Snake Eye (22 page)

Paco grinned. “No problem, boss. Kango belongs to me. We got your six.”

Meanwhile Samuel Chow took a pull from his oxygen mask as Kango and Weed made use of
the van’s lift to unload the wheelchair. Then, once the door to the house was open, the crime boss steered himself into what turned out to be the kitchen. The combined odors of garlic, soy sauce, and fermented
gochu Jang
chili paste filled the air. A family of four terrified Koreans kept their eyes on plates as even more armed men arrived to join those already in control of their home. The elder Chow was barely aware of the renters as he trundled past the pathetic tableau and turned into the shabby living room.

The first thing the crime boss saw was his son, who, in spite of the circumstances, was trying to look cool. And behind him, positioned to provide support if called upon to do so were Paco, Skinner, and a man he hadn’t seen before. Big Chow frowned. “Hello, son. This is between us. Tell your boys to take a break out in the garage.”

It was hard to stand up to his father, very hard, but the younger man forced himself to do so. He managed a smile. “Sure, Pop. You send Kango and Weed out of the room—and my men will follow.”

It was a reasonable request, framed in a respectful manner, yet Samuel Chow hesitated. And, when he asked himself why, the old man was forced to confront the terrible truth. Slowly, as his own powers started to fade, he had come to fear his son.
Not
because of the younger man’s strength, as should have been the case, but because of his weakness. The truth was that Joe had a hidden flaw, evidence of which could be seen in his addiction to gambling and general lack of focus.

It was a horrible realization, made all the worse by the extent to which it had so long been denied, and what it meant for the future. Yet there it was. His son, the boy on whom his hopes for immortality rested, was not only unfit to lead, but so unstable as to be dangerous. Even to his father. The older Chow spread his hands. “It shall be as you say—everyone will stay.”

His father’s apparent capitulation seemed like a victory at first, until the true implication of his words began to sink in, and Joe Chow felt a chill run up his spine. His father thought he was crazy! So loony it wasn’t safe to be alone with him! A lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow it. His father was a predator, had always been a predator, and still was. To what lengths would such a man go in order to protect himself? Would he murder his own son if he believed such an act was necessary? The answer was obvious.

Tension filled the room as the representatives from both sides tried to stare each other down. The Korean family continued to eat with desperate intensity and the family dog scratched to get out. No one responded. “Tell me what happened,” Samuel Chow began. “Tell me everything.”

So Joe did, and once he was finished, his father frowned. “You could have called the police…or had Paco beat the crap out of him. Why shoot the bastard?”

Little Chow looked down at his feet and back up again. “People had been following me for weeks. I thought some triads were hiding behind the mirror.”

Samuel Chow started to respond, discovered he couldn’t, and was forced to take a long pull from the oxygen mask before he spoke. “You should have told me that people were following you.”

Mild though the response was, it constituted a rebuke and Joe Chow was quick to respond. “You’re the one who wants me to take charge,” he said defensively. “I did what I thought was right.”

And you were wrong
, the elder Chow thought to himself, but chose to keep the criticism to himself. “Assuming that you have been watching the news you know that the man who owns the apartment house you lived in has been sleeping with an FBI agent named Christina Rossi. Is there any chance that the people who have been following you work for the government rather
than the triads?”

Suddenly Little Chow knew that his father was correct, but he didn’t want to admit that in front of the others. “Sure, anything’s possible. But the triads seem more likely. Especially since we greased Pong and stole his dope.”

The crime boss remained unconvinced but saw no reason to say so. “Okay, son. It’s water under the bridge at this point. We need to get you out of the country. And, now that we have a footprint in China, that’s the safest place to go.”

Ling knew Joe Chow’s moods by that time and saw anger in the way the snakehead held his body. “China?” the snakehead demanded incredulously. “I don’t want to live in China. The place is a shit hole.”

“You can’t remain here,” the elder man responded patiently. “It’s either China or an American jail, assuming you escape the death penalty. A ship will arrive in a week or so. Kango will take you aboard. One of my agents will meet you in Shanghai. Later, after the furor dies down, I will join you there.”

