The Flower Net (17 page)

As they walked—the FBI agents pressing ahead with Peter—Hulan reached out and took David’s hand. He couldn’t believe it; they were in public. He looked at her and wondered again how in just a few hours she could have transformed so much. She was still beautiful and her hair still hung in tendrils around her face, but she looked so relaxed, so different from the cautious Hulan of Beijing.

At the old Venice Pavilion, the landscape widened and the pedestrian traffic increased. David led them out past the crowds so they could watch the sun set behind the shimmering horizon. As they headed back to the restaurant, Peter ducked into a kiosk that sold shoes and came back out with two pairs. “Genuine leather,” he said, incredulous. “Cheaper than Beijing!” Then he picked up a pair of sunglasses and Hulan bought a flowing floral dress. After that, they stopped at every stall to check the prices and variety of T-shirts. Hulan bought a set of three for $10, but Peter surprised them all by bargaining with a woman who spoke mostly Spanish and coming away with three T-shirts for $7.50.

They got back to the restaurant in time for their reservation. “We have a protocol department,” Campbell said, “and they’ve been doing research on your customs.” Peter became serious but instantly changed as Campbell addressed the waiter. “We need liquor for toasts. Bring us a bottle of scotch, a bucket of ice, and some glasses. I’ll take it from there.”

With considerable panache, Campbell filled the glasses, passed them out, then held up his own. “I believe the word is
ganbei
.”

“
Ganbei!
”

“
Ganbei!
”

“Bottoms up!”

For the second round, Campbell added ice, but with their jet lag and their empty stomachs, the liquor did much to loosen whatever inhibitions were left in the group.

Hulan translated the difficult words on the menu and tried to decipher for her compatriot the ingredients in ahi with papaya and chili salsa and in fresh ravioli filled with mascarpone. Peter prudently ordered the duck “done in the Cantonese style,” which turned out to be a quarter of the bird still in one piece. He looked at it in confusion, then grunted happily as a platter draped with a huge steak—thick, aromatic, and also in one very large piece—was set before Jack Campbell. Peter waited until Hulan picked up her knife and fork and began sawing her meal into bite-size pieces before attempting to attack his with the barbaric utensils.

By the time they returned to the hotel—David thought it was a miracle that Campbell hadn’t been pulled over for driving under the influence—everyone was sated with food and drink. At the Biltmore, David, Hulan, and Peter got out. Peter yawned, waved, and disappeared through the Biltmore’s double doors with his purchases in hand. Hulan followed right behind him.

David waited in the cool night air. When his car came around, he gave the valet a ten, put the ticket stub back in his pocket, and entered the hotel. At Hulan’s door, he knocked gently. She opened it and drew him in. Feverishly they fumbled at buttons and zippers, stripping each other of silk and cotton, gabardine and cashmere. Hulan’s flesh was hot beneath his fingers. Her lips sought his. The smell of her came back to him as from a distant dream. They had not been together this way for twelve years, yet David’s hands and lips seemed to remember just how to increase Hulan’s ecstasy. Gradually their frantic gropings dissolved into a languorous rhythm. The rest of the night was sweeter and wilder than he ever could have imagined. But as keenly as David felt the primitive pain of passion and the exquisite thrill of release, there was a part of him that held back. He loved Hulan, but he knew he needed to be wary of her.

12

F
EBRUARY
3

Chinatown

D
id you sleep well, Inspector Liu?” Peter Sun asked Hulan as she slid into a chair beside him in the coffee shop the next morning.

“Yes, very well, thank you,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

“All night I am wondering if your sleep is gentle or if you are dreaming of traveling to Kaifeng,” Peter continued soberly. “But I think, Liu Hulan is a sensible person. She is not porcelain with scars.”

Hulan couldn’t help but blush at his innuendoes. The city of Kaifeng sounded like
kai feng
, which meant “unseal,” and was often used as a way to describe the wedding night. His porcelain metaphor was a time-honored way of describing loose women.

Peter puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish, then let his air out in a whoosh, laughing heartily.

“You!” Hulan warned, finally catching his teasing tone.

“We are away, Inspector.” Peter shrugged, imitating his new American friends. “I am here to watch you and I will. But you have done nothing that I wouldn’t do if
I
had the chance. Only one problem. No chance for me, hey? You see them bringing their females around me? No, just that woman attorney with the big smiling teeth. She is as appetizing as a wooden chicken! I would rather die than do the house thing with her!”

“True, but the only way to catch a tiger is by visiting the cave,” Hulan advised, laughing. “Investigator Sun, I did not know you were so…”

“What? We are away. If we return home, we have no problems. If you forget who you are and where you belong, that is a different matter.” Peter took a sip of tea. “Inspector Liu, here is what I think. We are in America. We have some fun, then we go home. But I think the old philosophers said it best. It is difficult for a snake to go back to hell once it has tasted heaven. I say, while we’re in heaven, we should gorge ourselves.”

“You are a corrupt man, Investigator.”

“I guess I am,” he said, and giggled.

