Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Page 17

  "The SUV’s slid into position there," Knox said, pointing. At the far end of the enclosure, I saw three black Cadillac Escalades blocking the street.

  "The gunmen hid in these alleys and hit them here. If you look, you can see that they picked staggered alleys to avoid a crossfire."

  We walked into the street, glass crunching underfoot, to the first patrol car.

  "Officer Cox drove this one. He was transporting Scarface and Kip Yam. Shooters on the driver’s side here hosed the length of the car. Early guesstimates, based on number and pattern of shots as well as caliber, suggest that the shooters used MAC-10s."

  "So they’re dead?" Tracy said.

  "Yeah. Very much so. Officer Murphy, with the rest of the Chinese grocery thugs, tried to turn around. Dispatch caught part of his call for backup. Then, according to a witness, another black escalade pulled in here," Knox said, point to the other end of the street, "gunned down Officer Murphy’s vehicle, picked up the other drivers and gunmen, and fled the scene."

  "Did anyone survive?" I said.

  "Yeah. One of the unidentified kids in the back of Murphy’s car. Little shit hid under his dead friends. Took one slug in the gut, but he’s still kicking… for now, anyway."

  I felt Tracy close to me. She seemed so small. I put my arm around her to ease her shivering. She had never been this close to this kind of carnage before. I knew I hadn’t. There was an immediacy to the violence that echoed through the place; I was happy to feel her next to me.

  Knox’s cell rang again. He answered. From where we stood a few feet away, I heard an anguished cry from the other end of the line. "…Baby…Yes, baby, of course it’s me," Knox said. He turned away from us and walked a little ways away. "No. No, I’m fine. I swear to you, alright? Turn off the TV and go back to bed. I’ll be home soon. Yes. Soon, I promise."

  He glanced over his shoulder and looked at me. I tried to look like someone who had never eavesdropped in his life. He hung up the phone and said, "Story’s on the news… couple cops dead, my precinct… she got scared."

  "Sure," I said.

  He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes and looked around at the wreckage like he’d never seen it before.

  "Shit." he said, "I brought you out here like you’d have some kind of insight into this… but it’s just all fucked, isn’t it?"

  65

  The sky was the color of maraschino cherries when I called to make our reservations. Tracy was asleep against me; John drove. At Tracy’s, the good detective was kind enough to check the place before we went in. I’d never seen him draw his gun before.

  When he was satisfied that the place was clean, we went in, and Tracy grabbed some clothes, her CD’s and a fleshy, clawed ball of hatred for mankind. I stood around, fully prepared to kung-fu something, if necessary.

  We left, and John drove us to the Ritz.

  I steeled myself for the barrage of dirty looks we were likely to get. I’d received glares from people there while dressed in a tuxedo. Considering the way I looked now, I’d be lucky if the hotel staff didn’t just shoot me. We went inside, bidding John Knox a good morning, and attempted to saunter up to the front desk in a prosperous manner. When the concierge was finished staring down his long, skinny nose at us, I smiled and said, "Reservation for Charles. Nick and Nora Charles."

  With key in hand, we rode the elevator to our floor. It was a much more pleasant experience than my previous elevator trip. I looked at Tracy. She looked at me.

  We knew there would be no resisting it. On our floor, every step made it clearer and clearer. With our door unlocked, we entered our suite. I locked the door behind us. Tracy let Tito out of the duffel bag he’d been hiding in. And at last we gave in - we were both asleep before we could even get under the covers.

  66

  I developed some rudimentary form of what humans call consciousness around ten a.m. In the blissful void of sleep I became aware of a recurring smooth raking sound. My mind conjured nonsensical images of ninja, clad only in strawberry stuffed French toast triangles. One of them was on the balcony, suction-cupping one of those circular glass cutters, the kind that show up in every spy movie, to the sliding door; my dream self cowered in the corner, cursing myself for not considering pastry-covered assassins when choosing a luxury suite.

