Walking Shadow (6 page)

"So what were you two guys doing up here?"

"Drinking coffee," I said.

"Eating donuts."

"Just like real coppers," DeSpain said.

"You still working on the murder?"

"Yeah."

"What's Hawk doing here?"

"Helping," Hawk said.

"Helping what?"

"Helping the investigation."

"Hawk." DeSpain looked tired.

"You don't fucking investigate."

Hawk smiled.

"What you talking to the broad about?" DeSpain said.

"The murder. I'm trying to talk with everybody about the murder."

"Counter kid says she came in after you."

"Sure," I said.

"She knew I wanted to talk with her, saw us here, came in."

DeSpain nodded.

"And Hawk was here in case she got outta hand. Who you figure fired thirty rounds or so through the window at you?"

"What makes it us?" I said.

"Who else was sitting in the window. You hadn't hit the deck, you'd have been dead."

"And nobody else with a scratch," I said.

DeSpain grinned.

"And they didn't hit the deck," he said.

"Sort of suggestive?" I said.

"So," DeSpain said, "say they were after you. Who might they have been?"

I spread my hands.

"Everyone loves us," I said.

DeSpain looked around the room, the back wall pocked with bullet holes, the window nearly boarded up.

"Some more than others," he said.

"Ain't that always the way," I said.

"You got anything to say," DeSpain said to Hawk.

Hawk smiled his friendly smile.

"No," he said.

We all sat. The last piece of plywood went in. The place was quiet.

"Who you got in Port City," I said, "might do this?"

"It's a funny city," DeSpain said.

"Population about 125,000.

You got about 20,000 WASPs live up on the hill, worry about new Beaujolais and civil rights in The Horn of Africa. Along the waterfront you got some 20,000 Portagies, worry about George's Bank and fava beans. In between, at the bottom of the hill, on the flats inland, you got about 60,000 Chinamen. Sort of a Chink sandwich, between the Yankees and the Portagies. Chinks are worried mostly about staying alive."

"How come so many Chinese?" I said.

"When the mills were here it was mostly French Canuck labor.

When the mills pulled out, the Canucks left. The Yankees kept looking for a place to put money. The Portagies kept fishing. They needed fish-processing plants, and they needed cheap labor to make it work."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," I said.

"You got any thoughts on who did the shooting?"

"Probably not the Yankees," DeSpain said.

"They're not against it, but they'd hire it done."

"Who would they hire?" I said.

DeSpain looked at me and his lips curled back in what he probably thought was a smile.

"Didn't we get confused here?" he said.

"I think I'm supposed to ask you questions."

"Just trying to be helpful," I said.

"Yeah," DeSpain said.

"Both of you. I'm lucky I don't have to go it alone."

Hawk and I both smiled politely.

"Well, unfortunately, I guess you'll be around," DeSpain said.

"I might want to talk with you some more."

"Anytime," I said.

We were all silent again.

"You too, Hawk," DeSpain said after a moment.

"Anytime," Hawk said.

The old lady came out of the back.

"You wanna lock up now, Evangelista?" DeSpain said.

She shook her head.

"Insurance man coming," she said.

"Okay," DeSpain said.

He stood up, a big, solid, healthy-looking guy, with a big friendly face. And eyes like blue basalt.

"Anything comes to mind," he said, "you'll call."

"In a heartbeat," I said.

DeSpain looked at Hawk, opened his mouth, and closed it. He shook his head.

"Of course not," he said and went on out the door. Hawk and I went out after him. DeSpain got in a waiting car and drove away.

Hawk and I walked to my car parked by the theater.

"You didn't say nothing about Mr. and Mrs. Wu," Hawk said.

"I know," I said.

"DeSpain bothers me."

"Always had the reputation he cut it kind of fine," Hawk said.

"Yeah."

The rain dripped off the bill of my Chicago White Sox cap. I brushed it away. The smell of the rain mixed with the salt smell of the harbor, freshening it, making Port City downtown seem cleaner than it was.

"DeSpain told me the FBI couldn't match Sampson's prints."

