John Gardner - Brokenclaw

6

WANDA’S STORY

It was a warm and beautiful morning, clear and with no sea mist. Wanda Man Song Hing sat, dressed only in her terry-towel bathrobe, on the small balcony of her fourth-storey apartment, looking out from the end of Laguna Street on to the Marina. She sipped her coffee from a huge cup with the Paramount Pictures logo stretching across one side.

The sound of a jet, way out over the sea, sent a tiny wave of pain through her. Billy Chinn had given her the cup only a week before he had so tragically flown his F14 Tomcat straight off the deck of an aircraft carrier to cartwheel and explode in the sea. That was a year ago, and she had only recently been able to come to terms with the deep grief of the loss. They would have been married by now, she thought, and then pushed the feelings and images back into the dark tunnels of her mind. At least she had learned to live with it.

She stretched like a cat, feeling luxurious in the knowledge that she had a whole twenty-four hours to herself, and planned to cram into the day a whole bunch of pleasant things – shopping, having a facial, then, tonight, a movie.

She was just reaching for her copy of the Chronicle to see what was playing this week, when the telephone rang. Later she was to think that at its first ring she sensed trouble, but maybe that was hindsight.

‘Hi.’ She gave no name or number. That was one of the many things they taught you early on in Naval Intelligence, and she had done far more than the basic course.

‘Wanda, honey, I have to see you.’

‘Dad. What a surprise. I thought you were out of town.’ She tried to sound bright, but it had been difficult with her father for nearly six months now. She knew why. That had not taken much intelligence work. Tony Man Song Hing had that worst Chinese trait. He was a gambler and, judging by the way he had behaved in recent months, he was not on a roll.

‘I have to see you,’ he repeated, and Wanda became vaguely alarmed. There was a wilderness of desperation in his voice.

‘Where are you?’

‘Over at the store.’ He meant his small jewellery store off Market Street, where he sold, not precious gems, but imitation stones in cheap settings and simulated pearls made, in his own small workshop, by coating glass or plastic beads with a liquid called pearl essence extracted from herring scales.

‘Give me half-an-hour, Dad. Come over here, but give me a little time, okay?’

‘Thirty minutes.’ He hung up abruptly, and Wanda’s stomach turned over. The last thing she needed was trouble with him. The work on Trojan Horse was stressful enough, and she had been through endless problems with her father.

As she showered and dressed she thought about the mess he had made of his life. When her mother died, the little store had sold thousands of dollars worth of real gemstones, silver and gold settings and beautiful jade work. As a child she remembered that the stock alone had been valued at five million dollars. One of the reasons for her own success in life had been the necessity to get away from her father lest she simply became his housekeeper.

Tony Man Song Hing was starting to run to fat, his stomach straining over the belt holding up his grey slacks, while his skin had taken on that pewter colour of a man who did not exercise or look after his diet and was hemmed in by worries.

When Wanda opened the door to him she was shocked that he had gone so much to seed since she had last seen him a month or so before. As she embraced him, she noticed that he also had aged as though some terrible curse had fallen on him. His eyes appeared to be never still and, even as they greeted each other, he seemed to be looking around the main room of her apartment as though afraid someone else might be with her waiting to do him harm.

She gave him coffee and his hand trembled badly as he picked up the cup, spilling some of the liquid.

‘What is it, Father?’ She used her no-nonsense voice which was very effective on lower ranks in the Navy.

He sipped his coffee without speaking, as though trying to summon some new strength. At last he put the cup down and looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘Wanda,’ he said. ‘Wanda, you are my only daughter, and, as a good Chinese woman brought up in love and respect for her parents, I must make a fatherly demand of you.’

She laughed. ‘Come on, Dad. You don’t even speak Cantonese. You’re third generation American, and the nearest you ever got to bringing me up as a good Chinese girl was the parties we had at New Year.’

‘Don’t mock me, little oily mouth,’ he began, aggressively.

‘Father,’ she laughed again. ‘You’ve been reading too many James Clavell novels. Little oily mouth indeed. You’ll start talking of secret stalks in a minute.’

His hand flashed up as he leant forward, slapping her hard across the face. It was the first time she could remember his striking her and she was furious, rising and stepping away from him. ‘Enough!’ she commanded. ‘Out! Out of my apartment.’

But her father stood his ground. ‘You will obey your father. It is our way, our heritage,’ he shouted, his face suddenly crimson. ‘You will do as I say. You hear me?’

Wanda stepped away from him, her cheek still smarting from the blow and her mind battered with anger. But, staring wide-eyed at her father, anxiety began to seep through her fury. This was not the father she remembered from childhood. This man was deeply disturbed, pushed past his limit, on the verge of greater violence.

Had Wanda not been such an intelligent young woman, with a discipline honed by her Navy service, she might have thrown her father out then and there in an hysterical outburst. But in spite of the outrage she felt, the cool, still centre of her being, developed during her long training, overcame the more natural emotions. Wanda took a deep breath and when she spoke it was with a new equilibrium. ‘Father, what is it? Something’s very wrong. Tell me and maybe we can work something out.’

It was as though this sign of compassion hit Tony like some sudden revelation. She saw her father’s face collapse, then he folded over, doubling up like a man in pain. When he straightened himself again, his eyes brimmed with tears and his shoulders quivered.

Wanda went to him, enfolded him in her arms and gently helped him to a chair. Through sobs he kept muttering that he was sorry, shaking his head, his body trembling.

After a while he seemed to regain possession of his emotions, but still had difficulty speaking.

‘Come on, Father. Tell me what it’s all about. Maybe I can help, after all, like a daughter should.’

This brought on a worse reaction than before. Her father moaned and sobbed, his whole body swaying from side to side.

‘It can’t be that bad. Pull yourself together, Father. Just tell me.’ She spoke very firmly. ‘Tell me!’

He pushed her away, wiped his face with a handkerchief and asked for a drink.

‘More coffee?’

‘Something . . . something stronger . . . Please.’

Drinking had never been a problem, so she went into the kitchen and poured bourbon into a shot glass. He took the whole glass straight and sat looking at her.

‘Is it debt?’ she asked. ‘Is it the damned gambling again?’

Slowly he nodded.

‘Bad?’

‘Very bad. Even if I sold the store, I’d still owe him the best part of a million.’ His voice was almost that of an old man. ‘I’m a fool, Wanda. I’ve seen him do it to others. He gives and gives, then slowly hauls in on the rope.’

‘Who’re we talking about?’

‘Who d’you think? Lee. Brokenclaw Lee.’

For the second time that morning her stomach turned over. After all, they had spent ten hours during the previous day trying to formulate some kind of strategy against Lee.