Joe Chow eyed Kango for a moment before switching his gaze back to his father. “That’s bullshit, Pop. I’m not going anywhere with no duck-tail-assed, shade-wearing geezer.”

Samuel Chow experienced a rising sense of anger as he paused to take some much-needed oxygen. Had Joe been anyone else he would have been dead by then. “Have you got a better idea?”

“Yeah,” the younger Chow replied. “I do. You give me the name of the ship, and the person I’m supposed to contact, and I’ll take care of the rest. And, once you arrive in Shanghai, we’ll talk. Maybe Hong Kong would suit me better. I like the movies they make.”

Samuel Chow sighed. “Okay, but lay low. Don’t use your cell phone, your computer, or your credit cards. And change cars.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Little Chow said dismissively. “I can take care of myself.”

It was a stupid statement given the circumstances, but the crime boss allowed it to pass and removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “All the information you need is here. Memorize the note and burn it. And don’t gamble the cash away. There won’t be any more until you arrive in China.”

A somewhat awkward hug followed. Joe Chow left first, quickly followed by Ling and his bodyguards. Rubber squealed as the Mercedes left the driveway,

Samuel Chow went next. Once he was in the van, and it had been backed out of the garage, he ordered the driver to stop. His eyes swung around to make contact with Kango’s sunglasses. “Go back and clean things up.”

The bodyguard nodded, motioned for Weed to accompany him, and the two of them went back inside. The silencers worked well. A clean-up crew would drop by later to pick up the bodies, and because the Koreans were illegals, there was no one to report them missing.

Meanwhile, in downtown Seattle, the press conference was nearly at an end. The TV crews had already started to tear down their gear when a pert little print reporter posed a final question. “In light of the fact that the police are looking for his son in connection with John Pasco’s death, does Mr. Chow plan to go ahead with the fireworks display scheduled for New Year’s Eve?”

It was a good question and one that had been lost in the give-and-take around the murder. The New Year’s Eve fireworks display was a Seattle tradition—and one that Chow Enterprises had supported for the last three years. One of the TV crews hurried to turn their camera on as the lawyer pretended to conference with the double. Finally, after some muffled whispering, the attorney straightened up. He had good teeth and didn’t hesitate to put them on display. “Mr.
Chow is pleased to announce that his family’s promise to the city of Seattle will be kept. That will be all.” The press conference was over.

Having watched the Samuel Chow press conference in the meeting room closest to her office, and desperately in need of a break from the SNAKE EYE case, Rossi went out for lunch. A few members of the press corps had been seen hanging around the building’s main entrance earlier that morning but Big Chow’s nicely choreographed presentation had been sufficient to pull them away. The elevator was crowded with lunch-hour traffic, and Rossi followed her coworkers out through the sparsely furnished lobby and onto the sidewalk, where the agent discovered it was raining. And not just a misty rain of the sort seasoned Seattleites tended to ignore, but a steady downpour.

Rather than return to the office and get her umbrella, the agent decided to make a run for it. The light changed, traffic came to a halt, and Rossi made a mad dash for the far side of the street. Once there she kept on going. The restaurant was halfway down the block. Though not cheap, it wasn’t expensive by downtown standards, and claimed to be Italian. The front door opened as a group of women left and the FBI agent entered. No one seemed to recognize her, which was perfect, and she was shown to a two-person table.

And that’s where Rossi was, menu in hand, when Jack Dexter appeared in front of her. His hair was plastered to his head, water streamed off his Northface parka, and he looked absolutely miserable. For one brief moment Rossi felt sorry for him. Then she remembered the secret room, what it meant, and who she was dealing with. Her voice was hard and unyielding. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Hoping to see you,” Dexter replied honestly. “May I sit down?”

“
No
,” Rossi answered emphatically. “Not now—not ever.” “The room was wrong,” Dexter said desperately. “I admit that and I’m sorry. Then I met you, and everything started to change for the better.”

“Get out,” Rossi said coldly. “Or should I call the police?”

The tenor of the conversation had attracted the attention of other diners by then, and there was the sound of scraping chair legs as people sought to put some distance between themselves and potential trouble.

