Neon Dragon (22 page)

“Harry, when you put it that way, I've got to ask you a personal question. If this stuff is so secret, how do you know about it?”

Harry looked out the window as the pilot announced that we were passing Niagra Falls on our right. He was still looking after we passed the falls. I knew he hadn't forgotten the question.

We've been close friends since we were seventeen, but obviously there was a gap in my knowledge of his background.

When he turned back, he leaned closer. I could just hear him over the drone of the engines.

“I guess you need to know this, Mike. You're putting a lot of trust in what must sound like Dungeons and Dragons.”

He took a breath before saying something I think he had never told another soul.

“My father was drafted into the Chinese Red Army just before my mother came to this country. My mother and grandmother and I lived in Chinatown in Boston before we moved to Brookline. They both worked twelve, fourteen hours a day, seven days a week at their restaurants in the suburbs. I never really saw them. I was twelve years old. I resented it. I was too dumb to realize they were earning money for me to go to Harvard and MIT. I was the hope of the family for something better.

“I used to spend time with a bunch of kids in Chinatown. We started hanging around a martial arts school. They'd let us work out with the mats. It's actually the tong's recruitment place for the youth gangs. I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know much.

“I knew I couldn't afford the classes. I couldn't ask my mother for the money. She wouldn't have wanted me to hang around there anyway. One of the older kids saw that I was catching onto kung fu pretty fast. He said he'd pay for my lessons. I was dumb enough to let him. I guess I was getting back at my mother and grandmother. The older kid always said not to worry about the money. Someday he'd ask me a favor.

“The favor came when I was thirteen. It was the turning point in my life. I hated it, but I did it. I was afraid of losing face with the other kids. I've been ashamed of it every day since.”

He looked me in the eyes and saw something that made him keep going.

“There was an old man on Tyler Street. He ran a grocery store. It was a dismal sort of place. I don't think there was anything in his life that wasn't drudgery. Except he had one thing in the shop. It was a tank of exotic goldfish. It was the prize of his life.

“The older boy who paid for my lessons told me the old man kept servants in the basement and he beat and tortured them. He said he and his friends were vigilantes. They were going to teach the old man a lesson.

“I went with a couple of sixteen-year-olds to the grocery shop one day after school. We ransacked the store. When we finished, they gave me a rock and told me to break the glass fish tank. The old man was looking at me while the others held him. He was pleading with me. I can still see it in his eyes. It was like he was pleading for his life. The other boys were yelling at me to do what I promised.

“In all my life, I wish I had that one moment back. I smashed the tank. The old man crumbled. I could hear him sobbing when I ran out of the store. I cried all the way home.

“The next day, the boy who'd paid for my lessons told me I was going to join the gang. I told him I couldn't. He said they'd tell my mother what I'd done. I couldn't do that to her, so I joined the youth gang.

“Every time I passed the old man on the street, he got older, more feeble. Of course I knew by that time that it wasn't true about the servants in the cellar. He was just an old man who wouldn't pay
lomo
—“lucky money”—to the tong.

“They started having me go on other jobs. I did it because of my shame before my mother.

“Six months later, the old man died. I knew I had killed him. He started dying the instant I smashed that tank of fish. I took away the only thing in his life that gave him pleasure.

“I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to get out. Actually, I was lucky. The number two man in the tong had noticed me. I think it was because I was the only one in the gang in a college-prep course in a decent high school. It was unusual. Most of the kids in the gangs don't get educated beyond high school.

“He seemed to like me. I became almost like a son. He'd take me along to meetings that none of the other gang members went to. He told me things that were part of the tong. Secret things. I think he was grooming me to move up in the organization.

“When the old man died, I couldn't live with myself. I went to him for the supreme favor. I wanted out. It had never been done as far as I
know. He wasn't happy about it, but he said he'd plead for me to the
Shan Chu.

