“I turned him over to Comrade Zhao-”
“Great.” Chen understood why his assistant had done so. For someone like Ming, the Shanghai Police Bureau or Party Secretary Li might not be a safe bet. After all, it was a case under the Party Discipline Committee. “I’ll call you back. We are going to a riverboat.”
This was great, Chen thought. Ming might not be that important to Xing’s entire empire, but at least their activities in Shanghai would be exposed, and those red rats could be punished. Some of the evidence thus obtained might help with the eventual deportation of Xing from the U.S.
Also, the investigation of An’s case could continue, to which he had made a personal commitment. And it might lead, one way or another, to Little Huang’s case.
So he believed that as a cop, he played a positive role in this important case for his country, even though he had long given up some of the Confucianist ideals regarding an intellectual’s responsibilities. Chinese people had been complaining that the government slapped only at the mosquitoes, but not the tigers. This time, however, it was different.
He turned to Catherine. There was no change in her expression. The conversation might not have given her enough clues. He wanted to tell her about the breakthrough in Shanghai, but not in the car. He was not sure about the driver.
Their minivan arrived at the multistoried casino boat moored only two or three minutes’ walk from the Arch. At the casino entrance, they were greeted by a chorus of the money dancing and singing out of numerous slot machines, by the neon lights presenting the temptations of fabulous wealth and success. To the Chinese writers, the casino itself was like a surrealistic kingdom in the Journey to the West, a classic Chinese novel Chen had read in his childhood.
Bao took a few nervous steps forward and backward before perching himself on a high stool before a slot machine. It seemed as if he were instantly glued onto the stool. He played small, holding a plastic cup in his hand, putting in a quarter a time, and pulling down the handle deliberately, like the conscientious worker he had been in the fifties. Zhong and Peng started walking around like hunters in new, unfamiliar woods, and then vanished like water into sand. Shasha went over to the roulette wheel, watching intently, like a character in the movie adapted from her novel.
Perhaps they were still self-conscious, with all the Chinese regulations in mind, so they did not want to stay in each other’s company. And no one wanted Catherine to interpret or explain. So Chen and Catherine were left alone in the first-floor hall, surrounded by the soundtrack of all the coins pouring out of the machines.
“What you gave me was really helpful,” he said.
“What did I give you?” she said.
Was she not willing to talk about it? Perhaps it only proved his guess: she had done that for him-in a way she wouldn’t like anybody else to know. So he’d better not talk about it.
Shasha wandered back to them with a plastic cup similar to Bao’s, with the chips heavier, and different-colored.
“You’d better not try your hand today, boss,” Shasha said with a broad grin.
“Why?”
“As an old saying goes, the one who enjoys the peach blossom luck may not have the money luck.”
“You are joking again, Shasha.”
“Well, try your luck with her,” Shasha said. “I am going to try my own somewhere else.”
But he believed in his luck for the day, with Detective Yu’s call about the great breakthrough. Once more, Gu’s advance came in handy. He took his seat at a blackjack table with ten-dollar chips. He dragged Catherine to his side.
“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?”