“A time or two. Fong is a drug addict, but his information is generally reliable; I use him myself.”
I made a mental note of the name. “Could there be a connection between Fong and the shooting?”
“I doubt it. I’ve known him for years; he’s a low-life, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with violence against a police officer. I’m as sure of him as one can be of such people.”
Loo did not have a very high opinion of drug addicts or informers. Or of anyone, no doubt, who failed to walk the straight and narrow in Chinatown. Chinese cops tended to be less tolerant of the criminal element among their race than any other ethnic group. It had to do with pride; the Chinese were a fiercely proud people.
I asked, “What about paid assassins? There can’t be that many in Chinatown who’d take a contract on a cop.”
He made a wry mouth. “More than you’d think. Boo how doy — body-washers for the criminal tongs, most of them former youth-gang members. I know at least three Hui Sip who might do it for the right price.”
“Hui Sip?”
“The tong that controls most of the gambling in Chinatown, among other things. But they’re clever; we haven’t been able to get enough on the elders to put them away.”
“Are there many tongs like that these days?”
“Not many, no,” Loo said. “Most of them are fraternal, harmless social clubs. The Six Companies keeps a tight rein on them. But there are still a couple. They’re the ones who corrupt the kids, get them to do their dirty work.”
The Chinese Six Companies was an organization founded in the nineteenth century to oversee and mediate activities within the community, and to work for betterment of the lot of Chinese in America. Their authority had been shaken somewhat in recent years, but they were still the ruling force in Chinatown.
I said, “You’ve talked to some of the body-washers?”
“Yes. With negative results.”
“How about one called Mau Yee?”
Loo looked surprised. “You know of Mau Yee?”
“I’ve heard the name,” I said carefully.
“A bad one. Not a cat, that boy — a snake.”
“Cat?”
“Mau Yee means ‘The Cat.’ His street name.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Jimmy Quon. An ABC — American-born Chinese — and one of the original Joe Boys.”
“Young guy, then?”
“Yes. Mid-twenties. He belongs to Hui Sip now; one of the three boo how doy I mentioned.” Loo shook his head. “A bad one,” he said again. “We’ve linked him to at least three murders in the past six years, but never with enough evidence for an indictment.”
“Was he one of those you talked to?”
“One of the first. But he has an alibi for the time of the shooting.”
“How strong?”
“We couldn’t shake it. He was playing pai gow with three other tong members, he claimed, and each of the three backed him up.”
I did not want to press for any more information on Jimmy Quon; I had what I’d come for, and I could find Quon all right on my own. I asked Loo a few more general questions, to ease out of the interview, and then thanked him for his time and got on my feet.
He said as we shook hands again, “We may not have uncovered much so far, but it’s only a matter of time before we get a break. Sooner or later we’ll find out who pulled the trigger.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sooner or later.”
I left him and rode the elevator down to the lobby. There was a bank of telephone booths off to one side; I entered one, opened the telephone directory. No listing for Jimmy Quon. But there was a listing for a Kam Fong, on Jackson Street. I wrote down the address and number in my notebook.
But I was not ready to look him up yet, or to do anything about Jimmy Quon. I needed more information on Mid-Pacific Electronics first, a better handle on that stock-transfer form I’d found in Eberhardt’s safe. If there was a connection between Mid-Pacific and the shooting, if Eberhardt was dirty, it would make plenty of difference in how I handled things with Mau Yee.
I drove down to the Financial District, put my car in a parking garage on Montgomery, and wandered around until I came to a small brokerage firm called Waller & Company. Inside, I told the receptionist I wanted to talk to someone about a stock purchase, and she set me up with a guy named Leo Vail.
Vail didn’t seem to recognize me; the photographs that had appeared in the newspapers had not been particularly good likenesses. Which was fine. I did not want to give him my right name because it would only lead to a bunch of questions. I said I was Andrew James and he bought that all right. He didn’t say anything about my arm being in a sling and I didn’t offer an explanation.
I said, “I’m interested in making a stock investment. A friend of mine told me about a company called Mid-Pacific Electronics, said they’d be a good buy, but I don’t know anything about them. So I thought I’d better check them out.”
Vail was in his fifties, gray-haired and energetic. He shifted around in his chair; you could see him thinking, sifting through his memory. “Mid-Pacific Electronics,” he said at length. “I’ve heard the name, but they’re not on the Exchange and I’m not familiar with them. If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I’ll see what we’ve got in our computer files.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
He went away somewhere. I sat and listened to people talking on the telephone, the clattering of machines. My left arm felt stiff and sore; I kept trying to flex the fingers, without much success. What if the arm stiffens up for good? I thought. What if I come out of this a cripple?
The hell with it, I thought. Eberhardt could come out with a lot worse than a stiffened arm.
It was ten minutes before Vail came back. He had a computer printout in one hand and he plunked it down on the desk as he sat again. “Sorry I took so long,” he said. “Computer was being used.”
“That’s okay.”
“Let’s see,” he said. He glanced over the printout. “Uh-huh. Yes. Mid-Pacific is a small firm, established in 1977. They haven’t gone public yet, but it seems that they’re planning to shortly.”
“A reputable outfit?”
“Oh yes. Quite respectable. And quite successful, evidently. They manufacture a component for industrial computers. One of the founders, Carl Emerson, owns a patent on it — some sort of revolutionary component, according to our data. That would explain Mid-Pacific’s overnight success in the field.”
“How many other founders besides Emerson?”
“Two. Philip Bexley and Orin Tedescu.”
“Tedescu. Is that T-e-d-e-s-c-u?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do the three of them own all the company stock?”
“Yes. Emerson appears to have controlling interest, though.”
“Why are they planning to go public, do you know?”
“Not specifically, no. But I imagine it’s to raise capital for purposes of expansion. That’s the usual reason.”
“So you think Mid-Pacific would be a good buy?”
“I’d have to do some more investigating before I could recommend it,” Vail said. “But on the surface, yes, it would seem to be an excellent buy.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing yet what the stock will sell for.”
“Not until they announce how large a block they’re putting on the market. How many shares would you be interested in?”
“I don’t know. Say a thousand.”
“Well, if that much is available, and if the company continues to flourish, it could be a very lucrative investment. There are no guarantees, of course, but... it does look promising. Would you like me to gather more data for you, Mr. James?”