“You,” he said, and it came out half-strangled, like a belch.
I frowned at him. “You know who I am?”
“How you find me? How you know?”
I got it then. It was his voice; I’d heard it before. A spasm went through my left arm and I could feel the fingers twitch. In the space of a second I was as tense as he was.
“Well, well,” I said. “You’re the one who called yesterday to tell me about Mau Yee.”
The mention of Mau Yee made him jerk as if I had slapped him. His fear flared up brighter; he looked around a little wildly, made a motion to get on his feet. I caught hold of his wrist with my good hand, put enough pressure on it to keep him sitting still.
“You’re not going anywhere, Fong,” I told him. “We’re going to have a little talk, you and me.”
“No, please...”
“Yes, please. Just take it easy, don’t lose your head, and we’ll get along fine.”
He was wired up so tight you could almost see him quiver. I watched him struggle with his panic, try to get it under control. His eyes rolled around for three or four seconds; then he blinked, let out a heavy breath, and used his free hand to paw his mouth out of shape. He was all right, then. He wasn’t going to make a scene.
“How you know?” he said again.
“I didn’t know, not until you opened your mouth and I recognized your voice. I got your name from a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who?”
“Inspector Richard Loo. He said you’d had some contact with Lieutenant Eberhardt in the past, given him information on certain matters. So I thought I’d look you up.”
Fong wet his lips, slumped back a little in his chair. I still had hold of his wrist; when I released it he put both hands in his lap and glanced around again, furtively. But nobody was looking at us. They were all too busy eating and chattering among themselves.
“You telling them?” he asked. “Police?”
“About your call? No. I’m looking into things on my own.”
That seemed to relieve him a little. “You not telling anyone? Not police, nobody in Chinatown?”
“That depends,” I said. “On how cooperative you are, for one thing. Why did you call me?”
“Lieutenant, he...” The sentence dribbled off.
“What about the lieutenant?”
“He treat me okay. Not like other police.”
“Paid you well, never hassled you?”
“Yes.”
“And you called me because I’m his friend, because I was shot too.”
“Yes.”
“And because you heard he’d taken a bribe.”
“Not want police to know,” he said. “Maybe not true. I think maybe you find out.”
“What do you know about this bribe?”
“Nothing. Only what I telling you before.”
“No idea who’s supposed to have given it?”
“No.”
“But you know it wasn’t a Chinese.”
“No Chinese. Nobody in Chinatown.”
“Where did you hear about the bribe?”
“I listen, hearing many things.”
“Sure you do. Where did you hear this one?”
“Not remembering.”
“You’d better start remembering, my friend. And quick.”
He wet his lips again. “I think... Lee Chuck.”
“Who would Lee Chuck be?”
“Herb seller. Important man.”
“Yes? Does he have a shop?”
“Ross Alley.”
“How did he know about the bribe?”
“He not telling me.”
“What else does he do besides sell herbs?”
“Do?”
“Come on, Fong, you know what I mean.”
Hesitation. Then he said, “Gambling.”
“You mean he runs a parlor?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Mah-Jongg, fan-tan, poker.”
“High stakes?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Room above his shop.”
“In Ross Alley?”
“Yes.”
“Does the bribe have anything to do with gambling?”
“No.”
“Then how does Chuck know about it?”
“He not telling me.”
“Who told you about Mau Yee? Was it Chuck?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Fong cast another furtive glance at the nearby tables. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice a couple of octaves. “He saying Mau Yee try to eat two white pies. One big, one little.”
“Meaning he tried to kill a couple of Caucasians.”
“Yes. You and lieutenant.”
“Why? What motive?”
“Something to do with bribe.”
“But Chuck didn’t say what.”
“No.”
“Did he have any idea who hired Mau Yee?”
“He saying no.”
“Or why an outsider would want a Chinese gunman?”
“No.”
“Why did Chuck tell you as much as he did?”
“We talk sometimes. Friends.”
Some friends, I thought. “Does he belong to Hui Sip?”
“Yes. You know Hui Sip?”
“I’ve heard of them. What else do they control besides gambling? Drugs, maybe?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. Where can I find Mau Yee?”
“You go after him now?”
“I haven’t decided that yet. Where does he live?”
“Hang Ah Street.”
“What number?”
“Sixteen.”
“Does he live there alone?”
“No. He having woman. Not married.”
“All right,” I said. I got my wallet out, took one of my business cards from inside. The telephone listed on it was my office number; I scratched that out with a pen and wrote my home number in its place. Then I slid the card over in front of him, next to his cold plate of fried pork and cabbage. “I need more information, Fong,” I said. “I need to know who hired Mau Yee and why, what that bribe business is all about. See what else you can find out. You turn up anything positive, there’ll be a hundred bucks in it for you.”
He hesitated, finally picked up the card and put it into his shirt pocket. “Hearing nothing else,” he said. “Only what Lee Chuck telling me.”
“Nose around anyway. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Yes.” He leaned forward again. “You know Mau Yee carry puppy all time?”
“Puppy?”
“Pistol. All time different one — many puppies. You being careful, yes? Mau Yee very dangerous.”
“So am I right now,” I said.
The heat and the heavy cooking odors were making me a little dizzy. I pushed back my chair, got on my feet, told Fong I’d be in touch, and left him mopping his face with a linen napkin. When I got outside I leaned against a parking meter for a time, to let the wind cool me and chase away the dizziness.
Up on California, the bells were ringing in the steeple of Old St. Mary’s. A wedding, probably. Or a funeral. The bells reminded me of the sign over the church entrance, underneath the big clock — a Biblical quote from Ecclesiastes. “Son,” it said, “observe the time and fly from evil.”
Good advice for most people, I thought, but not for me. Not now.
I had observed the time, all right, but I wasn’t flying from evil; I was flying straight at it.
Nine
Ross Alley was a narrow thoroughfare between Jackson and Pacific, west of Grant Avenue. Lined with doorways that led to bundle shops, apartments, the headquarters of a couple of family associations; two sleazy-looking bars, one of which advertised “Belly Dance on Weekends”; several little shops with signs in Chinese calligraphy and opaque windows that hid their wares and their purpose from Caucasian eyes. Overhead, some of the buildings sported gilded pagoda cornices and there were fire escapes with fluttering laundry and hanging gardens and planters of black bamboo.