  When I found myself awake, I was sitting upright in the plush. Tito sat in front of the doors looking out onto the balcony. He reached up a bony paw, dragged his claws down the glass and croaked out a pathetic meow.

  I thought about letting him out, but if he enjoyed perching on the tops of buildings as much as I knew his stone ancestors did, Tracy would never forgive me.

  The Ritz, strictly speaking, did not allow cats.

  This didn’t bother me for two reasons: Tito did not shed, and I still wasn’t convinced he actually was a cat. I rolled off the bed, walked to the balcony doors, and crouched down by the cutest of my nemeses. The little guy purred and rubbed against my knee so ferociously that he ended up sliding off my knee and flopping onto my foot. I scooped up the warm sack of purring flesh and went to the couch. Tito and I flipped channels for a bit, but hotel TV pretty much sucked as a rule. So I picked up the phone and ordered some room service. After hanging up with the overly friendly attendant, I called my apartment and checked my messages.

  "Hey, Assho’," I heard, "You puss out already? Or maybe you think you already know everything, eh? I call to say that I don’t need such bullshit. You come tomorrow or not at all. Eh, Lee? And call me back, shithead!"

  Master Cheng’s English was never exactly great, but it degenerated into incoherent curses and gibberish when he got really irritated.

  What I think it really came down to, though, was that he missed me. I called him, apologized profusely, and confirmed our class in the morning. Before hanging up, he said, "Bring chocolate, you pissy dick-hole of shit-man."

  Like I said, he missed me.

  I called room 290. The exhibit was not yet over, but I didn’t know if Lau was still in town. With all the recent shenanigans, I’d forgotten to ask Knox.

  Daniel answered on the third ring.

  I offered to buy dinner.

  He said, "Pay for the sunglasses you broke and you’re on."

  "I suppose you’re going to tell me those were fifty dollar sunglasses," I said.

  "Try two hundred and fifty," he said.

  He was clearly still sore over the forty two cents I’d masterfully swindled from him. I gave in to his ransom and told him the time and place for dinner. He accepted. And when he hung up, we both still knew who the better card player was.

  67

  I ran through some warm up exercises – stretching, some stance training, and the Silk Reeling exercises – and took a quick shower. Since everything I did lately was an exercise in pain, I did not enjoy the shower as much as I should’ve.

  When I heard the polite knock at the door, I immediately thought of the pastry assassins again. I checked the peephole. With the suit the guy was wearing, I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about any fancy footwork – unless he didn’t mind blowing out his pants and making his escape with his ass hanging out. Anything he could throw at me with his hands didn’t bother me. All I had to do was keep close in case he had a weapon.

  Paranoid?

  Me?

  Never.

  I opened the door and let him inside. I knew right away that the kid wasn’t an evildoer – to him, I wasn’t being defensive; I was just invading his personal space. I tipped him a little extra and locked the door behind him. The food looked pretty awesome. Poison crossed my mind, but I pushed that thought aside. At some point, cautious crosses the line into ridiculous.

  I went into the bedroom and got Tracy up. She mumbled an impressive train of incoherencies that stretched from the bed to the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on.

  I covered the food and checked the TV again. It was the same old assemblage of golf, bowling, infomercials, and soap operas. Tracy emerged, swimming in a hu
ge, fluffy terrycloth robe. I pulled the silver cover from the food with a flourish. Tracy sat in one of the expensive-looking chairs and pulled her legs up under her. She leaned over, picked a piece of bacon from one of the platters, and nibbled at it.

  "I feel like such shit," she said.

  I had a piece of sourdough toast.

  "The last few days have been a lot to handle," I said. She made a sort of nervous laughing sigh and said, "You think?"

  "It will get better," I said.

  Tracy sighed and looked up at me. The dark circles were still there.

  "How, Randall?" She said, her voice froggy from sleep, "How will things get better? More and more people are dying and it doesn’t seem like anyone’s any closer to figuring anything out. I mean, I was there at the gallery when Mr. Lau was killed. I was there with my parents and there was a murderer there. And he knows who I am. And maybe he knows who my parents are too. I’m scared, Randall… Really scared. And I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know how much more I want to take."

