Текст книги "Walking Shadow"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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CHAPTER 30

We were heading back to Port City, four of us this time. I was driving the Mustang. Beside me was a young woman named Mei Ling, who was fluent in English, French, German, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Korean, and, for all I knew, Martian. Hawk and Vinnie were right behind us in Hawk's Jaguar.

"My father fled to Taiwan," Mei Ling was explaining to me, "ahead of the Communists. When Americans began relationships with the Communists in the early 1970s, my father feared Taiwan would fall. So he came here. My father had money. He was able to bring us all."

"You weren't born here," I said.

In preparation for Port City, Mei Ling had on a red plastic raincoat and a white kerchief over her hair. She was small-boned, with large, black eyes, and an air of precise delicacy about her.

"I was born in Taipei she said.

"But I can't really remember it. My first clear memories are of growing up here. In Los Angeles, California."

"In Chinatown?"

"At first, yes, sir. Then my father bought us a house in Northridge, California."

"And now you're at Harvard."

"Yes, I'm a doctoral candidate in Asian Studies."

"Where Dr. Silverman found you."

"Yes, sir, through the student placement service. I am paying my own tuition."

"And she talked with you about this job."

"Yes, sir. She told me you are a detective who is investigating a case involving Chinese people. She said you would need a translator."

"Did she tell you that there might be some danger?"

"Yes, sir. But she said you were very good at such things and would protect me."

"I will, so will they," I said and gestured back of us at the Jaguar.

"I thought that was probably what they did, sir."

I grinned.

"And you're not scared?"

"I need the money, sir."

"Your father can't help you out?"

"He has a good business, sir. But he has six other children, and he is also the oldest son in his family and his parents are alive and he has many brothers and sisters. Besides, first he has to educate my brothers."

We turned off the highway, and started down Cabot Hill toward Chinatown. The Port City drizzle was falling randomly, and the sky was gray. There was a hard wind off the water. I could feel it push at the car.

"You know about tongs?"

She smiled at me kindly.

"All Chinese people know about tongs, sir."

"Of course, and there's no need to call me sir."

"I am comfortable calling you so," she said.

"It is the way I was brought up."

"Okay," I said.

"Thank you, sir."

"You know the Kwan Chang Tong?" I said.

"Yes, sir. It is the most powerful in this area."

"They run Chinatown here in Port City," I said.

"Yes, sir."

"And they use a street gang to help them," I said.

"Yes sir. The Death Dragons."

"They teach this stuff at Harvard?" I said.

She smiled.

"No need to, sir. The tongs and the street gangs they employ are part of all Chinese people's lives. They know of them even if they've never actually met anyone who's in a tong, or a street gang. They are always near us, always."

We were in Chinatown. I parked on the curb, and Hawk pulled in behind me. Hawk and Vinnie got out first, each with a shotgun.

Mei Ling and I got out and stood with them in the cold wind. I turned the collar up on my leather jacket. Mei Ling stayed quite close to me, her hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat. Beside Hawk she looked nearly elfin.

"You going to be warm enough?" I said.

"Yes, sir. I have on a sweater under my raincoat."

Hawk grinned at her.

"And if you get too cold," he said, "I can put you in my pocket."

She smiled back at him.

"I am a small person," she said.

"But I am quite hardy."

"Mei Ling and I will talk with people," I said.

"You may as well trail along in the car and keep your powder dry."

"It always rain here?" Vinnie said.

"Yeah," I said.

"Something to do with the conjunction of hills and ocean, and the prevailing winds."

"A fucking weatherman," Vinnie said to Mei Ling, and got in the car.

"I hope you'll forgive Vinnie his language," I said.

"We've tried to break him out of it. But he's pretty much un trainable "I don't mind if people say 'fuck," sir. Sometimes I say 'fuck' myself."

"I don't like you going in places alone," Hawk said.

"Me either, but my chances of having anyone talk to me seem better just me and Mei Ling."

"Probably are," Hawk said.

"How long you be in a place, before we come in?"

I shrugged.

"Use your best judgment," I said.

"If you think you should come, come in kind of quiet, so if somebody is talking you won't scare them into catatonia."

"Don't even know where that is," Hawk said.

"It look funny, you send Missy running for me."