"The guy got shot."

"Yeah. But Susan told me he'd gone to school on the GI Bill.

Which would mean he was a veteran."

"Which would mean they'd have his prints in Washington."

"Maybe Susan's wrong," Hawk said.

"Maybe."

"Maybe Sampson lied to her."

"Maybe."

Hawk grinned.

"Or maybe DeSpain lying to you."

"Maybe," I said.

"I figure I'll just keep still until I find out what the sides are up here."

"Never got in no trouble keeping still," Hawk said.

A nine-passenger van rolled by, its headlights on, its wipers working, splashing water from the gutter onto the sidewalk. In the van were nine Chinese men, waiters probably, going to work.

"Me either."

Hawk was wearing something that looked like a black silk raincoat. The rain beaded up on it in translucent drops before it serpentined down the fabric. He wore no hat, and if he minded the rain on his skull, he didn't show it. On the other hand, except for amusement and not amusement, he never showed anything.

"What we going to do about the lovely Jocelyn?"

"You think she's being followed?"

"No."

"I don't either," I said.

"Why don't we believe her?"

"Instinct, babe. We been doing this kind of thing a long time."

"What if we're wrong."

"I'm not usually wrong."

"That's because you're closer to the jungle than I am. But maybe we better be sure."

Hawk shrugged.

"You want me to shadow her?"

"For a while."

"I bet I be the only one," Hawk said.

I shrugged.

"Besides," Hawk said.

"They never had no jungles in Ireland.

Your ancestors just paint themselves blue and run around in the peat bogs."

"Well, it was a damned nice blue," I said.

"Before you sit down," Susan said, "get me that blue tablecloth out of the car."

I got the tablecloth and started to spread it on the picnic table, and Susan thought that I was not doing a good job and took it over.

She got the cloth situated on, and put a purple glass vase with wild flowers in it at one end of the table.

"Isn't that pretty?" Susan said.

"Lee found it in one of those closets you ripped out in the dining room."

"Who picked the flowers?" I said.

"Lee," Susan said.

"There's a whole sea of them down there."

She nodded toward the stream at the foot of the property, where the woods began.

I looked at Farrell. He shrugged.

"I'm gay," he said.

"Whaddya want?"

"What next," I said.

"A lavender gun?"

Susan put a large takeout bag on the table and began to distribute food.

"Turkey, lettuce, tomato with sweet mustard on fresh whole wheat bread," she said.

"There's a nice little sandwich shop in town. And some bread and butter pickles, and some spring water.

Does anyone want beer? Or some wine?"

"Rip-out guys don't do wine," I said.

Farrell grinned.

"Whoops," he said.

I settled for spring water, hoping not to sever a limb with the Sawzall, and Lee did the same. Susan had a Diet Coke, warm.

Farrell stared at it.

"Diet Coke? Warm?"

"I hate cold things," Susan said.

"People clean battery terminals with warm Diet Coke," Farrell said.

"That's their privilege," Susan said and drank some.

"You working on that thing up in Port City?" Lee said.

"Yes."

Pearl the Wonder Dog came loping up through the stand of wild flowers, jumped effortlessly up onto the table, poked her nose into the takeout bag, and held the point, her tail wagging like the vibrations of a tuning fork.

"She appears to have bayed the sandwiches," Farrell said.

"Get down," Susan said forcefully, and Pearl turned and lapped her face vigorously. I reached across and picked her up and put her on the ground and gave her half my sandwich.

"Isn't that rewarding inappropriate behavior?" Farrell said.

"Yes," I said and gave her the other half of my sandwich and rummaged in the bag for a new one.

Farrell turned and gazed at the house.

"This is a hell of a project," he said.

"Also long-range," I said.

"You going to move in together when it's done."

Susan and I said "No" simultaneously.

Farrell grinned.

"Okay, we're clear on that. You got a plan?"

Susan looked at me. I shrugged.

"Outside," Susan said.

"My plan is to cut almost everything down and start over."

"Inside," I said, "I plan to rip nearly everything out and start over."

