Neon Dragon (18 page)

He nodded. I wondered if the sparkle in his eyes that accompanied the smile was because someone of Harry's age appreciated his art, or because he assumed that I wouldn't.

“You have a familiarity with the ancient medicinal arts, Mr. Wong?”

Harry seemed at ease with the old gentleman. I was getting that way.

“I remember my mother used to go to the herbal medicine doctor before we left China. She had great faith in him. I don't know whether or not she ever found one in this country.”

“Then you might not take offense at my noticing the obvious. You're in great pain. I wonder if you would permit me to help you.”

“In what way, Mr. Qian?”

“Would you do me the kindness to excuse me? I'll be just a moment.”

He bowed slightly and shuffled back through a curtain at the back of the shop.

I looked at Harry with an apology for getting him into an embarrassing situation. He seemed undisturbed.

In a few minutes, the old man was back. He had a handleless Chinese cup in each hand. The light caught steam rising from each of them. He handed one to Harry.

“I think you will find this more satisfying than anything you might have tried. By the time you leave, your pain will be substantially less.”

I'm sure he noticed the look on my face. I had no idea how Harry could refuse without offense. On the other hand, this brew could have ingredients that even Barry Salmon never tested. Equally disturbing was the likelihood that the other steaming cup was for me.

Harry had taken his first hot sip, apparently without qualms, before Mr. Qian said to me, “Don't be afraid for your friend. It contains combinations of herbs that are perfectly natural. There is no narcotic. There is no need for a narcotic other than what the body produces for itself. These herbs will simply allow the body to produce its own cure.”

Harry finished the liquid and handed the empty cup back to Mr. Qian, who, in turn, held the second cup out to me. I took it, but only to hold. He was smiling an ingenuous smile.

“Mr. Knight, what you are holding is simply a cup of tea. Please permit an old man to be hospitable.”

The old gentleman affected me with his warmth. My fear of offending him grew stronger than my doubts about the contents of the cup. I stole a quick look at Harry. He was still standing. I took a sip, and the comforting warmth flowed through every quarter of my body. The second was just as good. I had finished the cup by the time I remembered what everyone's mother tells them about taking food from strangers.

The old man looked pleased, and I could feel the warm tea untangling the knots of tense muscles.

“Thank you. That was wonderful, Mr. Qian.”

He bowed. Amazing how many thoughts a bow, properly done, can express. “It is only an inadequate effort at hospitality.”

I was coming to realize that I could sooner get this properly
schooled Chinese gentleman to accept hemlock than a compliment without deflecting it with humility.

It was time to get to business.

“Mr. Qian, I'm an attorney. I represent the man who's charged with killing Mr. Chen.”

He nodded. I felt a touch of sadness in his nod.

“I'm sorry for his death, Mr. Qian.”

He nodded again. “There is no doubt that we are diminished by the loss of his gentle presence. Others would have difficulty understanding …”

He seemed hesitant to go further, but I wanted to hear it.

“Would you finish your thought, Mr. Qian? I want to understand.”

He gathered his words for a moment. I think it was sensitivity to the feelings of this Occidental.

“We see old age not as a flaw but an accomplishment. We respect our elderly for suffering all that life can bring for their many years. They give us their patience and knowledge and even wisdom that are like our rock. Mr. Chen, with his patient love for our children of all ages—myself included—was our rock.”

I wanted to say something deep and understanding, but all I had was conflicting thoughts. I still represented the one whom he said killed his Mr. Chen. I simply said, “Yes,” in the kindest way I could, and moved on.

“Mr. Qian, I understand that you were a witness.”

He looked down, and a troubled look crossed those serene features.

“Am I right? Did you see the shooting?”

There seemed to be a sadness that settled in when he looked at me.

“An old man should be used to violence. It's a part of life. It should no longer be disturbing.”

“I've been sorry to find so much of it in the Chinese community in the last few days, Mr. Qian. I didn't realize it was here, too.”

“Oh, we have everything that every other culture has, Mr. Knight. Good and bad. In fact, we've had it longer. The form of medicine that
I practice goes back not centuries, as Mr. Wong said, but millennia. As does a highly developed spiritual philosophy and morality. Do you know, Mr. Knight, why the Chinese still use chopsticks instead of your knives and forks?”

“No.” But if the truth were told, I suppose, without giving it much thought, I considered it evidence of backwardness.

“Because from our earliest civilization, the Chinese have considered a meal to be more than nourishment for the body. It is a social experience that bonds the family together in spirit and affection. To use instruments of war and fighting like knives and forks would be disruptive to an atmosphere of harmony and peace.”

“That's very beautiful.” I started to add, “But …,” but the words mercifully stayed in.

“Go on, Mr. Knight. There was more.”

“Well, since you ask, I was just wondering how a community that brings such a beautiful philosophy into every meal can be as riddled with fear and intimidation from within as I've seen lately.”

“For every
yin
there must be a
yang
, Mr. Knight. It's the coexistence and attraction of opposites that holds the universe together.”