"You hear that, Missy?" I said.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay," I said.

"Let's see who we can find to talk with."

"Preferably someone in a warm building, sir."

"What about the sweater?" I said.

"I should have chosen a warmer one, sir."

We walked across the sidewalk and went into a Chinese laundry.

CHAPTER 31

No one at the laundry could tell us anything. Nor at the grocery store where mahogany-colored ducks dangled in the window, nor at the dim sum shop, nor in the tailor shop.

Back out on the street, plodding through the cold drizzle, we remained undaunted.

"Most of these Chinese people," Mei Ling said, "have never before spoken to a white person."

She was shivering. I didn't think it was so cold, but I didn't weigh ninety pounds.

"They call that speaking?" I said.

Mei Ling smiled.

"It is very Chinese to be reticent," she said.

"For many centuries Chinese people got only trouble from talking. We find saying little and working hard to be a virtue."

"Novel idea," I said.

"And, of course, despite the fact that I explain to them otherwise, many of these Chinese people think you are from the government."

"And if I were?"

Mei Ling hugged herself as she walked. I could see that it was will, only, which kept her teeth from chattering.

"Then you would make them pay taxes, or find that they were here illegally and make them leave. Our history has not taught us to trust our government."

"Most histories don't," I said.

We went into a storefront painted white with large red Chinese characters on the window.

"The sign says that this is a clinic," Mei Ling said.

"It is a Chinese medicine clinic."

It was warm inside the clinic. There were green plants in the window, and a big fish tank on a counter along the side. The back was draped with white sheets, which separated the examining rooms. A pleasant-looking woman in a blue pants suit with her hair in a bun came forward and said something to us. She looked at Mei Ling. Mei Ling responded, and the woman smiled and bowed slightly at me and put out her hand. I shook it.

"This is Mrs. Ong," Mei Ling said.

From somewhere behind the draped sheets a bald man in a similar blue suit joined us. Mei Ling spoke to him and he bowed and put out his hand as his wife had.

"Mr. Ong," Mei Ling said.

We shook hands. Like his wife, Ong had a warm, dry hand and a firm grip. I held out my picture of Craig Sampson.

"Have you ever seen this man?" I said Each took the picture and looked at it politely and smiled and looked at me and smiled. Mei Ling spoke to them. They listened to her, nodded, looked again at the picture, and spoke to Mei Ling. She answered. They said something else. Mei Ling nodded.

"They wish to take the picture in back," she said, "and study it more closely."

"Sure," I said.

Mr. and Mrs. Ong withdrew, backing away so as not to insult us with their backs.

"This mean they recognize the picture and wish to discuss what to do about it?" I said.

"I think probably," Mei Ling said. In the warm room her color had returned, and she was no longer hugging herself.

The room was lined with cupboards, each cupboard had many shelves and compartments. On top of the cupboards were glass jars containing dried things.

"That is bear gall, sir," Mei Ling said, pointing to a jar, "sea horse for kidney, grubs to clean wounds, angelica, ginseng, Yon Chiao pills, deer antlers."

"Hey," I said.

"I may be a little slow on the bear gall. But I recognized the antlers. Does this stuff work?"

"What would you reply, sir, if I asked you if western medicine works."

"I would reply, 'sometimes."

" "Yes, sir, that is what I would reply."

There was a glass case on the other side of the room. There were dried lizards in it, flattened out like stick-on wall ornaments, and short, round dessicated things in glass tubes. I asked Mei Ling.

"Those are deer legs, sir."

"For?"

Mei Ling looked at the floor.

"Male potency," she said.

"Really?"

I pretended to reach in and pocket some. Mei Ling giggled and blushed. Mr. and Mrs. Ong emerged from the backroom. Mr. Ong handed the picture back to me and shook his head. He spoke to Mei Ling.

"He says they do not know this man," Mei Ling said.

"You believe them?" I said.

"I do not know, sir. I admit that when they went in the backroom, I thought they did."

"Me too."

I looked at the both of them. Their faces were still and quiet.

"You understand any English?" I said.

They smiled politely and looked at Mei Ling. She translated.

They both shook their heads, still smiling.

"They say they speak no English," Mei Ling said.