They met in the lobby at nine sharp, then split into three groups. David and Hulan would go to Chinatown in the morning, USC after lunch, and call on the Guangs’ relatives in the late afternoon. Gardner and Peter would also go to Chinatown to visit the banks, hoping to glean as much information as possible from an industry that was at least partially in the business of secrecy. Campbell would head east to Monterey Park with the list of alleged members of the Rising Phoenix. Maybe he’d get lucky.

Before setting out, the Chinese agents asked if they could be provided with weapons. “Absolutely not” was Jack Campbell’s prompt response.

“We don’t know what or who we’re dealing with,” said Hulan. “You can’t leave us exposed without any recourse.”

“You won’t be alone for a minute.
That
I can promise you,” said Campbell. “If you need protection, the FBI will provide it. But you’re not getting any weapons!” So that was that. The teams left the hotel not on the best of terms and went their separate ways.

David had been to Chinatown many times, but he’d never had the kind of access that being with Hulan brought. They walked along Broadway, then looped over to Hill Street. The old buildings with their upturned eaves, neon lights, and gaudily painted gates hadn’t changed since the 1930s. The old-timers still had their curio and antique shops. But in the last decade, Hong Kong money had made an impact on the enclave in the form of shopping centers and strip malls that were occupied by bustling restaurants, electronics stores, and import/export enterprises. The biggest change, from Hulan’s point of view, was demographic. There were far fewer Cantonese in Chinatown than she remembered. Today she saw Cambodians, Vietnamese, Burmese, and Thais. She also recognized a variety of Chinese dialects—Fujianese and Shanghainese mostly—sprinkled in with the Cantonese and Mandarin.

David and Hulan focused on Chinese-run shops, many of which were festooned in red and gold New Year’s decorations. They wandered in and out of grocery stores redolent of ginger and fermented bean curd, butcher shops with roast ducks hanging in the windows, herbal emporiums filled with strange remedies. At some of these, Hulan would buy a tin of Danish sugar cookies, a pack of cigarettes, a box of candy. Occasionally, they would detour up a set of stairs, where Hulan would talk to the residents of a crowded apartment or boldly enter a sweatshop to converse with the workers. They stopped in small cafés and talked with busboys and waiters. Hulan even led the way back into cramped kitchens to chat with dishwashers and chefs. Sometimes, to get people to talk more freely, Hulan would give away one of her purchases.

She insisted on walking down the alleys that divided the main thoroughfares. Here the
hutong
life was conducted on a small scale. Laundry hung from lines strung overhead from building to building. Preschool-age children played tag and hide-and-seek. Large baskets filled with tubers and leafy vegetables sat outside restaurants. On the sidewalk before a fish market, they came upon a tub of live eels. Here and there, a few scrawny cats picked at leftovers in overturned trash cans.

Off one of these alleyways they ran into Zhao, the immigrant who had helped David on board the
China Peony
. Hulan, as she had throughout the day, had simply walked through a doorway that opened onto the alley. Inside, perhaps thirty women sat at sewing machines doing piecework. A dozen men were spread around the room doing a variety of jobs—carrying bolts of fabric, steaming finished pieces, and shrink-wrapping them for shipping. The radio blasting Chinese pop music, the unending clickity-clack of the machines, and the gossiping voices combined in a clamorous din. Although it was still early February, the workers were sweating from their exertions. David hated to think of what it would be like in here on a suffocating hundred-degree August day, with no air stirring and smog choking the lungs and burning the eyes.

In her usual ingratiating way, Hulan bent over one of the women and began talking. Although David couldn’t hear the conversation, he saw the woman’s shy smile as she answered Hulan’s questions. Then suddenly David saw Hulan’s action in a whole new light. Her way of bending down, of making eye contact, of speaking in a low, confidential voice, was less a show of empathy than it was a means of intimidation.

Before he could begin to puzzle this out, he felt a tug on his arm. He turned and there was Zhao.

After an exchange of greetings, David said, “I see you got out of Terminal Island all right.”

Zhao quickly looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Yes, I did, thank you.”

“You found work, too, I see.”

“My friends found me.”

“I didn’t know you had friends here,” David said, then realized his mistake. Zhao’s “friends” were the Rising Phoenix.

David needed to think like Hulan—interrogate through “kindness” and indirection. “You look healthy, much better than on the
Peony
. You must be getting good meals.”

“They feed me.”

David tried to keep his words simple. “This is hard work, and yet you don’t look too tired.”

“I have a bed to sleep.”

“Are there others with you?” David asked softly.

Zhao nodded. “Many.”

“You are living close by?”

Zhao shook his head.

David smiled and clapped Zhao on the back. “So you have done well enough you already own a car. Good for you.”

No answer.

“Have you seen much of the city?”

Zhao held up his fingers and began counting. “Terminal Island. The street outside Terminal Island. The room where I sleep. This room. Three times a day, I carry boxes two blocks to a warehouse. That’s it.” He stared at David.

