Mr. Yee had the privilege of raising the point of their meeting, which he did after all ceremony had been satisfied.
“An unfortunate event occurred in the Asia Mall, one that brought shame upon my associates.”
“The shame is mine,” said Leung, “for arranging the meeting. Nevertheless, spilt water cannot be recovered. The question is what to do now. I would welcome your suggestions.”
“You clearly know more than I do about such things, but would it be possible to assure the associates and family of the lamented Sings that the Hap Tai were not involved in this affair? As you know, we were simply asked to provide a private place and we did so, without in the least expecting such a disturbing event.”
“I understand,” said Leung, “but rest assured, the Woh Hap Touh have no doubts about your honesty. It is perfectly clear that this was not done by you, or even by a Chinese. It is obviously the work of the Italians. Indeed, this is why they desired the meeting with the Sings.”
Mr. Yee allowed himself to appear startled, so startled was he. “The Italians? But we have never ever had any trouble with them; they have their things, we have ours. Are you certain you are not losing an ax and suspecting a neighbor?”
“My information is correct and comes from a source that cannot be impeached,” said Leung.
The older man busied himself with pot and teacup to gain time to arrange his thoughts. “If that is truly the case, then we must bend the chimney and shift the firewood, and without delay. I am grateful for this information.”
“I am happy to provide this small crumb if you think it is of value. Let me say this, however: as usual, these killings have attracted the attention of the police. This presents a separate danger. The Woh people will deal with the Italians in their own way and in their own time, but if it is thought that the Hap Tai were party to an official investigation, one that might reveal almost anything, then their rage would be considerable and then it would be directed at you, both here and in China.”
Leung let that sink in, and then added, almost offhandedly, “I suppose the Chens can be relied upon?”
Mr. Yee was quick to answer, “Without a doubt they will say nothing.”
“I wonder. The elder daughter seems to spend all her time with a gwailo girl. No doubt her head is being filled with pernicious notions. It may make her unreliable.” Leung had made discreet inquiries about all the Chens and was trying to confirm this odd information.
“Oh, no, that is just Louhsi,” Mr. Yee exclaimed; then, under Leung’s questioning, he explained Lucy’s provenance, and finished by saying, “So, you see, she is not a real gwailo, she’s practically Chinese herself. There is no need to worry about her.”
“If you say so, and take the responsibility. But suppose I was describing her to someone, say someone in Hong Kong. I would say, perhaps, yes, yes, everything is fine here. For example, the Chens-above reproach! The Chen daughter is always in the company of an American girl who is the daughter of a public prosecutor, and the daughter of a woman, an Italian woman, an armed Italian woman who interferes with the proper disciplining of wives. Wah! This person might say, but surely this is yet prudent, for being a gwaileui, she could never learn anything of moment from the Chen. Now I must inform this person that this girl speaks Cantonese and Mandarin perfectly, and who knows what she has heard and passed on to her so-interesting parents? What do you suppose this person would say then?”
Mr. Yee was growing pale around the nostrils. His voice dropped half an octave. “Perhaps he would say that you were mistaking the shadow of a bow in the cup for a snake.” He looked at his watch, a calculated rudeness, and moved his teacup aside with a sharp gesture. “I have business elsewhere, so let me say this: if you should have the honor of conversing with your elders in Hong Kong or China, please inform them that the correct behavior of the Chens and their friends is guaranteed by the Hap Tai. Also, please convey to your superiors the honor our little organization experiences in being associated with your glorious and powerful brotherhood, and assure them that our behavior will be as exemplary as our inferior abilities permit.”
After Mr. Yee had gone, Leung made some notes on a paper napkin, using the triad code, and then made two telephone calls. When he came back, he had to squeeze by the man with the bucket, who was now wiping down the counter. Leung waited outside the restaurant for five minutes, leaning against the wall and picking his teeth. A dark brown sedan pulled up to the curb, and a thirtyish oriental man in a blue blazer and gray slacks got out. Leung went over to the man, and they spoke briefly.
Inside Li’s, Tran looked up from his polishing and observed. He could not hear what was being said, but he had heard enough while he plied his mop. He did, however, catch the smooth, quick movement of a fat envelope from Leung’s inner jacket pocket to the breast pocket of the blue blazer. The man reentered his brown car and drove off. Leung looked down the street in both directions and then walked slowly west toward Mott Street.
Tran picked up his pail and rags and returned to the kitchen, where he doffed his apron and started out of the restaurant. Mr. Li looked up from his figures. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go to my other job,” said Tran.
“What? You have another job?”
“Yes, one must struggle to survive in the Beautiful Country.”
He headed quickly toward Mott Street and the Chinese School, hoping he was not too late.
Karp had first heard the name William Fogel while working downtown as a tort lawyer. The man was a prominent member of the New York bar, who had recently negotiated, against a local hospital, a malpractice settlement large enough to appear in the business section of the New York Times. Karp studied the name on the yellow message slip and tried to think of why Fogel would be calling him. Probably something about one of his old tort cases, was his thought as he dialed the number. The secretary put him right through. Fogel had a genial voice, like an old-fashioned radio announcer’s, and had worked hard to cover a Bronx accent. He made polite inquiries after Karp’s well-being, recalled the few mutual acquaintances they’d had in the tort universe, dealt with their well-being, and then, Karp having exhibited his lack of enthusiasm for this palaver, Fogel came to the point.
“I’ve got an odd one here, Butch, a client, a new client, in fact, says he wants to see you, says he’s got some information about the shooting of Edward Catalano.”
“That is odd. A little far afield from your usual run of clientele, huh? The hit on Catalano probably didn’t have much to do with malpractice.”
Booming laugh, within which Karp detected a core of nervousness. “No, I guess not,” said Fogel. “In any case, I agreed to represent him in this matter. I imagine it’s fairly routine.”
“Maybe,” said Karp. “Even more routine would be a guy has information about a major felony, he walks down the block to the police station and gives his statement to a detective. It’s a lot less routine when the guy retains a high-priced downtown lawyer and asks to talk directly to the district attorney. I assume he wanted to speak to Mr. Keegan?”