"You believe them?"

"I do not know, sir. Many Chinese people do not speak English."

"I think they recognized the picture and went out back and consulted a third party and the third party told them to be quiet."

"That is certainly possible, sir."

"You know Lonnie Wu?" I said.

Mei Ling translated. Their faces never changed. Smiling politely, they each shook their head.

"They do not know Mr. Wu," Mei Ling said.

"Of course they do," I said.

"He's Kwan Chang dai low in Port City. He's the man in Chinatown here."

"Yes, sir."

"And, I'm wasting my time bitching about it," I said.

Mei Ling smiled at me.

"Yes, sir."

"So let's, ah, amscray."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"An expression I learned from Dr. Silverman," I said.

"A form of Latin."

"Yes, sir."

As we headed for the door, I unzipped my jacket and unsnapped the safety strap on my holster. I had a pretty good guess who the third party was. If Mei Ling saw me, she gave no sign.

"Mei Ling," I said.

"Let me go out first, please."

If Mei Ling wondered about that, she gave no sign. I went out first, she followed, and in the cold rain that had evolved from the drizzle, spread out, shoulder to shoulder across the sidewalk, coming toward us, were five adolescent Asian males, including my old pal Yan. I heard Mei Ling make a little gasp.

I said, "Step back in the shop, Mei Ling."

I didn't look, I was locked on Yan and company, but I could feel her move. I took the Browning from its holster, cocked it, and held it, barrel down, at my side. The group came to a halt in front of me. They all wore high-top sneakers and jeans. Most of them had baseball caps on backwards. Yan wore a purple satin finish warmup jacket, with blue knit collar and cuffs. Nobody was showing a weapon yet, but the kid to Yan's right wore an oversized Australian outback coat unbuttoned, which might mean something bigger than a handgun. The wind had died and the rain came straight down, steady but not hard. It beaded on Yan's satin jacket. I surveyed the group which had formed a half circle on the sidewalk.

No one there had reached twenty years old. Two of them were trying to grow moustaches and the results were pathetic. As opposed to the dead face that Yan had showed me when I grabbed him, his eyes were shiny, and a little nerve twitched near the corner of his mouth. All of them were excited. None of them looked uneasy.

I smiled my friendliest smile, and said, "Death Dragons, I presume."

No one spoke. No one probably understood what I said. I waited. The street was empty. The rain fell gently. The kids all watched me brightly. One of them, with the wispy moustache, spoke to Yan. Yan answered. The kid giggled. I kept my knees soft, relaxed my shoulders, took in a lot of wet air. Everything was slowing down, the way it does. The rain drops seemed to individuate. They fell big and crystalline, drifting down between us, disinterested, in no great hurry to reach the ground.

The kids were milking the moment. They were stone killers, all of them, with no capacity for pity or remorse. But they were also kids, and this was as close as their stunted lives ever brought them to play. Even the five-abreast walk up the street was something from a bad movie, as was the half circle they'd formed in front of me, and the dramatic pause that hadn't ended yet. They were having fun.

"We are kill you," Yan said.

I didn't answer. Yan was clearly in charge. He'd make the first move. I waited. The silence was so profound that I could hear the sound of the rain passing down through the air between us. The silence magnified the sound of a shotgun shell being chambered.

The keys were strung tight. All five of them jumped, and turned.

Hawk was there, and Vinnie Morris, behind them. Hawk to their right, Vinnie to their left. Each had a shotgun, at shoulder. It had been Hawk, who has his own sense of drama, who had waited to pump the round up when he was behind them. The kids turned back to look at me. I had the Browning up now, and aimed, straight out from the shoulder at the middle of Yan's mass.

"Maybe you aren't kill me," I said.

Again the silence. And the small rain down does fall. I knew the kids were waiting for Yan to decide. Yan looked at the Browning, steady on his chest. I could see the shine leave his eyes, like something dying.

Without taking my eyes from him, I said, "Mei Ling?"

In a moment I heard, "Yes, sir?"

"It's over. Tell them to lie facedown on the sidewalk."

Mei Ling spoke to them. Her small voice was clear and steady.

The kids didn't move.

"Tell them I will count five and anyone still standing will be shot," I said.

