It was a big place, museumlike, with several large sculptures, glass cases displaying other forms of Chinese art, an information counter, and an open shop area dispensing books and jade and ivory craftwork. There weren’t many visitors, and I didn’t see Fong among the few who were present. I moved toward the back. And there he was, looking nervous and frightened, half-hidden behind a massive stone sculpture of a dragon.
He let me prod him over near one of the windows; there was nobody else in the vicinity. But when he spoke it was in a stagey whisper, like a character in a bad play. “Why you come to Mandarin again?”
“Why not? What’s the matter?”
“You know,” he said accusingly. “You talking to Lee Chuck. Telling him you know about Mau Yee.”
“All right, that was a mistake; I admit it. But I didn’t use your name.”
“Hui Sip finding out, they eat my pie.”
“Does Chuck suspect you?”
“No. Not yet, maybe.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“I worry,” he said. “Worry plenty. Calling you this morning, but nobody home.”
“Why did you call?”
“Warning you, don’t come back Chinatown.”
“Because Mau Yee is looking for me?”
“Yes.”
“I already know that. He tried to blow me away last night, outside my flat. He’s not going to get a second chance.”
Fong grimaced and muttered something in Chinese.
I said, “Is Jimmy Quon the only one after me? Or is it all of Hui Sip?”
“Not knowing. Maybe just Mau Yee.”
“What does he look like?”
“Mau Yee? You not seeing him last night?”
“Not up close. Describe him.”
“Big,” Fong said.
“How big?”
“Like you. Same size.”
“What about his features?”
“Pretty. Woman face.”
“What else?”
“Cat eyes. Yellow. Look funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Only stare, not blinking. Ah pin yin eyes.”
“What’s ah pin yin?”
“Opium,” he said.
“You mean Quon uses opium?”
“No. Other dope, yes; cocaine, pills. But eyes like ah pin yin eater.”
“How does he wear his hair?”
“Long. Like woman.”
“What about his clothes? Anything distinctive?”
“Western clothes. Leather jacket, all time — brown, with belt. To hide his puppy.”
“Uh-huh. Now—”
I paused because a Caucasian woman had wandered back where we were. She gave us a disinterested glance, peered at the dragon sculpture, and wandered away again. When I looked back at Fong he had a small plastic vial in his hand and was popping one of the pills it contained. He had a squirmy look about him, as if he needed to go to the toilet.
Fear does that to some people — swells the bladder, builds up an urge to urinate.
“I go now?” he said. “Somebody belong Hui Sip maybe see us—”
“In here? The Hui Sip isn’t interested in Chinese culture.”
“Please. Knowing nothing else about Mau Yee.”
“There’s still Lee Chuck,” I said.
“Already telling you about Lee Chuck—”
“I want more information. Does he allow Caucasians in his gambling parlor?”
“Caucasians?”
“You heard me. High-rolling whites. The poker game, for instance.”
He shook his head. “Never asking him. Never gambling there.”
“But it is possible? There’s no tong rule against Caucasian players?”
“No,” Fong said. “Lee Chuck not like fan quai, but... maybe. If man is known.”
“How do you mean ‘known’? Connected with Hui Sip somehow?”
“Yes. Or friend of somebody playing all time.”
“Does the name Carl Emerson mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“You sure you’ve never heard it before?”
Another head shake. There was blank puzzlement in his eyes; I didn’t think he was lying.
“How about the name Philip Bexley?”
“No.”
“Orin Tedescu?”
“No.”
“Mid-Pacific Electronics?”
“No. What’s that?”
“A computer outfit, offices down on Pine Street. Emerson and Bexley and Tedescu are joint partners.”
Still another head shake. And the same blank puzzlement.
I leaned toward him, so that my face was just a few inches from his. He started to back up, thought better of it, and stayed where he was; I could smell the sweet-sour odor of his breath, the raw effluvium of his fear.
“Here’s what I want you to do,” I said. “Check around, find out if any of those three names means anything in Chinatown. Particularly Emerson. You understand?”
“Yes.” Then, plaintively, “But you not coming here again? We meet someplace else next time, yes?”
“If you cooperate. If you stay where I can find you when I want you. I’ll call your apartment at seven tonight; you be there, whether or not you find out anything.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“You just hang in there, Fong,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you or me. The only people who’ll get hurt from now on are Jimmy Quon and the man who hired him.”
He nodded, but his eyes said he didn’t believe it; he had his money down on Mau Yee, fatalistically. But that was all right. He would stay on my side because he had got in over his head and it was his only choice. And I had enough determination for both of us.
“Go on, get out of here,” I said. “I’ll give you five minutes before I leave.”
He sidestepped away from me, let me have a look over his shoulder as if he thought I might be crazy, and scurried off between the displays. He was almost running by the time he reached the front entrance.
I picked up my car and drove it over to Potrero and out to S.F. General to keep my appointment with Doctor Abrams. There was no change in Eberhardt’s condition; I asked him about that first thing. “His life signs are stable,” Abrams said. “That’s the only encouraging news I can give you.”
He spent an hour examining me, with not a little displeasure. What had I been doing to inflame the wound that way? Why wasn’t I taking care of myself? Didn’t I understand that complications could still set in: infection, pneumonia? I told him. had been taking care of myself, that I’d tripped and fallen on my shoulder and that was how the stitch got ripped loose. He made disapproving noises. But then he removed the rest of the stitches, rebandaged the shoulder, and let me go on my way.
It was a quarter of four when I got to my flat. I circled the block a couple of times, looking at the parked cars and the pedestrians; there was no one around who answered Mau Yee’s description. When I let myself into the building I had the .38 in my hand, hidden inside my overcoat pocket. Nobody was lurking in the foyer. The apartment was as empty as I had left it, with all the doors and windows still secure.
I brewed some coffee and then called Ben Klein at the Hall of Justice. He had nothing to tell me. He said they were “getting close to a breakthrough,” but that was just crap; he sounded frustrated. The police were no closer to Mau Yee than they had been days ago. And they didn’t know that I was. If word was out in Chinatown that Jimmy Quon was after me, it had not filtered back to the Department yet; Klein would have said something if they had any inkling of what was going down. The Chinese community was being as closemouthed as usual.
I rang up Ben Chadwick’s office in Hollywood. He had nothing to tell me, either. “I’ve got a request in for information at a couple of places,” he said, “but so far, nothing new. Your three boys from Mid-Pacific just aren’t known down here.”