compliment.

‘Thank you,’ Li said. ‘So are you.’ He paused. ‘Without the devious bit.’

Hrycyk laughed. ‘You know, there are times, Li, when I think I might even get to like you.’

Li took another pull on his cigarette. ‘Can’t say I think I’ll ever feel that way about you,’ he said.

Fuller hurried down the steps to join them. ‘Soong’s not there. His office said we’d find him at the Houston Food Bank.’

‘A food bank?’ Li asked.

‘It’s a kind of charity thing,’ Fuller said. ‘Companies donate food to it. You know, stuff past its sell-by, or in damaged tins or packaging. Or just plain donations. The Food Bank distributes it to the poor of the state. Soong’s bank donates manpower. All his employees put in one afternoon a week at the place. And so does he.’

The Houston Food Bank was in the Herstein Center warehouse between Jensen and Vintage on the Eastex Freeway, a bleak industrial landscape of empty lots and rundown commercial properties. A couple of cops at the gates of the parking lot had pulled over a pick-up and were checking the treads. The driver was young and black, the cops were white, and Li thought it didn’t take too much imagination to figure out why he’d been stopped. The parking lot was nearly full, and Hrycyk had to park a long way from the main entrance. As they crossed the lot, the first fat drops of rain began to fall. The sun had disappeared behind a brooding sky of battered-looking cloud. The air was full of electricity and the promise of storm.

Inside, they asked for Councilman Soong, and a young black man took them in back through the warehouse. They passed a line of Chinese volunteers packing foodstuffs into cardboard boxes on a conveyer belt. Through hanging straps of plastic, they entered an area of metal staging thirty feet high, piled on each level with plastic-wrapped boxes of food straight from the manufacturer. ‘Being law enforcement people,’ the young black man said, ‘you folks’ll probably be interested to know that we got prisoners down from Huntsville working here. Trustees working their way back into society. And a lot of the fresh food we get comes from the prison farms up there.’ He grinned. ‘So each time you put someone away, you’re sort of doing us a favour.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m making an arrest,’ Fuller said dryly.

Soong was driving a forklift truck between aisles at the far side of the warehouse, loading pallets onto staging. Motion detectors in the roof switched overhead lights off and on as he moved between rows. He was still wearing jeans and his red leather baseball jacket. Only now he had completed the outfit with an Astros baseball cap. He grinned and waved when he saw them coming. ‘Gimme minute,’ he shouted. And they watched as he skilfully manoeuvred the forklift to slide a pallet onto the top level. He lowered the forks to the floor, cut the motor and climbed down, pulling off his gloves and stretching out a hand to shake theirs. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Pleasure to see you. To what do I owe honour?’ But as usual he didn’t wait for an answer, waving his arm around the warehouse instead. ‘What you think of food bank? Good idea, yes? Good PR for Chinese help here. Good community relation.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Besides, I always wanted to drive forklift.’

‘We thought you might be able to help us identify someone, Councilman,’ Fuller said.

‘Of course,’ Soong said. ‘Anything I can do to help.’ He looked at Li. ‘You been in fight, Mistah Li?’

‘A minor argument,’ Li said.

‘You not very good in argument, then.’

Hrycyk said, ‘You should see the other guys.’

Fuller said impatiently, ‘We’re looking for an uncle with one of the tongs. A shuk foo .’

‘You know his name?’

Hrycyk said, ‘If we knew that we wouldn’t be asking you. All we got’s a nickname. Guan Gong.’

Soong looked startled. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Guan Gong? But you already know him. He was at meeting the other day. His name Lao Chao. He owns biggest restaurant in old Chinatown, not far from Minute Maid Park. He sit at end of table near window.’

Li tried to picture him and had a hazy memory of a thickset man with glasses and bushy hair swept back from a flat, broad face: an impression of someone who looked not unlike Chinese President, Jiang Zemin

‘But Lao very respectable man,’ Soong said. ‘He no shuk foo .’

‘You know what Guan Gong means?’ Li asked.

‘Sure,’ Soong said.

Hrycyk turned to Li. ‘What does it mean? You never told us it meant anything.’

‘Guan Gong was a general in ancient China. A ferocious warrior. A hero of the Chinese underclass.’ Li looked at Soong. ‘An odd choice of nickname for a respectable citizen, don’t you think?’

‘Guan Gong symbolise values very precious to poor people,’ Soong said indignantly. ‘This is good name for upstanding member of community. Lao Chao, like many others at meeting, give generously to food bank and other charity.’ He looked at Fuller. ‘What you want him for?’

Fuller said, ‘We believe he knows the identity of the ah kung we are looking for.’

Soong gathered his brows in consternation. ‘There are many ah kung in Houston tong,’ he said.

‘Only one of them called Kat,’ Li said, watching Soong closely. He was certain he saw a brief flicker of light in the dark, secret pools of his eyes. And then nothing. Just an outward appearance of surprise. His eyebrows pushed up on his forehead.