“A week later, he sent for me. He seemed very sad. He said that I was released from my oaths. I have no idea what he had to do to pay for my freedom. I never saw him again. He just disappeared. He might have been sent back to Hong Kong. I know he forfeited something.

“The other gang members froze me out completely. That was all right. It wasn't long before we moved to Brookline. The way they move around, none of the gang that I knew back then is left in Chinatown.”

Harry looked at me directly. He looked more stricken than relieved.

“That's a part of my life I'm not proud of, Michael. I live with it every day. I'm only telling you so you'll know I'm not guessing about the tong.”

He turned back to the window. I nudged his elbow.

“Harry, you remember what Jesus said about letting the one who is without sin cast the first stone?”

He looked around at me. I looked him in the eye when I said, “I'm in no position to cast any stones, brother.”

He waited in case I had more to tell him. Somehow I wasn't up to filling in the details. Maybe another time. I thought, God grant there'd be another time.

BY TWO IN THE AFTERNOON
, Harry and I were in a taxi, weaving our way through the streets of Toronto's Chinatown. The driver found Columbia Street, and we walked from there. We spotted a grocery shop in the middle of a block that fit Xiao-Wen's description.

Two Chinese boys, in the range of about sixteen to seventeen years, bracketed the doorway beside the grocery shop. I'd never have given them a second look, but now I noticed the lean, muscular builds and the eyes that scanned everyone and seemed to take in more than I'd expect from a couple of kids just hanging out.

I felt a slight nudge and barely heard Harry whisper, “That's the place, Mike. From here on, it's my show. We don't panic, no matter what happens. Believe the bluff. We've got friends in the tong so powerful these bozos don't dare to mess with us.”

We picked up the pace, like a couple of businessmen on a mission. Harry breezed past the two at the door without dignifying their existence with so much as a nod. I realized that there is a lot of implied power in looking like you know where you're going.

Both of them turned around. One of them started to speak, but the other one grabbed his arm. I noticed he also touched a button beside the door.

The outside door led to an inside flight of stairs that ran beside the grocery store. At the top, there was a door with an opaque glass center and Chinese embossed figures in the glass. While the layout was similar to that of the brothel on Beach Street in Boston, the approach looked far more sterile and bright. It could have been the entryway to a good orthodontist.

We climbed the stairs without haste or hesitation, and Harry knocked on the door at the top.

A slender woman of about fifty opened the door. She wore a sheath dress of emerald silk that bespoke feminine allure and dignity at the same time. I got the impression that she was one of the few survivors of the trade who went on to rise as far as a woman could go in management.

Her bow and smile to Harry were gracious. There was a bit of stiffness that translated to chill when she saw my
low faan
face. Harry matched her graciousness in both bow and smile. I did my best to keep the shivers from rippling my clothes.

Harry spoke to her softly in Chinese, while I took in the silk-suited dude at the carved mahogany desk across the room. He was about the age and cut of the Ming Tree's Dick Clark. If scorpions came with slick black hair and manicured fingernails, I'd have looked for his stinger.

His perusal of Harry seemed almost nonchalant, but there was a distinct toning of the senses when he spotted me.

It was also hard to ignore the bulky six-footer standing by the wall to the left of the desk. He had one of those muscle developments that prevented him from fully dropping his arms or bringing his knees together.

As nearly as I could follow, the woman introduced herself to Harry as Mrs. Woo Yo-Si. Harry became Wong On-Lee, which I think was actually his Chinese name. I was getting used to the Chinese custom of placing the family name first.

Harry introduced me as Peter Frathing, which was the name of one of our classmates at Harvard, who never, to the knowledge of either of us, said more than three words in an evening. I got the hint.

Mrs. Woo brought us over to the desk and graciously introduced us to Mr. Sun Yu-Ming. Everyone ignored the stack of muscles to Mr. Sun's right, which suited me fine.

Mr. Sun addressed me first, in English.

“Mr. Frathing, we see so few Occidentals in our humble establishment. How did you happen to hear of us?”

