Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Page 13

  Even though she was doing her best to hide it, Tracy was red with embarrassment and anger.

  "God damn it, Chuck," she hissed.

  "What?" he said, playing totally innocent.

  She turned and walked away, toward the ladies room; the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed like thunder.

  I glanced at Chucky. He grinned and spread his hands and said, "Women, huh, man? No hard feelings or anything, by the way… I mean that’s all ancient history."

  Putting on my most charming smile, I said, "Hey, sure! No problem. But if you ever call her Bunny again, I will tear off your genitals with my bare hands and stuff them down your throat, alright Chucky-ole-pal?"

  The grin slid off Chucky’s face and dribbled away; I held up my glass in a silent toast and left to find Tracy.

  Knox and his wife were on their way into Lau’s gallery. I knew John didn’t give a damn about the paintings, but he wanted a chance to have a friendly chat with Lau senior.

  I didn’t plan on being so friendly. I don’t take kindly to organized attacks, especially the kind that explode. First, though, I had Tracy to think about. When she emerged from the ladies room, she was perfectly composed but the look she gave me was serious and hurt and angry. Before I had a chance to say anything, she said, "…Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d be about it. It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t anything serious."

  "Okay."

  "I hate when you get all jealous and shit. I don’t need you puffing your chest out at every guy who looks my way, you know. How would you like that shit?"

  "Well…If you puffed your chest out at every guy that looked my way, they wouldn’t be looking my way for long," I said.

  It didn’t even rank a smile.

  "How long did it take before you threatened to beat him up?" She said.

  I noticed just how fizzy my champagne was; I could see the attraction in just staring at it.

  She sighed wearily. "I am going to go look at the exhibit and then I’m going home. I’ve got a fucking headache."

  She pushed past me and went into the gallery.

  I finished my champagne.

  A distinguished looking Chinese man in a very expensive suit entered the museum.

  Judging by his escort – eight young, well-muscled guys in similar suits – I figured this was Jimmy Yi Lau, just the guy to take out my frustrations on. Unfortunately for me, his guards led him through a side gallery before I got anywhere close to him. With things going as they were, I decided to hit the gallery and find Knox. I figured that, if nothing else, I could count on him not to piss on my already crappy evening.

  The exhibit gallery was packed with the city’s pseudo elite; the opening night reception was strictly invitation only. I was certain the mayor was there, and probably some other prominent local folks, but I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. Out of the throng, I saw Tony Lau and Daniel, Knox and his wife, Jimmy Lau’s entourage, and, in a far corner, Tracy with an older couple. She was smiling, at least, and seemed to be having a good time.

  I noticed the first painting, the hexagram Khien. Done in the style of Chinese calligraphy, the image depicted two dragons, one black and silver and the other white and gold, entangled in the throes of battle. That, or they were fucking.

  "Pretentious and fruity, with hints of elderberry and peach, wouldn’t you say?"

  I turned, acknowledged Knox’s presence, and said, "You find anything out?"

  "Yeah. That I hate this kind of shit."

  "Have you no appreciation for culture, detective?"

  "Sure I do… I heard there are girls in Hong Kong that can do this really cool trick with a ping pong ball…"

  "Filthy Gwailo."

  "Count on it. You see big daddy Lau?"

  "Yeah, him and his goon squad," I said.

  "I take it you two didn’t get to chat?"

  "Not even close," I said.

  He nodded. "Me either. Can’t imagine why a businessman would need an armed escort to go to an art museum."

  "They’re armed? How can you tell?"

  "Well, those bulges by the armpit? On each guy? Either those are shoulder holsters, or Lau needs to change the name of his gang from Eight Tigers to The Abnormal Chest Tumor Boys."

  I stared at him for a second before saying, "How many glasses of champagne have you had?"

  "Three, why?"

  "Abnormal Chest Tumor Boys? Really?"

  "What, I thought it was funny," he said.

  "Should you even be drinking? We got our prime suspect here, and you’re getting sauced."

