Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

“You need to explain the rules for me,” he said, thinking he might be able to talk to her about the latest development in the midst of the game.

“It’s simple. Nothing but your luck,” she said, seating herself beside him.

His proved to be extraordinary. For the first several hands in a row, he drew a twenty or twenty-one. As his luck ebbed a little, the dealer’s sunk much lower. Chen won even when she suggested he throw in. Soon chips piled up in front of him.

“You’re really an experienced hand.”

“No, it’s the first time.”

“First timer’s luck,” she said smiling, clapping her hand with his, “from Shanghai.”

He found it impossible to talk about things in Shanghai, with the game going on like this and with people standing behind them, watching.

A bunny girl came to his table. Tall, buxom, she looked like anything but a bunny to him. She placed drinks in front of them, and he tossed a chip on her platter-in imitation of an American player. He was too busy picking up his cards and putting down his chips. He lost track of time flowing like the river outside, until a familiar cough startled him. He looked up to see Bao standing beside him, holding an empty plastic cup. An unmistakable sign. Bao had lost all his coins.

“Join me,” Chen said, placing a handful of chips in Bao’s cup.

“It’s a twenty-dollar chip,” Catherine said.

“Thank you,” Bao said with a weird expression on his face, a mixture of emotions, perhaps. “I may not have your luck. So I think I’ll go on playing my small way.”

“I don’t know how long mine can last,” he said, turning toward Catherine, as Bao dragged himself away with a heavier cup. “If anything, you are my luck.”

It was true. The breakthrough in Shanghai would have been inconceivable without her help, he contemplated, turning out another ace in his hand. She leaned over and whispered, “He hasn’t gotten any more phone calls from L.A. ”

It was possible that Bao, too, remained in the dark, unaware of the consequence of the information he had given to the L.A. caller. Chen nodded instead of making a response.

Another good hand-eighteen. He staked a couple of chips more. The dealer did not show any expression on his face and drew another card-

His cell phone rang. He whisked it out, glancing at the number on the tiny screen. It was from Shanghai. Not from Yu, but from Comrade Zhao. It took him a few seconds before recognizing the number.

“Sorry, I have to take the call outside. It’s too noisy in the hall,” he said to her. “Keep on playing for me.”

He hurried out to the deserted deck. Chinese and Americans must all be too busy dealing with money, losing or winning.

“How have you called me here, Comrade Zhao?” he said, standing by the rail with its white paint peeling off under his touch. A gull came wheeling over out of nowhere.

“Don’t be so alarmed, Chen. I’ve got your cell number from Detective Yu. It took me several minutes to have it from him. A most capable and loyal assistant.”

“I’m sorry, Comrade Zhao. It’s not his fault. I told him not to give the number to anybody. I didn’t mean to keep it from you-”

“You don’t have to explain. I was pleased that Detective Yu delivered Ming to me directly. Excellent job. Now I see why you insisted on his sharing your authorization,” Zhao said. “So, our work has come to a successful conclusion!”

“A conclusion?”

“Xing is on his way back to China…” Zhao paused, and then went on, “in exchange for Ming flying to the U.S. ”

“How could that be?”

“A story too long to tell on the phone, Chen. We-some agents- talked to Xing in Los Angeles. They promised him no death penalty for his return and his cooperation with the Chinese government.”

“What? Death penalty or not, Xing’s finished back in China. A crab in an urn-or worse, in a bamboo steamer. No way for him to get away. He knows that better than anyone else.”

“Well, it is all thanks to the arrest of Ming through your information. It’s the last straw for Xing. He knows he has no choice.” Zhao added, “Besides, he is a filial son, like you, and his mother is so worried about Ming.”

“But how could Xing be willing to surrender himself for the sake of his half brother-whom he has never acknowledged in public?”

“Let me put it this way. The arrest of Ming might have been only one of many factors in this complicated case. Through Ming, we got all the necessary criminal evidence of Xing, which would prompt the American government to make the deportation decision. Xing is not dumb. He has no hope for political asylum. Even before Ming’s arrest, he tried to flee to another country, but his effort has been thwarted by U.S. law enforcement.”

“That may be true,” Chen said, recalling Xing’s interest in selling his L.A. mansion. “So in exchange for Xing’s voluntary return, Ming gets away scot-free?”

“I have not had the time to read the detailed report from our agents in L.A. There might be something in it.”

“But Ming may have been involved in An’s murder, as I have reported to you earlier.”

“You don’t know for sure, do you? You have nothing to prove her death was related to Ming or Xing. Your bureau will continue to investigate, of course, and the criminals will be punished,” Zhao said emphatically. “It is a successful conclusion, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

“So that’s it-the end of it,” he said, trying to gain time to think. Perhaps he should not push Comrade Zhao into saying something definite, irrecoverable. “Our determined effort to push the anticorruption campaign to the end?”

“It is a priority in our effort, to control the damage, as we have discussed. Bringing Xing back to China will make a huge difference. For someone like Xing, long years in a dark cell could be a more severe punishment than a death sentence.”

“Comrade Zhao, you must have heard of the death of our interpreter in St. Louis, Little Huang.”

“Yes, I have heard of it. But what can you do in another country? You are not there as a police officer. Anything you try to do outside of your delegation status may cause diplomatic troubles. So that’s the other reason I have to make this call to you. We believe that the delegation has completed its mission. No need for you and your delegation to stay there any longer. It is the Americans’ responsibility to solve the homicide case. They will do their best.”

He wondered where Zhao had learned about his other activities here. That, too, could have been a reason for this phone call. Chen decided not to bring up his theory about Huang being a victim of mistaken identity. Things were happening too fast, and were more complicated than he had grasped. Besides, Zhao could easily brush his theory aside for lack of evidence. Those phone records hardly proved anything.

“Anticorruption is a long-term battle, Chen,” Zhao went on, “not a matter of an isolated case or two. The Party Discipline Committee is very pleased with your work. Once again, you have proven to be a loyal, resourceful Party cadre in a difficult situation. Indeed, we need young, reliable comrades like you to continue the anticorruption effort in the future.”

“Thank you, Comrade Zhao, but-”

“It’s a long phone call. We’ll talk more upon your return. What about a celebration dinner in my hotel? I know you like good food-the chef here has won the gold award for Sichuan cuisine. The carp in hot broad-bean sauce is a must. I have a bottle of Maotai for you. Remember the two lines by Liu Guo- Had General Li met with the First Emperor of Han, / he could have easily been a duke?”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

General Li, a legendary figure of the mid-Han dynasty, might have achieved more under another emperor. Liu Guo, a down-and-out Song dynasty poet, spoke about his own frustration through the tragedy of that unlucky general. What the equivalent to a duke in today’s official world would be, Chief Inspector Chen had no idea, but he was far from reaching that level yet.