John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

“Lahoud… he’s Lebanese?”

“They’re all Lebanese,” da Rosa assured him.

Wilson frowned. He wanted to avoid the Lebanese, some of whom might have crossed paths with Hakim and his friends. The last thing he needed was Zero and Khalid chatting with their countrymen. The less they knew, the better. In fact… “Someone said there’s a Chinaman.”

Da Rosa grimaced. “Yes, of course – Big Ping! Has a shop on the Rue de Gaulle. Wear Kevlar.”

Wilson laughed. “That bad?”

Da Rosa shook his head. Drained his drink, and rattled the ice. “No, he’s okay. But you don’t go to Big Ping for a couple of diamonds. He’s more of a wholesaler.”

“I thought they were all wholesalers,” Wilson said.

“Well, they are. Only Ping, he’s dealing directly with the militias, so he’s comfortable with big loads.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not for him.”

“Why not?” Wilson asked.

“Because he’s a triad,” da Rosa told him. “Sun Yee On.”

Wilson frowned. “Which is what?”

Da Rosa pursed his lips. “Fifty thousand gangsters, working as a team. Like Wal-Mart, but with guns.”

Wilson went looking for Big Ping’s shop the next morning, following a crudely drawn map that the hotel’s manager had given him. Even with the map, it wasn’t easy. Most of the streets were unmarked, and the buildings were unnumbered. He could have asked someone on the street, How do I get to Big Ping’s? But if da Rosa was right, that would be like asking the way to Al Capone’s.

So they walked. And walked some more.

Zero and Khalid did their best to look mean. That was what they did – that was their whole thing – and they glowered with the best of them. But Wilson could tell they were scared. There were lots of AKs on the street, and everywhere you looked, there were people with handguns in the backs of their jeans. Walking a step behind Wilson, Khalid grumbled, “I thought we’d be in Europe now. Hakim said-”

“I thought so, too,” Wilson lied. “But there’s special business.”

Khalid was silent for a while, peering at the signage, and eyeing a gang of nine-year-olds that trailed behind them. “Hakim never said anything about ‘special business.’”

Wilson glanced over his shoulder. “That’s why it’s special.”

Suddenly, Zero let out a bark, and pointed to a sheet-metal sign hanging above a heavily carved wooden door at the end of a narrow alley.

777 EX-IM 777

PING LI ON, PROP.

An Asian man sat on a stool beside the door, a shotgun resting across his knees. The moment Wilson entered the alley, the man got to his feet and waved his forefinger from side to side. Wilson hesitated, and then he understood. He turned to Zero and Khalid. “Wait here.”

Big Ping’s office was cool and dimly lighted, with a couple of small glass cases holding a modest display of cut and uncut diamonds. Overhead, a bank of fluorescent lights buzzed noisily, while a table fan turned left and right atop a painted Chinese chest. A heavily carved ivory screen stood by itself in the far corner of the room.

An elderly Chinaman waited behind one of the counters, his face blank. Nearby, a handsome young Asian in a white linen suit sat on a folding chair with his elbows on his thighs, flipping through a tattered copy of Hustler.

Wilson looked into the old man’s watery eyes. “Mr. Ping?”

The old man’s face twisted into a frown. “No Ping!” He hesitated for a long moment. Eventually, a smile flickered under a tangle of nostril hairs. “You want buy diamond?”

Wilson shook his head.

The smile vanished as the old man snorted in contempt. “So! You sell diamond!”

Wilson gave him an incredulous look. “That’s amazing! You should be a private eye.”

The old man wasn’t laughing, but the guy in the white linen suit cracked a smile. Dropping the magazine, he got to his feet. “I’m Ping.”

Wilson turned to him. Offered his hand. “Frank d’Anconia.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re the one who set the kid on fire…” With a gesture of his hand, he led Wilson behind the ivory screen, where a massive iron door was bolted into the wall. Beside the door was a nickel plate with the outline of a hand engraved on its surface. Ping pressed his own hand into the engraving. A diode flared, and the door sprung open on its hinges. “In here…”

The doorway led to a windowless room – a vault, of sorts, where the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. Two men sat at a heavy wooden table that was covered in green baize. The men were drinking tea.

One of them looked like an oversized Buddha with beige teeth. The other man was da Rosa, who glanced over his shoulder with a laugh and said, “What took you so long?”

Wilson frowned. He didn’t like being played.

The fat man chuckled, and lighted a foul-smelling Gitane. As a gesture of goodwill, he made an effort at English: “Good night!”

Da Rosa laughed. “I see you’ve met Little Ping.”

Wilson glanced at the young man in the white suit.

The young man smiled. “My father’s English isn’t very good. But, please, have a seat.” He gestured to a chair. Wilson took it.

The fat man – Big Ping – leaned forward: “American?”

Wilson nodded.

“We don’t see a lot of Americans here,” da Rosa said. “You’re like a celebrity.”

Big Ping’s eyes widened. His great head nodded, as if to confirm some astonishing insight. “You CIA?!”

Wilson shook his head. “No.”

Big Ping looked disappointed. Said something to his son in Chinese.

Little Ping translated. “He says, if you’re CIA, we could do some good business.”

“I’ll bet we could. Only… I’m not.”

“Too bad. You want some tea?” Little Ping asked.

Wilson shook his head.

Big Ping’s brows collapsed into a chevron. Leaning toward Wilson, he demanded, “Qui vous-êtes? Que voulez-vous?”

Wilson turned to Little Ping. “Tell your father that I don’t speak French.”

Little Ping shrugged. “He wants to know who you are, what you want.”

Wilson sat back in his chair. Then he glanced from Big Ping to da Rosa, and back again. The silence began to peal. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked.

Finally, Big Ping smiled, as if he’d just had another realization. With a look of great contentment, he placed his hands palms-down, fingers spread, on the baize-covered table. Little Ping remained where he was, hands crossed in front of his crotch.

It took Wilson a moment, and then he saw it. All three of them had the same tattoo: a triangle of little blue dots between the thumb and forefinger. Wilson glanced at da Rosa.

The mercenary smiled. “I was born in Macau.”

Big Ping nodded.

Little Ping said, “Mr. da Rosa’s a good friend. We don’t have secrets from him.”

Wilson thought about it some more, and decided he didn’t have much choice. With a sigh, he said, “Okay, I’ve got a couple of diamonds to sell. Quite a few, actually.”

To Wilson’s surprise, da Rosa said something in Chinese. Big Ping replied, and da Rosa laughed. Turning to Wilson, he said, “He says he doesn’t see any diamonds. He wants to know if you’ve stuck them up your ass.”

Wilson acknowledged the bon mot with a weak grimace. “No,” he said. “I decided to use the bank. It seemed more professional, somehow.”

Little Ping laughed as da Rosa translated.

Wilson complimented him. “You speak Chinese. I’m impressed!”

Da Rosa shook his head. “It’s not Chinese. It’s Fuzhou.”

When da Rosa failed to elaborate, Wilson turned to Little Ping.

“My family’s from Fujian,” the younger Ping explained, “so the Fuzhou dialect comes naturally. Most Chinese don’t understand it, so it’s like talking in code. Good for business.”