"But no vision of what it will look like when it's done?"

"Step at a time," I said.

"Part of stripping it down is learning about it. You get to know the house, and when it's stripped back to the essentials, it will sort of tell you what to do next."

"Like an investigation," Farrell said.

"Very much like that," I said.

"Except the house doesn't lie to you."

"Are they lying to you up in Port City?" Susan said.

"Yeah. Did you tell me that Sampson went to school on the GI Bill?"

"Yes."

"So he was in the military?"

"Yes."

"He told you that?"

"Yes, and showed me pictures of himself, in uniform, in front of some kind of bunkery thing. Why?"

"DeSpain says the FBI has no record of his prints."

"But if he was in the army…" Susan said.

"Yeah. They should have them."

"I should be able to run that down for you," Farrell said.

"Take a while."

"I'd appreciate it," I said.

Farrell nodded. Pearl had moved under the picnic table and was resting her head on Farrell's leg. He looked down at her and broke off a small portion of his sandwich and fed it to her.

"What do you do about people who don't like having your dog in their lap when they come to visit?" Farrell said.

"We assume there is something wrong with them," Susan said.

"And we try to help them."

His eyes were humorous. He wore a buttoned-up tan sweater under a black suit. When I joined him at the counter, he was eating pancakes. I ordered coffee.

"Quirk says you looking for information about Chinatown," he said to me.

I stirred some sugar into my coffee. The mug was thick white china veined with spidery cracks.

"Sort of," I said.

"You know anything about Port City?"

"Sure."

"I'm into something up there that I don't understand."

"You must be used to that," Herman said.

"Quirk's been bragging about me again," I said.

"There's a big Chinese community in Port City."

"Chinatown North."

"Who runs it?"

"Lonnie Wu," Leong said.

"Just like that?" I said.

"Sure. Lonnie Wu is the Port City dai low for the Kwan Chang long."

"What's a dot low?"

"Means elder brother." Leong said.

"A dai low is a gang coordinator. Tongs don't have soldiers any more. It's cheaper and safer and more efficient to sub it out. Mostly now they use street gangs for muscle. The dai low recruits kids, organizes them, serves as liaison between them and the long."

"Wu had a couple of Vietnamese kids with him last time I saw him," I said.

"Probably Death Dragons," Leong said.

"That's the Port City gang they use. They're Vietnamese of Chinese descent. Refugees, some of them second generation. You can't deport them. They don't care if they live or die. Don't care if you do. They'll take a contract on a three-month-old baby."

"Does Boston run Port City?"

"The Kwan Chang long, yeah, through Lonnie Wu. The thing about a dai low is that, normally, he's the only long guy the gang bangers see. They get busted, he bails them out. They go to court, he gets them a lawyer. He pays them. He puts out the contract. So Lonnie's all the Death Dragons know."

"He a big man in the Boston long?"

"Not exactly. Chinatown is Chinatown. There isn't much that's yes or no, you understand? He's a dai low. Theoretically, he's got one contact in Kwan Chang long. And, theoretically, I don't know who it is. Nobody's supposed to. Dai lows guard that pretty close.

That way he's sort of separated from Kwan Chang by the secrecy thing. If only two people connect the long and the gang, it's hard for the cops to connect them."

Leong finished his pancakes, swirling the last bite around in the syrup on the plate before he put it in his mouth. He chewed it carefully.

"And if only two people know, and the cops find out," I said, "the long knows who told."

Leong nodded, swallowed his pancake, and drank some coffee.

He patted his mouth with a napkin, and took out some cigarettes.

"You mind?" he said.

I shook my head.

"So…" Leong put a cigarette in his mouth and rolled it into the corner. He got a Zippo lighter out and snapped a flame and lit the cigarette and put the lighter away with one of those efficient little movements smokers have developed over the long ritual of their addiction. I admired the movement. I kind of missed it, although it had been nearly thirty years since I smoked. He exhaled some smoke.

"… Lonnie is important to Kwan Chang, but the job means he needs to be kept pretty separate from the long. Except for one thing. He married in to the family of the guy runs Kwan Chang."