“No,” Dexter answered sadly. “There’s no need to call the police. But I have some information about the case that you’re working on. Something that might be helpful.”

Rossi was in the process of reaching for her cell phone when Agent Kissler materialized next to her table. He had been cleared by the shooting board by then, still had a thing for Rossi, and had been watching from the far side of the room. Here was the sort of opportunity he had dreamed of. “Hey, Rossi. Is everything okay?”

“
No
,” the FBI agent answered adamantly. “It isn’t. Would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Dexter to the door?”

Kissler grinned. “I’d be happy to.” Then, having turned toward the ex-SEAL, he said, “So, bud, how would you like to go? Vertically? Or on a stretcher?”

For one split second Dexter considered decking the pompous FBI agent but pushed the thought away. “I don’t want any trouble. And I can find the door on my own.”

Kissler watched to make sure that the man was truly gone before turning back to Rossi. The face had been familiar but he wasn’t able to put a name with it. “Who was that jerk anyway?”

“He was a possibility,” Rossi answered cryptically. “One that didn’t pan out.”

There had been a time when anyone who wanted to travel north to Canada, or south to Oregon, had been forced to use old Highway 99. But those days were long gone, and during the forty-odd years since Interstate 5 had been constructed, the once-vital route had fallen on hard times. Starting down in Tacoma, and extending past Seattle to Everett, 99 had gradually been transformed into an endless assembly line of strip malls, car dealerships, and second-rate motels. Some, like the one that Joe Chow had chosen to stay in, harkened back to the good old days when such establishments were independently owned and boasted monikers like the Rip Van Winkle, the Four Leaf Clover, and the Conquistador.

But if the Prospector’s Palace had ever been palatial it had been a long time ago, back before its elderly owners had been forced to rent their rooms out by the month, and a seemingly endless stream of down-at-the-heels drifters, part-time whores, and crack addicts had come to stay. Still, it was the rundown motel’s seediness that made it a good place to hide, which was why one of Paco’s many cousins had been kind enough to sign the guest register on Little Chow’s behalf.

That had been six hours earlier, shortly before the snakehead and his bodyguards had gone out to “take care of some business,” leaving Ling to entertain herself. Besides the water-stained walls, a ragged green rug, and some beat-up furniture, the room boasted an ancient television. The illegal watched that for a while, lost interest, and went looking for Chow’s computer. The machine was buried under the pile of mostly dirty clothes at the center of the queen-sized bed. There was a phone, and thanks to all of her previous experience, the illegal knew how to establish a dial-up connection. Ling was online three minutes later.

The first ten minutes were spent visiting her favorite sites, but it wasn’t long before the illegal became bored and began to play what she thought of as “the open game.” By choosing “file,” and pulling down to “open,” Ling could see which sites Chow had been to by entering each letter of the alphabet. She often began with “A,” which typically produced links to various sports teams, but on that particular day Ling went with “Z.” But it wasn’t until the illegal entered “X” that she got a series of links that included “XXX.”

Though not interested in pornography herself, Ling had reason to know that the snakehead was, because looking at pictures of people having sex never failed to make him horny. And, having seen a particular act online, it wasn’t unusual for Chow to insist that his sex slave help him recreate whatever he had witnessed.

So, curious as to what sex acts she might be forced to perform, the illegal chose the first link. A page called, “Asian Fuck Toys,” appeared. Ling hit “enter,” saw the page dissolve, and was amazed when footage of her sister May Ling appeared! Not dressed, as in the still photos Chow had given her, but naked. And not just naked, but performing oral sex on one man, while another awaited his turn.

The shock of it took Ling’s breath away. Then, as the full realization of what had happened to them began to sink in, the young woman began to cry. The sobs started somewhere deep down, racked her entire body, and left her gasping for air.

Finally, her face still wet with tears, Ling retrieved her jacket, and the small stash of money she kept hidden in a spike-heeled boot, and walked out into the night. Meanwhile, as the door slammed behind her, the digitized version of May Ling continued to service her
bao
debt. The only question was whether life on the gold mountain was worth the price. Eventually, after sixty seconds had elapsed, the video faded to black.