Mei Ling spoke again. I held my left hand up, five fingers spread.

"One."

I folded over the little finger. Two. The ring finger. "Three."

They were down. They had assumed the position before. Three of them automatically clasped their hands behind their head.

"Tell them all to clasp hands behind heads, please."

Mei Ling spoke and the other two did as they were told. The excitement over, they had retreated into the speechless docility which made the rest of their life possible.

"Please ask Mr. or Mrs. Ong to call the police, Mei Ling. If they will not, you should. If there is no phone, you will need to find one."

"I have already called the police, sir. I did so when you told me to go back inside."

I took my eyes off Yan for the first time since he'd arrived, and looked down at Mei Ling. There were two smudges of color on her cheek bones, but no other sign of excitement.

"Thank you, Mei Ling."

"You're welcome, sir."

In the distance I could hear the sirens. Then a Port City patrol car wheeled into sight and pulled in beside us. The two uniforms in it got out, service pistols drawn, shielded by the car, and said, "Police, drop your weapons."

"We're the good guys," I said.

"The bad guys are on the ground. Where's DeSpain?"

"He'll be along," one of the uniforms said. Both cops held position, guns leveled, as two more patrol cars pulled up, and an unmarked gray Ford behind them. The cops got out of the cars and surrounded the scene, guns drawn. DeSpain got out of the Ford, wearing a tan trenchcoat and a gray felt hat, and walked toward me, stepping squarely on Yan's back as he came. DeSpain seemed not to notice. Hawk and Vinnie lowered the shotguns. I holstered the Browning.

"Cuff the ones on the ground," DeSpain said.

"Be sure and pat them down."

"What about the guys with the shotguns," one of the cops said.

"I'll take care of that end," DeSpain said.

"Just clean up the gooks."

He looked at Mei Ling.

"Who's this?"

"My translator, Mei Ling Chu," I said.

DeSpain nodded.

He said, "How're you?" to Mei Ling, and looked at me.

"I gotta say, you are getting to be a royal fucking pain in the ass," DeSpain said.

"And I thought you didn't care," I said.

Behind us the wagon pulled up and the cops began to file the five Death Dragons into it. DeSpain looked at them without emotion.

"See you can get them to headquarters before their lawyer," DeSpain said. He looked back at me.

"We need to talk," he said.

"I'll come down."

"You deliver the two shooters if I need them."

"Yes."

A patrolman was loading the Death Dragons' guns into a duffel bag. The one in the Australian coat had been carrying an Uzi.

"Okay," DeSpain said. He looked at Mei Ling and tipped his cap, and turned back to his car. Everyone left.

Hawk walked over and stood beside Mei Ling. He held the shotgun loosely at his side, barrel down to keep the rain out. He looked down at her and grinned.

"What you think of that, Missy?" he said.

"I was very scared," Mei Ling said.

"I was glad when you came."

"Me too," I said.

"Saw them coming down the street," Hawk said, "and pulled around the corner. Thought we'd do better coming up behind them."

"Do you think the Ongs called someone when they went out back to study the picture?"

"Yeah," I said.

"They called Lonnie Wu."

"And he sent those boys to kill you?"

"Yep."

"This is terrible business," Mei Ling said.

"If I may say so, sir."

"You may and it is," I said.

"I wouldn't blame you for quitting."

"No, sir, I need the money."

"And?" Hawk said.

Mei Ling looked at him for a moment. She was hugging herself again, and shivering a little. Her face was serious.

"And I know you will protect me," she said.

"Yeah," Hawk said.

"We will."

"That's us," Vinnie said.

"To serve and protect. Can we get in out of the fucking rain?"

"Yes," Mei Ling said.

"I would like that too."

CHAPTER 32

"I have something I want you to hear," Susan said.

I came from her kitchen into her living room, upstairs from her office. Susan's last patient had finished his fifty minutes. The early winter darkness had settled against the windows. There was a fire in her fireplace, courtesy of me, which was the only time a fire ever happened there. Pearl had been fed and was asleep on the floor in front of the fire. A Brunswick stew simmered in Susan's kitchen, courtesy of me, which was the only time a Brunswick stew ever happened there. I was drinking a bottle of Rolling Rock. Susan had some red wine.

