“No.” But if the truth were told, I suppose, without giving it much thought, I considered it evidence of backwardness.
“Because from our earliest civilization, the Chinese have considered a meal to be more than nourishment for the body. It is a social experience that bonds the family together in spirit and affection. To use instruments of war and fighting like knives and forks would be disruptive to an atmosphere of harmony and peace.”
“That’s very beautiful.” I started to add, “But…,” but the words mercifully stayed in.
“Go on, Mr. Knight. There was more.”
“Well, since you ask, I was just wondering how a community that brings such a beautiful philosophy into every meal can be as riddled with fear and intimidation from within as I’ve seen lately.”
“For every yin there must be a yang, Mr. Knight. It’s the coexistence and attraction of opposites that holds the universe together.”
I nodded, “And since that violent element exists, I guess we have to deal with it. I understand that you identified my client, Anthony Bradley, as the man who shot Mr. Chen.”
“I did not know your client’s name, but I made the identification.”
“And do you still stand by that identification?”
“I do.”
“Could I ask where you were standing when the shot was fired?”
“I was outside my shop on the sidewalk.”
“What view did you have of Anthony?”
“I saw him from the front when he came out of the Ming Tree restaurant next door. Then I saw him from the side while he was on the sidewalk.”
“Is that where you say the shot was fired?”
“Yes.”
“You say you saw him when he came out of the restaurant. In all the confusion of the New Year’s celebration, how would you notice or remember him?”
“Because I had seen him a number of times before.”
I wasn’t sure I could have heard him right. “You saw him before? Where?”
“At the Ming Tree restaurant.”
It was like seeing the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle pull apart.
“How many times?”
“Perhaps five or six over the last six months. He would come alone, but others would join him.”
“Could you tell me who?”
He thought about it. “Most frequently Mr. Liu. He is called Kip Liu. He is the manager of the restaurant. They would eat together. Sometimes others would join them. I don’t know their names. They are from the community.”
I was really rocked by the way the conversation was going. One familiar note rang in my mind.
“This Kip Liu. Is he tall, expensively dressed, hair slicked back, speaks good English?” I could have added, “Looks like Dick Clark?” but I might have lost him on that one.
“That is Mr. Liu.”
I had hit a wall. I realized that I had done just what Mr. Devlin warned me about. I had taken as a given the truthfulness of the client. I could hear Anthony say at least three times that he’d never been to the Ming Tree before. With his story as base information, I thought I knew where I was headed. All of a sudden, the road signs were spinning. I wasn’t sure where to go from there.
I thought of an old Lewis Carroll line from one of the Alice stories-“If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.”
“Had you ever spoken to Anthony, Mr. Qian?”
“No. He was just a familiar face. You seem suddenly troubled, Mr. Knight. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Mr. Qian. I’m just running into a credibility problem. Between the two versions I’ve heard, I’m inclined to believe you’re telling me the truth. Sometimes the truth takes us by surprise.”
I had run out of questions for the moment. We all exchanged amenities before he saw us to the door. He wouldn’t accept payment for whatever it was he gave Harry, who, I had to admit, went up the stairs with a great deal more spring than he had shown all morning.
By the time we reached the street, I felt as if a wrecking ball had gone through my stomach. I had been dealing with the nagging question of why Terry and Anthony disagreed about whose idea it was to go to Chinatown. That was minor. Now I had to face the more devastating fact that good old straight-up Anthony had been jerking my chain about the fact that he was a regular at the Ming Tree restaurant, and more than that, a frequent diner with Dick Clark, whom I trusted as far as I could throw a refrigerator.
“It’s been a beaut of a morning, Harry. All things considered. How’re you feeling?”
We walked together down Tyler Street toward the parking lot. He thought for a second before answering.
“Better.” He even said it with a bit of a smile.
My thoughts were racing from random to what was taking shape as a pattern. In terms of a next move, conscience and logic were forcing me into a decision I did not want to make. There were a number of other bases I had to touch, but a nagging and unwelcome voice kept insisting that when I gathered all the pieces, there would be one large, central piece missing. Like it or not, the voice kept repeating that the key to the puzzle was Mei-Li.
We turned right onto Beach Street before I got up the courage to put it into words.
“I’m thinking out loud here, Harry. You’re my sounding board.”
“Think on, brother.”
I pulled Harry into a decrepit doorway, out of the wind, and out of the sight of spying eyes, if any.
“No matter how I piece it together, I get one name. I’d give my Bruins play-off tickets for five minutes of conversation with that little waitress with the red shoes. I’d throw in your play-off tickets to find out what she meant by helping me. That’s not going to happen. I’m sure she died trying to get me to help this Mei-Li. Help her what? What’s her problem? I’ve got a voice inside that’s screaming in high C that there’s a serious connection to this murder. Is my little voice whacko or what?”
Harry pulled his coat tighter against the cold.
“My voice is saying the same thing in Chinese. Could we talk a little faster? It’s freezing out here.”
“No. I’m at warp speed now. Anthony’s obviously been lying to me. I could have it out with him, but I couldn’t trust anything he said at this point anyway. One thing I can’t finesse. He’s no complete bystander in this business. If little Red Shoes could have helped him as promised, there must be a connection. If he’s connected to her, he could be connected to Mei-Li. Does that make sense?”
Harry looked like he was getting the shivers. “Could we talk and walk at the same time?”
“In a second, Harry. Does that make sense?”
He nodded.
“There’s no one here in Chinatown that won’t freeze me out at the least-kill me at the most. I know this is off-the-chart nuts, but I keep coming back to Mei-Li.”
“I know, Michael.”
“I’ve got to find her.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to Toronto.”
“I said ‘I,’ not ‘we.’ You’re still on the DL.”
He grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled my ear close to his mouth. The physical effort made him wince.
“Listen, Michael. I’m going to say this once before my ears freeze off. She’s in a brothel in a foreign country, probably surrounded by Chinese of the non-English-speaking variety. If there is one hint of what you’re there for, they’ll kill you faster than they could roll a wonton. You want to commit suicide, there are easier ways.”
I was silent for lack of an answer.
“With me you’ve got half a chance. Maybe half of a half of a chance. It beats no chance. When do we leave?”
I just shook my head.
“Michael, nothing personal but you’re one low faan against a small Chinese army. Why not just mail your body to the morgue and eliminate the middle man? If you’ve got an alternative, I’m all ears, unless they’ve frozen off.”
“This is my job. It’s not yours. And what’s a low faan? ”
“It’s you, Michael. It’s a non-Chinese. And this is my community. It’s not yours.”