Stephen Knight - White Tiger

“Uncle. What did he say? Did you mention-?”

Chen Gui’s stern expression gave Chen Song pause.

“Lin Yubo’s rage was boundless. He demanded to know who was responsible. Fortunately for all of us I was able to placate him, by assuring him that our business with yakuza will continue uninterrupted. It helped that we gained face by wiping out the Fujianese.”

“We didn’t wipe them out. The foreigner did.”

Chen Gui didn’t like his nephew’s sour expression, which indicated ongoing disapproval of his decision. No matter. A henchman flunkey’s opinion was of no value. Chen Gui said, “Lin Yubo accepted my explanation that employing an outsider was, in this case, necessary. Now. What precautions have you taken to ensure my safety?”

Chen Song looked confused for a moment, as his father often did when she was asked a complex question. “Uncle, I have arranged for additional guards on the gates. More patrol the grounds. Just let the Fujianese try to reach you! They won’t get past my men. We’ll slaughter them like the dogs they are.” He patted his jacket underneath the left armpit, indicating the weapon he carried there. Chen Gui supposed it was necessary, although he admitted to himself that he didn’t much like the idea of Chen Song having a gun in his presence, especially when they were alone. Perhaps it was the way Chen Song had behaved when they were in the hotel in Dalian, awaiting the arrival of Lin Feng and Boss Tao. Chen Gui had picked up some unnerving vibrations from his nephew. Instead of becoming subdued when Chen Gui had berated him, Chen Song had become increasingly angry, though he’d attempted to hide this. And now, his reference to his men displeased Chen Gui even more. Who was boss here, Chen Gui or his nephew?

He said, “What if the Fujianese wise up and decide to hire the Bai Hu ? Do you think your men could stop him from reaching me?” He enjoyed the effect these words had on his nephew.

“Do you want me to send word to Japan to have him killed, uncle? Is that what you are saying?” Chen Song asked eagerly.

Chen Gui shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’ve lost enough people already. But heed my warning, Chen Song. If an attack comes, it may not come in the form of guns and bullets. There are other night tigers that possess the gweizi’s skills. Perhaps it would be prudent to engage the services of such men, in addition to your hired guns.”

“I’ll look into it immediately, uncle,” Chen Song said, but Chen Gui noticed a subtle movement at the corner of his nephew’s lips, the beginning of a smile.

“Is something amusing you?” he demanded.

“No, uncle.”

Realization struck Chen Gui. He knew all about his nephew’s lifestyle. Chen Song liked living the high life. His enjoyments centered around fast cars and fast women, to use the Western vernacular. And, so Chen Gui had been informed, other things best not discussed at the dinner table, or anywhere else for that matter. He thought of his favorite film star, Rock Hudson. Chen Gui possessed several copies of Ice Station Zebra, including the recently released digitally remastered DVD, which he played at least once a month. He was eternally fascinated by the multi-layered relationships between the principals, with the indecently handsome Hudson shedding his light romantic comedy persona to convincingly play the veteran submarine captain dedicated to preserving the lives of his crew in treacherous waters, while also having to deal with spies and traitors and the eternal threat of Mother Russia. Chen Gui saw himself in an almost identical role. And yet, behind Hudson’s all-American male facade was the secret self whose sexual preferences remained unknown almost to the time of his sad death.

Before Chen Gui stood his nephew Chen Song, a handsome lady-killer vain enough to literally carve notches in his bed posts to declare the number of women he’d brought back to his luxurious apartment and used for sex. But Chen Gui knew that many of these notches signified sexual liaisons with young men, something Chen Song had taken very great care to hide from him. Seeing Chen Song’s smile made Chen Gui realize that “night tigers” probably meant something else entirely to Chen Song, who found amusement in the term.

Imbecile. Time for him to learn.

“Meet me outside in ten minutes,” Chen Gui found himself saying. “Bring four of your best men with you.”

“Are we going somewhere, uncle?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Your best men. You understand?”

“Yes, uncle. As you wish.” Such a patronizing tone!

Chen Song departed and Chen Gui looked up his telephone index, searching for a number he hadn’t called in years. He half-expected his call to go unanswered; it was possible the man was dead by now. He had been in his late seventies when he and Chen Gui last conversed. His brother was only two years younger.

To his surprise the phone was picked up on the first ring and the familiar voice said, “What do you want?” in Mandarin, the tone impatient and rude.

“It is Chen Gui.”

“You honor us.”

“Is your brother still the man I knew?”

“Hah. Even better. Please wait, Chen Gui.” A hand covered the phone mouthpiece and voices murmured. Then the man, whose name was Pak, said, “My brother sends his regards, and asks what you wish of him?”

Chen Gui told him, and Pak conveyed the request to his brother. They easily reached an agreement. The task, after all, was simple enough. And Pak’s brother would not even have to leave their house, which was in Shanghai. Easy money.

He hung up and made a second telephone call. He told the man who answered what he wanted and how soon, and received assurance it would be done.

Minutes later Chen Gui met Chen Song downstairs in the courtyard. Two cars sat waiting, fumes spewing from their exhausts. Four young men wearing cheap suits and long hair waited also. They radiated arrogance. There was no respect in their eyes when they looked at Chen Gui; just the opposite, in fact. Chen Gui wondered what Chen Song had told them. Did they even know that Chen Song worked for Chen Gui? Or did they think his nephew was Boss Chen, and Chen Gui some ancient relative allowed to live in the house?

“These are your best men?”

Their chests swelled with self-importance and they thrust their jaws out or narrowed their eyes, trying to look tough, just like in the movies. One smoked a cigarette which dangled from lips that were frozen in a cynical half-grin, an expression that obviously attracted wanton whores by the wagon-load.

“The very best, uncle.”

Chen Song opened the rear door of the first car and for a moment Chen Gui thought he was about to climb in-but then he seemed to remember his manners and instead held the door wide for Chen Gui.

They settled themselves in the back seat and Chen Gui gave the driver the address. Chen Song looked at him curiously; it lay in one of Shanghai’s oldest quarters, steeped in history which upstarts like Chen Song and his cocky young guns knew nothing of. He watched the man in the front passenger seat play with his gun, removing and inserting the magazine again and again as if it were a toy. He spoke to the driver in gutter dialect, telling him he hoped he got the chance to use his weapon. The driver opined that the Fujianese didn’t have the balls to try anything. Chen Gui, who knew otherwise, kept his silence. Chen Song turned and looked out the rear window every thirty seconds, as if unsure whether the second car was still following them. Chen Gui wondered if the driver of the tailing car suffered from an eye impairment that might cause him to lose sight of them and accidentally wander up the wrong street.

The streets became narrower, the houses more traditional. Cobblestones made a roaring noise underneath their tires. The driver slowed and the noise died down until Chen Gui could hear himself think again. When the driver hesitated at a street junction, Chen Gui directed him to go straight ahead. He marveled that he still remembered the way after so long.