"Listen," Susan said, and pressed the playback button on her answering machine.

A voice said, "Dr. Silverman, this is Angela Trickett…"

Susan said, "Nope," and hit the fast forward. She let it run for a moment and hit it again.

A voice said, "Susan, it's Gwenn…"

"Nope." Fast forward.

"This next one is it."

"Dr. Silverman. This will be hard to hear, maybe, but you need to know. Your boyfriend is not faithful to you. I know this from personal experience, which I regret. But you have the right to know. I am not the first one."

There was a pause, then the sound of the phone hanging up.

Susan hit the stop button and looked at me.

I looked sheepishly at her.

"That damned Madonna," I said.

"Can't keep her mouth shut."

Susan smiled.

"I thought I recognized the voice."

"Play it again," I said.

Susan did. We listened.

"Again," I said.

We listened.

"Jocelyn Colby," I said.

"My God," Susan said, "I think you're right."

"I'm right," I said.

"Then there's something else. She has called me two or three times asking if you were there, saying that she'd expected to see you, but you weren't where you were supposed to be."

"What the hell does that mean?" I said.

"Well, first of all, I'm assuming that you've not been balling Jocelyn Colby."

"This is true," I said.

"So she's lying to make me think you're unfaithful. Calling me up looking for you was probably a way of planting suspicion.

"Well, where is he?" I was supposed to say to myself. In fact, since you are often irregular in your hours, I never thought anything about it, and since she had no message for you, I never bothered to say anything."

"She ever speak to you direct?"

"No, always on the machine. I assume she called during office hours, knowing I wouldn't pick up."

My beer was gone. I went to the kitchen and opened another bottle, looked at my stew, poured a little of the beer into it, gave it a stir, and went back into the living room. Susan was sitting on the couch with her shoes off and her feet tucked under her. She held her wine glass in both hands and stared over the rim of it into the fire. I sat beside her on the couch.

"So why is she doing this?" Susan said.

"Last time I saw her she was mad at me, because I told her no one was following her."

"And?"

"And she called me a prick master."

"Prick master? What a dandy phrase. But I meant 'and what resulted from the fact that you said no one was following her?"

" "I was going to stop being her shadow."

"Do you think she knew that no one was following her?"

"Unless she's delusional," I said.

"There was no one there."

"So why would she tell you she was being followed?"

"To get my attention?"

"And eventually your companionship."

Pearl shifted on the floor and made a snurffing sound in her sleep. I drank a little of my beer.

"Just before she was calling me a prick master she was complaining that I was going to spend time with you."

Susan nodded. We were quiet. The flames moved in the fireplace. A bubble of residual moisture, squeezed by the heat, oozed out of the end of one log and vaporized with a barely audible hiss.

"Is this a case of 'hunk city' strikes again?" I said.

"She's jealous," Susan said.

"She has attached to you in some way, and she's jealous of me."

"Well, any woman would be," I said.

Susan went on as if I hadn't spoken. When she began to think about something, she could think it to a crisp.

"You are a powerful man in a protector, rescuer, kind of way."

"She talked about being rescued."

"It's a voguish pop psyche jargon phrase at the moment," Susan said.

"I hear it in therapy all the time. And it's a useful concept, as long as everyone understands that it is shorthand for a much larger and more complicated emotional issue."

"Does she seriously think she can break us apart by anonymous accusations of infidelity?" I said.

Susan smiled.

"Fancy talk for a guy with an eighteen-inch neck," she said.

"I been bopping a shrink," I said.

"Lucky you," Susan said.

"A woman like that reflects her own emotional life. She has no depth of commitment; she doesn't understand it in others. She has no trust; she assumes others don't either. If he doesn't want me, it's because there's someone else; if I can get rid of someone else, he'll want me. It's an adolescent vision of love, which is to say romanticized sexual desire."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Be sure you understand it. I'll be passing out blue books before supper."

"You have any thoughts on what I should do about this?"

"Ignore it," Susan said.

"You think she'll keep calling?"

"Probably, but only on my machine. She won't want to talk with me."

"You shouldn't have to be bothered."

"No bother," Susan said.

"Just another message on my machine at night. It might get exciting. She might give me details on what you and she do."

"She's pretty good-looking," I said.