  She didn’t seem aware of the tears that spilled from her eyes.

  I set down my toast.

  "God, I know this makes me sound like a total bitch but I didn’t sign on for this shit, Randall. I like you. I like you a lot. And I want to be the girl who’s there for you, the one who says, ‘Go get ‘em, tiger,’ and who has your back during all of this… but you don’t know what its like."

  She looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

  I just sat there and listened.

  "When that bomb… when…before the ambulance arrived, I thought you were dead," she said. She began to cry harder then. I got up, knelt beside her chair, and took her hand.

  "I didn’t think things would end up this way. If I had, I would never have involved you at all. And I can’t tell you that things won’t get worse before they get better. I can tell you though that the bad guys made two fatal errors last night. They killed cops and they threatened my girl."

  She snorted, and started to giggle in spite of herself.

  I kissed her forehead, stroked her cheeks, wiped away her tears, and, with her face in my hands, said, "I’m going to make this right, okay? I promise."

  I kissed her; she kissed me back. It occurred to both of us that it had been awhile since we’d spent any quality grown up time together. And even though there couldn’t have been a worse time for it, we - tentatively at first but then rather fiercely - did.

  I only pulled a few stitches.

  I’d live.

  68

  With an afternoon of shopping behind us, we met Tony Lau and Daniel at Marisol on Delmar. Tracy had mentioned wanting to try it, and I was up for something new. We were not exactly being discreet, but the more I thought about it, the less I saw the point in hiding. The baddies, whoever they were, weren’t exactly shy about public displays. If they wanted to take a run at us, then by god I was choosing the battleground.

  The restaurant, like most of the places on Delmar, was small, stylish, and filled with the almost terminally hip. I spotted them almost immediately, and we made our way to the table. Daniel and Tony stood to greet us. I handed Daniel a black case.

  "My glasses?" He said, surprised.

  I nodded.

  He flipped the case open and said, "I am surprised, Dr. Lee."

  "In my taste or that I keep my promises?"

  "Both, to be honest," he said with a grin.

  I shook hands with Tony. He kissed Tracy’s hand. I did not growl at him.

  "You look lovely, Miss Sandoval," he said.

  He wasn’t kidding. Tracy wore a dark purple dress she’d found while we were out shopping, a thin, black lace choker, and heels that matched her dress. Her long, pale legs were bare. Though they looked like smooth vanilla ice cream, I did not lick them.

  Randall Lee – Master of self control.

  We all sat and checked out the menu. The place was billed as Nuevo Latino cuisine, whatever that meant. I read the names of dishes, then the descriptions. When the waitress came back around, we were ready to order.

  I picked the Honduran Ceviche – tuna with coconut milk, lime, ginger, and pickled onion. Tracy ordered the Blood Orange salad and, to drink, a Mojito.

  The rest of us ordered beer.

  When the waitress left, Tracy said, "This is a little awkward, but I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your father, Tony…"

  He gave a slow nod and said, "Thank you."

  "Will there be a memorial?" I said.

  "In San Francisco. Then my father’s ashes will be sent home, as was his request."

  "Where was home?" Tracy said.

  "Hong Kong." Tony said.

  "Oh? Randall used to live in Hong Kong," Tracy said.

  "Really? Where, Dr. Lee?" Tony said.

  "Kowloon Bay," I said.

  Tony smiled and said, "My family lived just across the harbor, near the base of Tai Ping Shan."

  The waitress brought our drinks. Tracy sipped her Mojito and grinned. "Small world, eh? I, for the record, know nothing about Hong Kong," she said.

  Daniel said, "You are not alone."

  "Oh, but you’ve got your own cool thing going on… Brazil, and Capoeira and all that? I’ve never been much of anywhere or done much of anything. I feel so plain and boring with you guys," She said.

  "You’re not plain or boring, whatever the company," I said.

