S Rozan - Trail of Blood

“In Tai-Pan. Mary-”

“Lydia! I told you-”

“I know: Get lost.”

“And when were you planning to do that?”

“Now. Right now. ’Bye.” I clicked off, jumped down from the stool, and told Bill, “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Mary said to get lost.”

We burned rubber out of Tai-Pan-Mary probably watching us scurry-and managed to pick up C. D. Zhang two blocks west. He threaded through the gray-market car stereos, fake Rolexes and counterfeit handbags with the practiced sidestep of a Chinatown local.

And returned to his own office.

Standing on the south side of Canal keeping an eye on a business on the north side might not have qualified as “lost” in Mary’s book, but really, there’s nowhere in Chinatown I could get lost anyway. I did feel a little lost when, after about twenty minutes, Bill asked, “Why are we doing this?” The answer was obvious, though: I had to be doing something.

“Anyway, it’s weird,” I said. “Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang don’t hang out with C. D. Zhang. He said so, Mr. Zhang said so, and Irene Ng said so. If C. D. had something to tell them or ask them, why didn’t he just call? Why go over and then not stay long? They hardly had time for a cup of tea. No, something’s up. Definitely. Positively. Why are you being so quiet?”

He grinned around his cigarette. “Adrenaline affects different people differently.”

We hung out across from C. D. Zhang’s office for close to an hour as the day got hotter and stickier. Two more White Eagles passed us, one I knew and one I didn’t but both with tattoos conveniently exposed.

“They don’t seem to feel any need for discretion,” Bill said.

“What good’s a gang tattoo if you can’t intimidate people with it?”

I restrained myself from leaving Bill on C. D. Zhang watch and charging up Canal to see what the gathering gang cloud was up to. I didn’t want to find out that Mary had ordered me arrested if I got too close to that end of the street; it wouldn’t be good for our friendship.

As the sun mounted, I began to wish I had a hat. Or a bottle of water. Or a purpose. Traffic snarled and flowed, snarled and flowed in a mesmerizing rhythm. We stood there breathing fumes, fried turnip cakes, and other people’s sweat. Wiping my forehead, I said to Bill, “I’m starting to feel like one of Armpit’s T-shirts.”

“That’s pretty serious. You want to take turns grabbing a drink in someplace air-conditioned?”

“No, but tell me something. Am I crazy, standing here like this? And are you just humoring me, or proving your loyalty or something?”

He shook his head. “I’m here because I think you’re right.”

I was about to demand proof of this ridiculous assertion, but I didn’t get the chance. Because proof came hurrying up the block: Wong Pan.

“Wong Pan?” Bill asked. “You’re sure?”

“If it’s not, then whoever it is needs to be arrested for looking too much like Wong Pan. That’s got to be a crime.” I was speed-dialing Mary as I spoke. Her phone rang as Wong Pan or his evil twin passed C. D. Zhang’s building. As he ducked into a greasy chopstick a few doors up, her voice mail came on. “Oh, no!” I said. “Girlfriend! Pick up! Wong Pan’s on the west end of Canal, at New Day Noodle, north side near Church. I’ll-” I stopped as Bill touched my arm and nodded across the street. C. D. Zhang was coming out of his door, briefcase in hand. We watched him walk up the block, and sure enough, he was interested in noodles, too.

“Mary’s voice mail,” I told Bill. I dialed 911 and reported the location of a dangerous fugitive. Then I snapped the phone shut. I had my arguments all in a row about why we absolutely had to go over there, but I didn’t need them: Bill was off the curb, searching for a break in the traffic.

“If Wong Pan’s killed two people-” he said over his shoulder.

“My thought exactly.” Our chance came, and we dashed across in a storm of honks and curses. “Do you think C.D. Zhang knows who he’s meeting?”

“Damn right he does. I think we’ve been conned. Chen and Zhang know the cops are onto them. They’re decoys. C. D.’s making the exchange.”

“He was at Bright Hopes picking up the money?”

“I’d bet on it.”

In the garlicky shop, a dozen customers were ordering noodles, slurping up noodles, or picking noodle remains from their teeth. None of them was Wong Pan or C. D. Zhang. Bill and I made it through the dining room to the kitchen and through that to a door in the back wall before anyone stirred.

“Hey, you can’t go there!” the manager shouted in Cantonese.

“So call the cops!” I yelled, hoping he would.

When we burst into the back room, two men looked up from a banquet table. The question of who’d have a banquet in a noodle-shop back room cramped by twined-up linens and sagging cardboard boxes, near a rear door bubbly with rust, was an interesting one, but I had no time to ponder it.

“Ms. Chin.” C. D. Zhang’s leathery face registered both surprise and displeasure. “And Mr. Smith. What-”

“Do you know who this is?” I pointed at the round countenance of Wong Pan, which, after momentary alarm, had settled into an odd superior smile.

“This gentleman is a valued customer. And forgive me, but this is private business.”

“This business is you buying the Shanghai Moon from Wong Pan. And his business was killing two people to get it this far.”

“And you, no business here,” said Wong Pan. “You go away.”

“The police are coming.” Assuming Mary picked up her voice mail. Or 911 didn’t think I was just another nut and actually followed up my tip. Or the noodle shop manager was incensed enough at the intrusion that it trumped his distaste for cops; though since nobody had even cracked the door to see what was going on in here, that one seemed unlikely. “You’re the one who’s going away.”

Fear flashed in Wong Pan’s eyes, but after consideration he shook his head. “Police coming, would be already here.” He began to reach into his jacket.

“Easy!” Bill said. All movement stopped as Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang registered Bill’s snub-nosed Colt, unholstered as we passed through the kitchen but until now discreetly palmed.

Wong Pan snickered, theatrically lifted one hand in the air, and with the other drew out a small cardboard box. “We have business. You go away.”

“Both hands on the table,” Bill told Wong Pan.

Wong Pan, looking amused, did as Bill said. I glanced to C. D. Zhang. He stared at the box under Wong Pan’s hand with the eyes of a parched man seeing an oasis. He reached; Wong Pan, eyebrows raised, pulled the box back. Bill sent me a look. I nodded: Let them finish. Let C. D. Zhang hold it in his hand before it becomes evidence, before it becomes Chinese cultural patrimony, before it’s lost to him and his family forever. C. D. Zhang picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table.

At which exact moment the kitchen door opened.

The manager had actually called the police?

Absolutely not. White Eagles filled the doorway. And they had more guns than we had.

They stared. We stared. The gang sea parted, and Fishface Deng strolled in. His own gun, still in his belt, telegraphed through his untucked shirt. Behind him the White Eagles fanned out. Six guns: one on each of us, with two for extras. Seven White Eagles, including Deng and his two top lieutenants. And notably not including Armpit. Or Warren Li, or any of the losers up on the east end of Canal.

Lydia! You are a MORON! I silently screamed at myself. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang weren’t the only decoys. Two stakeouts; two sets of decoys. I stared at Fishface Deng’s bulging eyes and sharp little overbite mouth. “You knew.”