"Un huh."

"Maybe, just to help her regain her mental health, if I came across for her?"

"Or maybe the disappointment would put her over the edge," Susan said.

"You never seem disappointed," I said.

"I'm a Harvard graduate," Susan said.

"Yeah, good point. I guess we'd better not risk it with Jocelyn."

"I agree," Susan said.

"Another thing about her," I said.

"She says she and Christopholous are, or were, lovers, that whoever was following Christopholous was probably jealous of his love for her, or hers for him, she wasn't clear about that."

"Really," Susan said.

"I didn't know about that."

"Apparently Christopholous didn't either," I said.

"He was puzzled at the suggestion."

"What did he say when you quoted Jocelyn?"

"I didn't. I'm trying not to say more than I need to say in this deal. At least until I get some idea of what I'm talking about."

"That seems prudent," Susan said.

"I don't think Christopholous was lying," I said.

"Why would he? There's no reason he shouldn't date Jocelyn. He's divorced.

She's divorced."

"She's widowed," Susan said, "not that it makes any difference, I guess."

"She told me she was divorced."

Susan widened her eyes.

"Really," she said.

"She told me she was widowed."

"You know any details? Husband's name? Where they were married? How he died?"

Susan shook her head. One of the logs settled in the fireplace.

The momentary flare brightened Susan's face, and threw a shadow that made her eyes seem even bigger than they were.

"No. Just that he died 'tragically' before she joined the company."

I leaned back a little and stretched my legs out toward the fire and put my arm around Susan's shoulder.

"Jocelyn appears to lie," I said.

"True," Susan said.

On the floor Pearl opened her eyes and stared at me with my arm around Susan. She thought about that for a moment, then, seemingly from the prone position, jumped up on the couch and insinuated herself vigorously between us.

"Pearl appears to be jealous."

"Also true," Susan said.

Pearl leaned into Susan in such a way as to get most of my arm off of Susan and around Pearl. I looked at her. She lapped me on the nose.

"As a mental health professional," I said, "do you have a view on Jocelyn?"

"I think she might be nuts," Susan said.

"Could you put that in terms a layman can understand?"

"Well, she seems to have some unresolved conflicts which center on men, particularly men in positions of power or authority, or perhaps merely older men."

"Is it too early to suggest that she might have some sort of problem with her father?"

Susan smiled at me.

"Yes," she said.

"It is too early."

Half sitting, half sprawled between us, Pearl shifted her weight from me onto Susan.

"Is it too early to suggest that Pearl has unresolved issues about being a Canine American Princess?"

"No. I think we have empirical support for that diagnosis," Susan said. Pearl lapped Susan's ear. Susan turned her head, trying to escape. Pearl persisted.

"Though perhaps it is not an unresolved issue."

We sat quietly for a while.

"Maybe she was following Christopholous," I said.

"You think?"

"One of the things stalkers get out of stalking is a sense of power over the person they are stalking."

Susan nodded.

"And, thinking of it in this light, it was an odd remark, that the stalker was stalking Christopholous because the stalker was jealous."

"Unless it was true," Susan said.

"And she were the stalker," I said.

"She forms an obsessive attachment to Jimmy, because he's older and he's the head of her acting company, and she tends to form such attachments," Susan said.

She was staring into the fire. Her wine glass was still nearly full in her hands. I knew she'd forgotten about it as she tracked her hypothesis.

"And he doesn't reciprocate. She assumes there's another woman, and trails him to see if there is."

"And maybe," I said, "because it makes her feel good to trail him."

"Yes."

"And then I come along and, being entirely irresistible, as you well know, replace Christopholous in her affections."

"And she tells you she's being followed so you'll pay attention to her."

"If we're right," I said, "this is not a healthy woman."

"No, she must be very unhappy."

"So maybe I've got the stalker," I said.

"Maybe. So who killed Craig?"

"I have no idea," I said.

Susan leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

"But you will," she said.

"What's for supper?"

"Brunswick stew, French bread, tomato chutney," I said.

"Shall we eat some?"

"That was part of my plan," I said.

"What was the rest?"

"Well," I said.

"If I can't help Jocelyn out.

Susan smiled at me.

"The last boy scout," she said.