  She blew me a kiss and turned back to Daniel. "I had a few friends in school that did a little Capoeira, though. They always wanted me to try it, but I was too chicken."

  "Tracy was a dancer, in college," I said.

  "A dance major," she said quickly. "I was a dance major. I learned a long time ago that if you say you’re a dancer, people assume just you mean stripper."

  Tony laughed and drank some beer. It seemed like a great idea so I joined him.

  Daniel said, "If you dance, you would pick up Capoeira easily. My grandfather had the hardest time teaching me to relax enough to feel the rhythm."

  I could sympathize.

  "That’s what Sombra said, that I would do well. I was always afraid of the flips and stuff."

  "Sombra?" I said.

  "That’s what everybody called him. His real name was… Eric, I think. He was the teacher. Then there was Fava and Galinha. They were cool guys."

  Daniel laughed.

  Tracy grinned and looked around. "What?" she said.

  "I thought my grandfather was harsh, but at least my Capoeira name is not ‘Bean’ or ‘Chicken’."

  Tracy laughed and said, "You should have seen Galinha, he did look like a chicken."

  "I’m a bit lost," I said. "What’s a Capoeira name?"

  "In the old days," Daniel said, "Capoeira was outlawed, and it became the custom for the Mestre to give his students nicknames. In this way, the police could not find the other students through interrogation. Nobody knew anyone’s true name or address, see? It became part of tradition, almost like an initiation… when the capoeirista reached some level of accomplishment, he would be awarded his name. Oftentimes, though, they are not the most complimentary of names."

  "What’s yours?" Tracy said.

  Daniel drank some beer and shook his head with a small smile.

  Our food came. Everyone took a minute to settle in and try their various dishes. Tracy happily ate her blood orange salad, bobbing her head and tapping her feet to a beat only she could hear.

  "Good?" I said, grinning.

  "At least as good as sex," she said.

  "With lettuce," I said.

  "And blood orange vinaigrette," she said.

  I tried my tuna. I understood Tracy’s enthusiasm, but it still didn’t compare to sex. I suddenly felt very inadequate. Because of a salad.

  "So, Daniel…" she said, "C’mon, spit it out. You’re among friends."

  He popped a sliver of beef tenderloin into his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

  "What?" He said, stealing my
favorite line.

  Tracy grinned and chewed her lip a little. "You won’t tell us your Capoeira name?"

  Daniel shook his head, his braids rattled against the back of his chair. "I see no point in embarrassing myself during an otherwise lovely dinner, no."

  "You’re no fun at all," she said.

  He took another bite of food, glanced from Tony to Tracy to me, sighed, and finally said, "Fada. You happy now?"

  Tracy giggled and said, "That doesn’t sound so bad. What’s it mean, ‘father’?"

  Daniel kept his barely noticeable smile and, to me, said, "This girl has some power, eh? She make you say things you don’t want to say?"

  "On occasion, yes," I said.

  He took another drink of his beer and, to Tracy, said, "When I was little, I was… what do they call it here? A mama’s boy?"

  He nodded to himself and continued. "Granddaddy decided one day that he would make a man out of me, see. Every day, when I couldn’t do whatever new moves he showed, he would tell me, ‘Get up, ‘Fada,’ and do it again.’ He always pushed just a little harder. I would practice for hours to be able to do the things he taught, and the next day, he push just a little past that. He would have me practice until I threw up. That was how I knew class was over. Then he would stand over me and say, ‘Poor little Fada lost his breakfast.’

  "When I was twenty-one, I beat him in the roda, the circle. I trapped him and he could not move. It made the old man happy. When we were finished, he said to his students, ‘Today is the day I retire. From now on, look to Mestre Fada for your lessons.’"

  "You were a teacher?" Tracy said.

  "No. Hard to gain much respect from your students when everyone knows you only as ‘Fairy’, see."

  "You never told me that," Tony said.

  "Of course not. It does no good for my image as a tough guy. I tell nobody… it’s silly girl’s fault I bring it up now," he said, grinning at Tracy. "But if word gets around, I have to kill both of you."