The Shanghai Moon (39 page)

“If Wong Pan’s killed two people—” he said over his shoulder.

“My thought exactly.” Our chance came, and we dashed across in a storm of honks and curses. “Do you think C.D. Zhang knows who he’s meeting?”

“Damn right he does. I think we’ve been conned. Chen
and Zhang know the cops are onto them. They’re decoys. C. D.’s making the exchange.”

“He was at Bright Hopes picking up the money?”

“I’d bet on it.”

In the garlicky shop, a dozen customers were ordering noodles, slurping up noodles, or picking noodle remains from their teeth. None of them was Wong Pan or C. D. Zhang. Bill and I made it through the dining room to the kitchen and through that to a door in the back wall before anyone stirred.

“Hey, you can’t go there!” the manager shouted in Cantonese.

“So call the cops!” I yelled, hoping he would.

When we burst into the back room, two men looked up from a banquet table. The question of who’d have a banquet in a noodle-shop back room cramped by twined-up linens and sagging cardboard boxes, near a rear door bubbly with rust, was an interesting one, but I had no time to ponder it.

“Ms. Chin.” C. D. Zhang’s leathery face registered both surprise and displeasure. “And Mr. Smith. What—”

“Do you know who this is?” I pointed at the round countenance of Wong Pan, which, after momentary alarm, had settled into an odd superior smile.

“This gentleman is a valued customer. And forgive me, but this is private business.”

“This business is you buying the Shanghai Moon from Wong Pan. And his business was killing two people to get it this far.”

“And you, no business here,” said Wong Pan. “You go away.”

“The police are coming.” Assuming Mary picked up her voice mail. Or 911 didn’t think I was just another nut and actually followed up my tip. Or the noodle shop manager was incensed enough at the intrusion that it trumped his distaste for cops; though since nobody had even cracked the door to see what was going on in here, that one seemed unlikely. “You’re the one who’s going away.”

Fear flashed in Wong Pan’s eyes, but after consideration he shook his head. “Police coming, would be already here.” He began to reach into his jacket.

“Easy!” Bill said. All movement stopped as Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang registered Bill’s snub-nosed Colt, unholstered as we passed through the kitchen but until now discreetly palmed.

Wong Pan snickered, theatrically lifted one hand in the air, and with the other drew out a small cardboard box. “We have business. You go away.”

“Both hands on the table,” Bill told Wong Pan.

Wong Pan, looking amused, did as Bill said. I glanced to C. D. Zhang. He stared at the box under Wong Pan’s hand with the eyes of a parched man seeing an oasis. He reached; Wong Pan, eyebrows raised, pulled the box back. Bill sent me a look. I nodded: Let them finish. Let C. D. Zhang hold it in his hand before it becomes evidence, before it becomes Chinese cultural patrimony, before it’s lost to him and his family forever. C. D. Zhang picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table.

At which exact moment the kitchen door opened.

The manager had actually called the police?

Absolutely not. White Eagles filled the doorway. And they had more guns than we had.

They stared. We stared. The gang sea parted, and Fishface Deng strolled in. His own gun, still in his belt, telegraphed through his untucked shirt. Behind him the White Eagles fanned out. Six guns: one on each of us, with two for extras. Seven White Eagles, including Deng and his two top lieutenants. And notably not including Armpit. Or Warren Li, or any of the losers up on the east end of Canal.

Lydia! You are a MORON!
I silently screamed at myself. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang weren’t the only decoys. Two stakeouts; two sets of decoys. I stared at Fishface Deng’s bulging eyes and sharp little overbite mouth. “You knew.”

“What, that the cops were watching us?” He gave a shrug of modest pride. “Your cousin’s a good kid. Dumb as a box of rocks, but loyal. He said you were onto us. He said there was no way to scare you off or buy you off, but he asked me not to kill you.” He shook his head. “I tried to help the guy out, dammit. Didn’t I?” He looked to one of his lieutenants, who nodded seriously, backing up the boss’s story. “But you had to show up here. Now I gotta do what I gotta do. Well, he’s a good kid. He’ll understand.” Fishface turned to Bill. With no change of tone, he said, “If you don’t put down that fucking piece, these guys will blow you away, and her, too.”