I did some fast computing. I knew I was supposed to be an associate of Harry's, but I didn't have a clue as to what business we were supposed to be in. I tried to lead something neutral to avoid finessing my partner.

“On-Lee has told me many times that there is no beauty on earth to compare with Chinese beauty. He kindly invited me to accompany him on his business.”

The Chinese Batman flew to my rescue. “Actually, Mr. Frathing is too modest. He has been of immense assistance to our Boston family in helping us with the guidance of our children. We would be hard put
to function without his wise advice in certain matters of their up-bringing, such as the one that brings us here. In that regard, I bring you greetings from our Mr. Liu.”

The name “Liu” cracked a polite smile of recognition from Mr. Sun and slightly flared his pencil moustache. He waved an invitation to two chairs in front of the desk.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Liu and I have had many mutually beneficial dealings. I trust he is well.”

“He is, and wishes the same for you. As a matter of fact, I've come in regard to your most recent dealing. I believe you received a flower from Mr. Liu by special delivery. It was a very delicate flower. Mr. Liu is very grateful that you would give it room in your house.”

“I was honored to be able to accommodate Mr. Liu. Is there a question about this particular flower?”

“Only the desire to see and learn what we can from this unique specimen. As I mentioned, Mr. Frathing is instrumental in guiding Mr. Liu's children. If we could see this flower, we might learn something essential to furthering their education.”

I stood there with a knowing smile, totally clueless. I figured the flower was Mei-Li, but who these children might be escaped me entirely. It was like playing a tennis match when you can't see the ball.

All I knew was that Mr. Sun was unflustered. He was also making no apparent move to produce Mei-Li. He played with a tiny piece of ornamental jade sculpture on his desk for a moment before speaking. I was moving from seriously concerned to seriously terrified that my white presence was shooting the plausibility out of Harry's cover. Mr. Sun opened the center drawer of his desk to check something before picking up the telephone.

“I'm sure you appreciate what a delicate flower this is, Mr. Wong. I'm certain you'll understand my checking carefully before exposing it to sunlight.”

Panic bubbled close to the surface, but we both held it in check. Harry must have been as sure as I was that the silk scorpion was dialing
up Kip Liu, who would probably give the execution order on the spot.

He pressed enough digits for long distance, the first three of which were “617”—Boston area code—and then swung back in his chair. I counted the rings. By the third, my pulse hit one hundred and eighty. Each ring after that brought it down ten beats. When it hit six, he placed the receiver back in its cradle, and I breathed “Thank you, Lord”—not necessarily out loud.

The scorpion swung back to look at us. He was talking to Harry, but in my honor, he kept it in English.

“I'm afraid we'll just have to wait. In the meantime, you'll be my guests. May we bring you tea or whatever you desire?”

Harry was on his feet with his right hand in the breast pocket of his suitcoat. “Muscles” was beside him faster than I thought that much bulk could move. He eased off when Harry took out his wallet. Harry pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and a pen.

“That is not acceptable, Mr. Sun. My time is not limitless. I come representing a certain gentleman who requests a courtesy of your
er pao.
If your
er pao
wishes to deny or delay the courtesy, I'll return that message to the gentleman.”

Harry inscribed three small digits with a felt pen on the hundred-dollar bill. I figured the hundred was some multiple of something significant. The digits were “489”—the symbol of the Dragon Head of the tong.

Harry folded the bill and handed it to Mr. Sun, who looked quickly at the digits. He rose immediately and bowed. The greaseball polish had dropped out of his tone of voice. He sounded like a man who had been on the verge of making a colossal mistake and had pulled back in time.

“Mrs. Woo will escort you to a suitable room. The flower will be brought to you immediately.”

Harry bowed curtly, not to lose the momentum. We followed Mrs. Woo through a door in the back of the office to an expensively and tastefully appointed sitting room toward the back of the building. The
white silk brocade in the upholstery matched that of the wallpaper, and the tapestries looked authentic and ancient.