Leong was smoking a Lucky Strike. No filter. The burning tobacco smelled good, although I knew it wasn't.

"So that's why the separation is theoretical," I said.

"Who's his in-law?"

"Uncle Eddie Lee. Fast Eddie, Counselor for Life. Lonnie Wu married his sister."

"Doesn't that make it a little complicated?" I said.

"Yeah. Most long bosses don't want a dai low for a brother-inlaw. But there it is. And you know how us Chinese are with the family thing. Eddie's the senior male in the family. He's responsible for everyone else, including his brother-in-law. What's your interest?"

"I went up there to look into a murder at the Rep theater. I talked with a bunch of witnesses, the damn killing took place on stage…"

Leong nodded.

"I heard about that," he said.

"And one of them was Rikki Wu. Afterwards, her husband came to my office with two shooters and told me to stay away from his wife, and to stay out of Port City. I did stay away from his wife.

I didn't stay away from Port City, and a couple days ago somebody drove by and tried to shoot me through the window of a restaurant."

"You're as good as I heard," Leong said.

"Death Dragons want you dead, normally you're dead right away."

"I'm an elusive devil," I said.

Leong looked at me with eyes that had seen everything. Nothing impressed him, nothing shocked him, nothing excited him.

And it was not just what he had seen; his eyes held the history of a people who for millennia had seen everything, and been shocked by nothing unimpressed, unexcited, unflinching, tired, permanent, and implacable.

"Not for long," Herman said.

"Thanks for putting me at ease," I said.

"Those kids have lost face," Herman said.

"It's not about money any more."

"I'll be alert," I said.

"You know anything about the woman?"

"Rikki? No. I hear she's a very snooty and spoiled broad, but it's just what I hear."

"Any reason you can think of why he wants me out of Port City?"

Herman shrugged. He smoked his cigarette without removing it from his mouth, so he had to squint a little to look through the smoke. As ash accumulated; he leaned over and tipped it off with his forefinger onto his empty plate.

"Nothing specific. It's not my turf. You'd have to figure there's something he don't want you to find out about."

"Know anything about the rackets in Port City?"

"Not really," Herman said.

"Usual Chinatown stuff, I imagine.

Extortion, gambling, heroin, prostitution, illegal immigrants."

"Chinese don't have a monopoly on most of that kind of thing," I said.

Herman smiled.

"They do in Chinatown," he said.

His cigarette was about to burn his lips. He spat it out and rummaged for another one.

"My mother used to call it the walking shadow."

"The tongs?" I said.

"The whole thing," Herman said. He lit another cigarette, put the Zippo away.

"The whole thing. Wherever you went if you were Chinese, it followed you. Disappears when you shine a light on it. Move the light away, it's right there again, walking shadow."

He was looking past me out at the street, looking at the people moving past us, and they seemed to me for a minute as they must have seemed to Herman Leong all the time: insubstantial, and temporary wisps of momentary history that flickered past, while behind him was the long, unchanging, overpowering weight of his race that bore upon the illusory moment and overpowered it.

"You going back up there," Herman said.

"Yeah."

"Mistake."

I shrugged.

"I'm in the tough-guy business," I said.

"I jump a case because two teenagers tell me to fade, and what do I do next for a living?"

Herman nodded.

"Guess you got to go back," he said.

"Yeah."

"Couple things," Herman said.

"One, these kids are absolute stone killers. Don't be thinking that they're seventeen, or that they weigh about one hundred pounds. Killing people is who they are.

Makes them feel good."

I nodded.

"Same with anybody got nothing else," I said.

"I'll shoot one if I need to."

"You'll need to," Herman said.

"And more than one."

"You said 'a couple of things." What's the other?"

"Bring backup." Herman said.

"I heard about you. And I know about you even if I didn't. You're a cowboy."

I shrugged.

"You can't do this alone," Herman said.

I grinned.

"No man is an island," I said.

"Who said that, Hemingway?"

"John Donne, actually."

"Close enough," Herman said.

"Low faan all look alike, anyway."