“Some,” replied Cape. “But I wouldn’t be here if they had it all figured out.”
Yan chewed on his lower lip. “You look honest.”
“It’s the blue eyes,” said Cape.
Yan laughed. “All right,” he said. “I won’t pretend Chinatown is a utopia. Most of our residents are hard-working, honest families, doing what they must to survive. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that some of our residents are less law-abiding than others.”
“Like Freddie Wang,” suggested Cape.
Yan laughed again. “It seems you know more about Chinatown than you’ve let on, detective.”
Cape shrugged. “I’m ignorant, but not naive. Freddie hasn’t kept the lowest profile over the years.”
“True,” said Yan. “Wang is a local gangster, plain and simple. He deals in drugs, among other things. But I imagine you know all that.”
“Rumor has it Freddie heads a tong,” said Cape, “that controls all the heroin coming in from Asia.”
Yan snorted. “Tong?” he said scornfully. “Do you know what a tong is, Mister Weathers?”
Cape shook his head. “Just what I’ve read-Chinese organized crime.”
“Indeed,” said Yan. “That’s very true, in some cases. But tong simply means chamber-a meeting place. It’s a blanket term to refer to any large organization, fraternity, or business association.”
Cape recalled the plaque outside. “Like the Chinese Merchants Benevolent Association?”
“Exactly,” said Yan, nodding. “A group of local merchants joined together to pool resources. They share business contacts, legal services, and make loans to members at favorable rates. The association allows Chinese businesses to become competitive. There are many such associations in Chinatown-ours has been in existence almost one hundred years.”
“I don’t think Freddie Wang is making loans at favorable rates,” replied Cape.
“Neither do I.” Yan smiled, a cynical look on his face. “But he’s got his own organization. He’s not a member of ours.”
“But why do you tolerate him?” asked Cape. “It can’t be good for the community, for that legitimacy you want.”
Yan spread his hands. “Our resources are limited,” he said. “That’s like asking why the Italian community tolerates the Mafia, or why the city police can’t stop prostitution.”
“OK.”
“We have an understanding with the tongs,” said Yan. “We have to live in the same neighborhood, after all.”
“But if someone in the Chinese community was involved with hiding the refugees-” began Cape.
“It would be Freddie Wang,” said Yan. “That’s my guess.”
“I was hoping you’d point me somewhere else,” said Cape, frowning. “I’ve talked to Freddie before, and it wasn’t what you’d call a cordial conversation. I don’t think he’ll talk to me.”
“He will if I tell him to,” said Yan confidently.
“Is that part of your understanding?” asked Cape.
Yan shrugged. “I’ll tell him what you told me-you don’t want to cause trouble, you just want some information. It could be much worse for Freddie if you just started knocking on doors in the neighborhood, asking questions.”
“That was my next step,” replied Cape, “if I wasn’t able to talk to you.”
“I’ll talk to Freddie,” said Yan definitively. “And he’ll talk to you. Beyond that, I can’t make any promises.”
Cape stood. “Mister Yan, I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Yan extended his hand. “Good luck.”
They shook hands. “Thanks,” said Cape. He started to turn, but Yan held his hand a moment longer than expected.
“You know, Mister Weathers,” he said, turning to look out his window, “your answers might not be in Chinatown.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what was onboard that ship?” asked Yan. “Or what those people were doing in China?”
“No,” said Cape. “I don’t.” He thought about telling Yan he’d already asked that question of someone else, but for some reason didn’t. “Do you?”
Yan shook his head. “I just thought it might be relevant.”
Cape nodded. “Thanks again. If you think of anything else…” he handed Yan his card.
“There is one more thing,” replied Yan, reaching behind him. He extended his right hand and pressed something into Cape’s palm. “Wear this in November, if you don’t mind.”
Cape looked down to see a round button emblazoned with Yan for Mayor. He smiled and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Good luck in the election.”
Cape turned and walked down the hall, passing through Yan’s gallery of photos. Waving to the pretty receptionist, he let himself out and took the stairs down to the street. The air was crisp, a hint of fog in the chill wind coursing down the street.
He stood for a moment on the curb, reflecting on the meeting. It was still early and the street was crowded, pedestrians of all ages moving around him like water. Yan was a politician and a lawyer, which normally meant two strikes against him, but there was something disarming about the man. Cape reminded himself that he didn’t really know Yan, but he suspected that he’d like him if he did. And if nothing else, he’d given Cape a reason to move forward.
Cape moved to cross Grant and was knocked sideways by a young Asian boy with orange hair carrying a large backpack. The boy muttered something under his breath as he brushed past, stepping up onto the curb without looking back. Cape started to say something but caught himself, watching as the boy rounded the corner. Looking both ways before resuming his walk, he crossed the street and turned right toward Broadway.
He walked two blocks before reaching into his right jacket pocket to fish out his cell phone. He wanted to call Linda and see if she’d found any background on the ship. His fingers brushed against something that wasn’t his phone, something with a hard, thin edge to it.
Cape pulled a card out of his pocket, a rectangular piece of cardboard about an eighth of an inch thick. Written across the top were the words One-eyed Dong. Below was an address just a few blocks from where Cape stood, in the heart of Chinatown.
Cape turned the card over in his hands. On the back was a triangle, the three sides carved into the card with blood-red clarity. Below the triangle were three Chinese characters that meant nothing to him.
Cape thought of the boy with the orange hair and looked again at the card. He wondered if he’d been followed on his way over here or maybe the entire day.
Either way, he didn’t like looking over his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty
“Nuts?”
Lucy cranked up the wattage on her Tennessee smile as she proffered the small cup of mixed nuts, but the big Chinese fella wasn’t having any of it. He looked at her like she’d just shit on the tray table.
She didn’t think he spoke English, but it was pretty damn clear what she was saying. She was holding the nuts in her hand, after all.
Part of being a flight attendant was meeting all sorts of interesting people, but the flipside was dealing with folks who just couldn’t see the sun for the clouds. This boy’d clearly had a tough life, just from the look of him. That scar was as long and crooked as an interstate highway. Not even a mother could love that face.
But this was business class, and she wouldn’t become positive employee of the month for backing down from a challenge. (The airline used to have an award for plain old employee of the month, but the constant squabbling with the unions made the flight attendants so surly that management had decided to get specific.) The award came with a free trip to Hawaii including lodging and two hundred bucks cash, so Lucy wasn’t about to let some grouchy Chinaman knock her off her game.
She bent down to show some cleavage and gave it another Tennessee try.
“Nuts?”
“Yes,” came the reply, and Lucy almost yelped in surprise, his English crisp and clear, the voice so deep. Then the big man turned away and closed his eyes, never reaching for the small cup in her outstretched hand.