  "Like I need an intervention from you of all people. Look, if I need to jump in and arrest Lau, I will, but that’s not going to happen, Lee. Not here. Too public, too much shit going on. We’re not going to get the guy to slip up here. So we just do what we can."

  "Alright, fine. Have another drink, I’ll tell Marta she’s driving."

  "You got some kind of a master plan, Mr. Comedy?"

  "Don’t I always?"

  "No, not really," he said.

  "Well, then there’s not really any point in starting now," I said.

  I decided to fall back on what little plan I did have: wander around, keep my ears open, occasionally make an ass of myself and see where that takes me. In other words, pretty much the same stuff I always did.

  I saw Daniel alone, admiring a painting called ‘Pi – In search of beauty’. Unlike the first, this one was a large canvas covered in thick, chunky layers of paint. Remembering Tracy’s lesson of art appreciation, the picture – seemingly a portrait in earth tones – reminded me of melted crayons.

  "Kinda makes you want to reach out and touch it, doesn’t it? Just to feel that texture…" I said. Not the most elegant of openings, I know, but I had to say something.

  "I have touched it," he said.

  My mind scrambled for something to say, but I was born lacking the fundamental ability to small-talk. Luckily, Daniel said, "Have you learned anything new?"

  I sat beside him on a wooden bench in front of the painting.

  "A great many things," I said.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah… uh… some things your boss may not want to hear, actually."

  He didn’t acknowledge that I’d said anything, though I knew he’d heard.

  "Several things seem to indicate that Jimmy Lau is responsible for Mei Ling’s death."

  He kept on with the silence.

  "I know this makes things…difficult, to say the least, but…"

  "This is not possible," he said.

  "Look, I know it’s a shock, but…"

  "This is not possible. Leave it be."

  "Daniel, I need to…"

  He stood abruptly and shouted, "Leave it be, god damn you."

  I sat there and watched him storm off. After he’d left, and after the majority of the other patrons had gone back to ogling the artwork instead of me, one of the waitresses came to recover Daniel’s abandoned glass.

  As she did, I said, "Pardon me, Miss… Could I ask you a question?"

  "Certainly, sir."

  "Do I smell?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Am I offensive to you in some way? Be honest."

  "…No…sir…"

  "Ah, good. Just been that sort of evening. Thanks."

  I caught site of Jimmy Lau and his boys on the other side of the gallery and decided that, if nothing else, I could use my powers of irritation for good instead of evil. On the way across the room, however, I was intercepted. I didn’t mind terribly because it was a beautiful woman who hijacked me.

  Either all had been forgiven, or Tracy was an excellent actress. She was all smiles and fondness and warm cuddles as she led me over to the older couple I’d seen her with earlier.

  "Randall, this is Lawrence and Genevieve," she said.

  As neither of them extended a hand, I didn’t offer mine. Instead I smiled and nodded, a skill I was quickly becoming adept at. Another skill I’d b
ecome adept at, just that evening, was that of rolling with the punches, so to speak. I barely flinched at all when Tracy said, "Dad, mom, this is Dr. Randall Lee, the man I told you about."

  I flagged down another waitress and asked if they’d stocked any scotch for the occasion. She shook her head apologetically.

  One thing can be said about my luck – at least it’s consistent.

  51

  Tracy’s parents seemed like decent people.

  Lifetime members of the art museum, devoted teachers, involved parents, committed Catholics…

  And then there was me: the lecherous old scumbag out to deflower their beautiful, virginal angel. Reality was looking out for Mr. and Mrs. Sandoval that night – Neither Chucky nor I shattered their illusions.

  Though my brain repressed the memory of most of that conversation, I retained bits about my practice, how I’d helped Tracy, and my strange collaboration with the local police. Sensing an opportunity to exit, however inelegant, I said, "Hey, speaking of that - I don’t know if Tracy told you or not, but I’m actually here tonight because the sponsor of the event is a high level gangster that might have had his son’s fiancé killed. So I’m going to go see what’s up with that. You guys have a great night; it was really nice to meet you both."