Through these terse answers David determined that Zhao had been rounded up by the gang right outside Terminal Island’s gates. This meant that either Zhao had called the Rising Phoenix, which David doubted, or the gang had inside information that Zhao would be released. Either way, Zhao had been put right to work earning back his passage to the United States. The fact that he was living with several other people led David to believe that he was being housed with other immigrants—probably those right in this room. All meals were supplied by the gang. All entertainment—probably just this radio—was also provided by the gang.

From his knowledge of triad business practices, David deduced that the triad was keeping the immigrants in one place—not in Chinatown proper, maybe Monterey Park—where they were picked up in the morning. From there, they were driven to work, transported back to the apartment or warehouse in the evening, and locked up for the night. These immigrants were, in effect, prisoners.

“You are a hero, Mr. Zhao.” David then clarified this for those who were listening: “With your help, we saved many lives on the boat. What I say is, once a hero, always a hero. I hope you will remember that.”

Zhao looked away. David couldn’t tell if Zhao was embarrassed or frightened. Their conversation came to an abrupt end when Hulan walked up. Zhao slunk away, and David and Hulan left to rendezvous with Noel Gardner and Peter Sun, who they were scheduled to meet at the corner of Broadway and College.

For lunch Hulan said she wanted to go to the Princess Garden, a Hong Kong-style dim sum restaurant in a mall on Hill Street. The restaurant seated about five hundred people, so the atmosphere was lively as parties prattled and called out orders to the waitresses, who walked through the aisles pushing carts laden with different kinds of tea cakes. Soon the table was covered with plates of rice noodles, Chinese broccoli, which a waitress deftly cut with pinking shears, little bamboo steamers stuffed with barbecued pork buns, dumplings filled with shrimp and water chestnuts, and tiny custard tarts. Investigator Sun declared that the dumplings were a hundred times better than any you could get in Beijing and almost as good as those made in Guangzhou, where his family was from.

Over lunch they talked about what they’d seen and learned so far. They’d found out that the Rising Phoenix, the strongest of the local gangs, had a forceful presence in Chinatown. “But whenever I mention the names of Spencer Lee and Yingyee Lee,” Hulan remarked, “the people suddenly can’t remember a thing. So I think your information is right. Those two, if not at the very top of the organization, are very high up.” Hulan plucked up some of the broccoli and put it on David’s plate. “Aren’t you wondering why I chose this place?”

David patted her thigh under the table. “I wasn’t going to press you. I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

“Spencer Lee eats at VIP Harbor Seafood in Monterey Park on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He comes here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

“And today is Monday.”

“I’m sure at this very minute our Mr. Lee is awaiting our arrival in one of the private dining rooms.” Hulan tilted her head and smiled demurely.

David marveled at how easily Hulan had been able to get that information. “Most of the people we talked to today were new immigrants,” she explained. “I’m sure they recognized me as someone from the MPS.”

“They sure saw
us
coming,” added Gardner, to which Peter bobbed his head in vigorous agreement.

“Exactly,” Hulan said, then popped a dumpling in her mouth. After a few seconds, she said, “That man you were talking with knew what I was.”

“Zhao? How could you tell?”

“Didn’t you see how he reacted when I walked up? They left China to get away from people like us, hey, Investigator Sun?”

Peter nodded and kept chewing.

“Are you talking about the same Zhao who helped us at Terminal Island?” Gardner asked.

“The very one,” David answered, then described Zhao’s situation. “I feel sorry for him. It’s hardly the dream of America that he envisioned.”

“That’s a problem for people who come here,” Hulan said, her tone suddenly severe. When everyone turned their attention to her, she amended, “What I mean is, people build up an idea of the United States, how their problems will be solved, how they will strike it rich. But they really can’t leave the past behind, and the future for an immigrant like your Zhao is very bleak, no?”

David absentmindedly stirred the tips of his chopsticks in the little porcelain dish that contained his portion of hot mustard and chili paste. “Noel, could you drop what you’re doing with the banks? I’d like you and Peter to stake out the place where Zhao is working. Could you do that?”

“Sure, but why?”

“I want to know Zhao’s daily routine. I want to know where the immigrants are kept at night. I want to be able to pick up Zhao on a moment’s notice.”

“Why?”

“Because he wants to help me.”

“You have a lot of faith in this Zhao,” Hulan observed.

“I don’t know why, but I do.”

“It’s only going to cause him trouble,” she said. “You realize that, don’t you? ‘Sweep the snow in front of your own doorstep, and do not bother about the frost on your neighbor’s roof.’ He should mind his own business.”

As soon as they finished their meal, Gardner and Peter left to begin their surveillance. A few minutes later, Hulan led the way back toward the front of the restaurant, turned down a hallway, and, without knocking, entered a private dining room where a group of businessmen were eating. Hulan asked a few questions in Chinese. One of the men answered and Hulan went on to the next room, where another dozen men dressed in suits sat at a large round table. The lazy Susan in the middle was filled with a variety of steamed and fried dumplings, as well as noodles, roast duck, and slivers of jellyfish.