Wordlessly, Bill laid his Colt on the table. In view of Fishface having said he was gonna do what he hadda do, there might not have been much point in Bill’s relinquishing the gun. Except that as far as getting blown away, later
was better than sooner. Every moment you were intact was a moment you could be thinking your way out of your situation, which Bill was obviously already doing and I was going to start doing as soon as I got my adrenaline tsunami under control.

“Lydia?” Fishface said almost solicitously. “Are you carrying, too?”

I lifted my shirt to show him the .25 clipped to my waistband. He relieved me of the gun and its holster, too. I couldn’t blame him; the gun would probably sell for more on the street with a nice leather rig.

The
dai lo
turned his attention to the men at the table. They were taking this hijacking in different ways. C. D. Zhang wore a stricken look. Fishface offered him a smile of recognition, and I guessed I knew now who got C. D. Zhang’s red envelopes at New Year’s. Wong Pan still smirked. I wondered if that was shock, or if he thought he could tell all these guns to go away, too.

Just sit there,
I thought at them both.
Don’t make a move until us professionals come up with something
.

I glanced at Bill. His nerves might have been riding as high as mine, but he stood completely still, except for his eyes. They methodically searched the room and the people in it, looking for our opening, our chance.

And suddenly, as a solemn White Eagle was reaching for Bill’s gun, as Fishface was pocketing the cardboard box and leaning toward the briefcase, leaving stone-faced Wong Pan and pale C. D. Zhang with nothing, nothing, nothing at all, a bullhorn blared.

“Wong Pan! C. D. Zhang! White Eagles!” It was Mary,
a commanding cop thunder. “This is the police! Come out slowly! One by one, hands up and empty. You’re surrounded.”

Fishface’s bulging eyes flew to the rusty back door. He nodded. One of his boys edged it open enough to peek into the alley and then slammed it shut. “Fuck!”

Now Fishface pulled out his gun, too, a big Glock. “You bitch! You called the cops!” He said this as though he couldn’t believe it, as though he’d caught me cheating at a friendly game of cards.

“Not on you,” I pointed out. “On those two.”

The distinction didn’t impress him. He looked from the back door to the kitchen one. “Well, so, a change of plans. Take them.” He waved the Glock at Wong Pan, C. D. Zhang, and Bill. He grabbed my elbow, to escort me personally.

“What are you talk about, Deng
dai lo
?” Wong Pan sputtered. “I don’t going!”

“Oh, you do so going, old man.” Fishface changed his grip on me to a choke hold and pressed the gun to my temple. I heard chairs scrape and had to assume similar things were going on behind me. As he steered me to the kitchen door, my brain juggled three thoughts.

I hope the NYPD has better control of its adrenaline than I do
.

Old man? Fishface, you punk, Wong Pan’s not even sixty
.

And
How does Wong Pan, fugitive from Shanghai, know a Chinatown gangbanger’s title and name
?

I had to stop thinking for a minute as Fishface barked in my ear, “Open the door.”

In the vacated kitchen a cauldron steamed and greens sat in a wok getting soggy. Congealing
chow fun,
scattered chopsticks, and pots of tea dotted the empty dining room tables. New Day Noodle looked like a restaurant that had just sailed into the Bermuda Triangle.

Outside, things were different. Red and white lights flashed. Traffic on Canal was blocked by cop cars parked at all kinds of angles. Behind the cars, cops in blue and cops in streetclothes wore Kevlar, held guns, shouldered rifles. I thought about the overtime and almost laughed. Through the window I spotted Inspector Wei, wearing an NYPD vest and the rapt glow of a runner at the starting line. Next to her crouched the Fifth’s big, mustached captain, Dick Mentzinger. Beside him I saw Mary, and caught the dismay in her eyes when the first person to lurch out of the restaurant, with Fishface Deng’s arm wrapped around my neck, was me.

“We’re leaving,” Fishface shouted. “We have four people. Let us through or we’ll shoot them right here.”

Mentzinger took the bullhorn. “I can’t do that.”

“Do it!”

“If this ends here it’s not so bad. No one’s hurt. You and your boys can—”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear any bullshit cop promises.”
Or more likely,
I thought,
you don’t want your boys to hear them
. He squashed the muzzle harder against my head. “Put down your fucking guns!”

Mentzinger, after a moment, gestured to his cops. Rifles lowered slowly.

“Now back off. Back off! First shot we hear, or if anyone
follows us, we’re gonna make a bloody mess of all these people. This cute one first.”

Mary took the horn. “You have no place to go, Deng
dai lo
,” she said in Cantonese.