  All three Sandovals looked at me like I’d just pulled down my pants and chased them around the room, but I wasn’t about to miss another chance at Jimmy Lau. The big boss was schmoozing with some yuppies near the painting of the hexagram Sung – Conflict, while his guards stood around being inconspicuously menacing. I wondered for a minute how to approach him, but the whole scene – a murderer enjoying his drink and conversing about culture and business while a young girl and her unborn child lay rotting in a box somewhere – enraged me so much that I stopped thinking and just acted.

  Thinking too much had never done me much good anyway, honestly.

  I strolled right up like I owned the damned place and made it within ten feet of the man before the biggest and most muscular Chinese man I’d ever seen stepped in front of me and slapped his meaty palm on my chest. "This portion of the gallery is off limits at the moment, sir. Feel free to come back in ten to fifteen minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience."

  A polite thug. Must be a new model.

  "Tell you what, Bolo, take your hand off me before I snap it off and shove it up your ass. Sound good? I need a word with your boss."

  The flat palm on my chest curled slowly into a fist, crumpling my shirt with it. He pulled me in close. It’s hard to feel manly when your feet are an inch off the ground, but I held my own.

  "Mr. Lau is not interested in talking with you at the moment, sir. Please take your business elsewhere."

  The other guards were staring, I noticed. So were the yuppies and Lau.

  Cool, an audience.

  "I apologize," I said, "but I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t hurt the other guys too bad. I know there’s not a lot of desk jobs in the Triads, and I’d hate to think I ruined their careers as professional muscle…"

  Lau grinned and excused himself from his upwardly mobile company to come closer.

  "Samson," he said, "let him go. It’s alright."

  I looked up at the beefy guy holding me and said, "Your name’s Samson? Really? Cuz I was only screwing around with the Bolo Yeung joke…"

  Samson didn’t think I was funny. Either that or they sneer and growl as a sign of approval on whatever mutant-steroid-freak planet he came from. He dropped me. I smoothed out my shirt with whatever dignity I could muster (think Sean Connery after a good ass kicking).

  Lau extended a hand and introduced himself. I shook it, though he disgusted me, and said, "I’m the guy from San Francisco, but I’m sure you knew that already."

  If he did, he didn’t let it show. In fact, his expression remained a warm neutral the whole time. I bet he’d be a bitch to play poker with.

  "Well, Mr. guy from San Francisco, what is it that I can do for you?"

  "For starters," I said, "why’d you send your boys to rough me up?"

  His eyes lit up as if he’d just recognized an old friend. "You must be Mr. Lee! Shall we go for a walk?"

  "If it’s all the same to you, I’d kinda prefer staying in a visible, public place."

  "Afraid?"

  "Smart." Okay, that was probably a lie.

  He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. His guards still glared menacingly. I tried to muster up a doe-eyed mew for them, but it just wasn’t in me. Lau called over a waitress and said, "A drink for my friend, anything he wants."

  She looked at me and I said, "You got any scotch?"

  I didn’t have high hopes.

  "Single malt, sir?" She said.

  "Uh…yeah. Sure," I said.

  She nodded and hurried away to fetch my drink.

  Thugs always have the best fringe benefits.

  "Mr. Lee, I am afraid we may have started off on the wrong foot," Lau said. "My people informed me that you were asking questions about Ms. Zhao, and I told them to bring you in. I am committed to finding the man who killed her, Mr. Lee."

  "Yeah? You and O.J. put together a task force?"

  "Mei Ling was like a daughter to me, Mr. Lee."

  "Why not have the cops bring me in, then?"

  He sipped his drink and said, "American police have never done anything but cause me problems. One cannot be Chinese and successful, it seems, without being accused of being a criminal."

  "You trying to tell me that you aren’t one?"

  I thought for sure that if I chipped away at him, I could break that nice-guy façade, but he just kept on acting like my favorite uncle.

  "I am a businessman, Mr. Lee. Import/export, shipping, that sort of thing. Boring, tedious business, I’m afraid, but lucrative. People are not interested in the truth, though. It’s much more interesting for them to say I am a gangster, you know."