Fishface laughed. In English he answered, “Lady, in case you haven’t heard, there’s Chinese people in every country on the fucking earth! An hour from now you’ll never find me.” He tightened his arm against my windpipe.
It’s getting near time to do something,
my pounding heart suggested to my brain. It would be good to make a move before these gangsters started hustling us through Chinatown and realized what trouble we were to hold on to, and how we’d messed up their lives.

So a few steps down the sidewalk, between the empty storefronts and abandoned vendor’s trays, I stumbled. Fishface yanked me up with the arm around my neck. Expecting that, I went with it, throwing my weight back into him. After an eternal thrashing moment he thudded heavily down, extra heavily because I landed on top of him. I dove for the gun. We writhed, scraping flesh on concrete. He punched me in the head. I saw blinding colors but by then I had hold of the pinkie on his gun hand. His adrenaline might be high enough to mask the pain but he couldn’t pull the trigger with his finger bent to his wrist. He yanked at my shirt, my hair. When I felt his finger snap, I almost lost my grip. He yowled. I yanked at the gun; it skidded along the sidewalk. I rolled, grabbed it, and heard the roar of a gunshot. More roars, and the whine of bullets. I flattened and looked around. And was once again reminded I wasn’t the center of the universe.

The sidewalk churned with cops, White Eagles, guns, and silver handcuffs. Two uniforms had slammed onto Fishface as soon as I’d rolled away. Shouts and grunts punctuated the honking of traffic probably backed up to New Jersey. A White Eagle made a break, dashing halfway across Canal before he was downed by a flying tackle so long and accurate it would be cop legend before the cop who made it got back to the precinct. Two more White Eagles lay on the sidewalk, hands on their heads, faces pressed into a glittering scatter of Rolex knockoffs. Straddling a third, yanking his hands behind to snap on cuffs, was a flushed and glowing Inspector Wei. Just beyond her, Mary had Wong Pan bent over the hood of a car. I hoped it had been parked in the sun all day and was damn hot.

I scanned the ruckus, looking for Bill. My heart lurched when I saw him doubled over in a doorway, but then he started to stand. Before I reached him he was on his feet, breathing heavily above Fishface’s lieutenant. “You okay?” I asked. He grinned and flexed his hand like a man who’d just punched a White Eagle’s lights out.

I heard more sirens, wondered why, since the action was pretty much over, and then, looking around, realized it wasn’t more cops, it was ambulances.

C. D. Zhang lay on the sidewalk, a red hole in his chest.

Interview One, my home away from home.

I’d been here for an hour. Bill, last I’d heard, was in Two. In widely separated nooks and crannies, handcuffed White Eagles waited their turns to rotate through Three and Four. I didn’t know where Wong Pan was, and it clearly wasn’t on anyone’s to-do list to tell me.

Leaving a suspect alone to sweat is standard NYPD procedure, and though I didn’t get the idea anybody actually considered me a suspect in the day’s proceedings, Mary was probably mad enough to let me sit here until I grew moss.

I could, of course, make a stink, demand to be charged or released. But that would make my best and oldest friend even more furious. And completely blow my chances of finding out, from anyone’s point of view but my own, what had gone on since we’d all been piled into cop cars outside New Day Noodle.

Besides, I had hope: the backup of White Eagles. The NYPD couldn’t keep me here forever; they needed the room.

After another ten minutes my hope panned out. The door opened and Mary came in, her face one big, dark scowl. Following her was Wei De-xu. Behind Mary’s back the Shanghai inspector gave me a quick grin, then went pokerfaced again as they rattled out chairs.

“How’s C. D. Zhang?” I asked before Mary had a chance to yell at me.

“Luckily for you,” she said icily, “not too bad. A clean through-and-through. Chen and Zhang are at St. Vincent’s with him. He’s sewn up and conscious and not talking.”

“Why would he? He was buying stolen jewelry.”

Mary exchanged a look with Inspector Wei.

“What?” I said. “Are you charging him?”

“Not right now.” She added, unnecessarily, I thought, “He’s an old man.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, I—”

“Lydia!” She cut me off. “Can you just
tell
me what you idiots thought you were doing?”

“I called you!” I protested. “And I called nine-one-one. But Wong Pan was dangerous, and we didn’t know if C.D. Zhang knew who he was. We couldn’t just leave him in there with him. And we didn’t know the White Eagles were coming!”