  "Eight Tigers, Lau? You trying to say you’re not the boss?" I said.

  "I don’t deny it at all," he said.

  That threw my line of questioning. I was all ready to shout out Aha! and lay out the evidence Knox had found linking him to the Eight Tigers, but now there was no need. Instead, I went with a time-tested follow-up question.

  "What?"

  "Tell me, Mr. Lee, do you know how the Triads came into being?"

  He waited. I tried to think of something clever, but I had nothing.

  "No?" He said, "During the Qing Dynasty, when the Manchu ruled China, a group of patriots formed an underground organization called Tian Di Hui."

  "The Heaven and Earth Society," I said. I figured I could at least seem like I knew a little bit of what was going on. The waitress returned with my drink. I sipped it. Nice. Maybe I was working for the wrong side.

  "Correct. The term ‘Triad’ came from the Society’s use of a triangle to represent the balance of heaven, earth, and man. Their purpose was to return China to Han rule… just as your founding fathers sought to expel the British."

  "The founding fathers never dealt much with prostitution, drug trafficking, or assassination… to my knowledge, at least."

  "Now, now, Mr. Lee… the Triads have a long history of providing to the people the things they desire. Sometimes the desires of the people fall outside the law, true, but whose law? Under communist rule, the Triads smuggle Christian bibles, Buddhist sutras, and other religious items to the people. During the Cultural Revolution, it was the Triads who were entrusted to keep the old ways safe from those who would destroy them. On a more personal note, the Eight Tigers Society has bought out low-rent housing in several major cities, including St. Louis, and renovated entire neighborhoods for the immigrants seeking to start prosperous new lives in this country. If doing these things for my people makes me a criminal then so be it."

  "Gosh, sir, I guess you’re right…you’re not a scumbag, you’re a cultural hero. That’s why you run a string of massage parlors, right?"

  Gotcha, I thought.

  "Again, I do
not deny it. Are you familiar with the One-Child policy of the People’s Republic of China, Mr. Lee?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Then you know that life is not easy for young girls in China. Some do not make it past their first day of life… Many families cannot afford to have daughters, you see. It is a harsh reality of the world. We do our part, bringing some of the unwanted here to this country where they have a chance at something."

  "The life of a whore is hardly a chance."

  "It is unfortunate, but we must require a service from the girls we assist. This is true, but it is hardly the terrible fate you suggest. Two years of guaranteed work. In return, they receive a home. When their two years are up, they may do whatever they wish. I see that this disgusts you, Mr. Lee, but what do you do for them? Many of these girls do not speak English, they have no education, they have no skills. They do what they have to, to survive. And I do what I can to help them, to make their lives better."

  "So you’re a saint," I said.

  He laughed and said, "No, Mr. Lee, not a saint. Neither am I the monster you believe me to be. If I were, would we be having this discussion?"

  "We wouldn’t be talking at all if your boys were better with their bomb-building, would we?"

  At this, finally, he frowned. "I do not follow," he said.

  "Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Does the name Kip Yam mean anything to you?"

  He shook his head. "Should it?"

  "Well, maybe you don’t micromanage to that level, but he’s one of your local boys here. Cops held him in connection to the murder of a stripper, one of your former employees."

  He still acted cool, but I could tell I’d finally weaseled my way in.

  "A local, you say?"

  "Yep," I said.

  "He claimed to be Eight Tigers?"

  "Yep."

  He slammed the last bit of his drink and flagged down the waitress for another.

  "I do not have any men in this area, Mr. Lee."

  "Bullshit."

  "Though my business is none of yours, Lee, I am in a good mood tonight so I will humor you for a bit longer… I have no men in this city. To be frank, it’s not worth my time. Chicago, yes. New York, yes. Vegas, New Orleans, Atlantic City, and, of course, San Francisco. Not St. Louis. My deputies from Chicago come down every few months to ensure that our interests here are doing well, but there is no need for a permanent presence. If someone here told you they were Eight Tigers, they lied to you."