I nodded, “And since that violent element exists, I guess we have to deal with it. I understand that you identified my client, Anthony Bradley, as the man who shot Mr. Chen.”

“I did not know your client's name, but I made the identification.”

“And do you still stand by that identification?”

“I do.”

“Could I ask where you were standing when the shot was fired?”

“I was outside my shop on the sidewalk.”

“What view did you have of Anthony?”

“I saw him from the front when he came out of the Ming Tree restaurant next door. Then I saw him from the side while he was on the sidewalk.”

“Is that where you say the shot was fired?”

“Yes.”

“You say you saw him when he came out of the restaurant. In all the confusion of the New Year's celebration, how would you notice or remember him?”

“Because I had seen him a number of times before.”

I wasn't sure I could have heard him right. “You saw him before? Where?”

“At the Ming Tree restaurant.”

It was like seeing the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle pull apart.

“How many times?”

“Perhaps five or six over the last six months. He would come alone, but others would join him.”

“Could you tell me who?”

He thought about it. “Most frequently Mr. Liu. He is called Kip Liu. He is the manager of the restaurant. They would eat together. Sometimes others would join them. I don't know their names. They are from the community.”

I was really rocked by the way the conversation was going. One familiar note rang in my mind.

“This Kip Liu. Is he tall, expensively dressed, hair slicked back, speaks good English?” I could have added, “Looks like Dick Clark?” but I might have lost him on that one.

“That is Mr. Liu.”

I had hit a wall. I realized that I had done just what Mr. Devlin warned me about. I had taken as a given the truthfulness of the client. I could hear Anthony say at least three times that he'd never been to the Ming Tree before. With his story as base information, I thought I knew where I was headed. All of a sudden, the road signs were spinning. I wasn't sure where to go from there.

I thought of an old Lewis Carroll line from one of the
Alice
stories—“If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there.”

“Had you ever spoken to Anthony, Mr. Qian?”

“No. He was just a familiar face. You seem suddenly troubled, Mr. Knight. I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. Mr. Qian. I'm just running into a credibility problem. Between the two versions I've heard, I'm inclined to believe you're telling me the truth. Sometimes the truth takes us by surprise.”

I had run out of questions for the moment. We all exchanged amenities before he saw us to the door. He wouldn't accept payment for whatever it was he gave Harry, who, I had to admit, went up the stairs with a great deal more spring than he had shown all morning.

BY THE TIME WE REACHED
the street, I felt as if a wrecking ball had gone through my stomach. I had been dealing with the nagging question of why Terry and Anthony disagreed about whose idea it was to go to Chinatown. That was minor. Now I had to face the more devastating fact that good old straight-up Anthony had been jerking my chain about the fact that he was a regular at the Ming Tree restaurant, and more than that, a frequent diner with Dick Clark, whom I trusted as far as I could throw a refrigerator.

“It's been a beaut of a morning, Harry. All things considered. How're you feeling?”

We walked together down Tyler Street toward the parking lot. He thought for a second before answering.

“Better.” He even said it with a bit of a smile.

My thoughts were racing from random to what was taking shape as a pattern. In terms of a next move, conscience and logic were forcing me into a decision I did not want to make. There were a number of other bases I had to touch, but a nagging and unwelcome voice kept insisting that when I gathered all the pieces, there would be one large, central piece missing. Like it or not, the voice kept repeating that the key to the puzzle was Mei-Li.

We turned right onto Beach Street before I got up the courage to put it into words.

“I'm thinking out loud here, Harry. You're my sounding board.”

“Think on, brother.”

I pulled Harry into a decrepit doorway, out of the wind, and out of the sight of spying eyes, if any.

“No matter how I piece it together, I get one name. I'd give my Bruins play-off tickets for five minutes of conversation with that little waitress with the red shoes. I'd throw in your play-off tickets to find out what she meant by helping me. That's not going to happen. I'm sure she died trying to get me to help this Mei-Li. Help her what? What's her problem? I've got a voice inside that's screaming in high C that there's a serious connection to this murder. Is my little voice whacko or what?”

Harry pulled his coat tighter against the cold.

“My voice is saying the same thing in Chinese. Could we talk a little faster? It's freezing out here.”

“No. I'm at warp speed now. Anthony's obviously been lying to me. I could have it out with him, but I couldn't trust anything he said at this point anyway. One thing I can't finesse. He's no complete bystander in this business. If little Red Shoes could have helped him as promised, there must be a connection. If he's connected to her, he could be connected to Mei-Li. Does that make sense?”

Harry looked like he was getting the shivers. “Could we talk and walk at the same time?”

“In a second, Harry. Does that make sense?”

He nodded.

“There's no one here in Chinatown that won't freeze me out at the least—kill me at the most. I know this is off-the-chart nuts, but I keep coming back to Mei-Li.”

“I know, Michael.”

“I've got to find her.”

“I know. That's why we're going to Toronto.”

“I said ‘I,' not ‘we.' You're still on the DL.”

He grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled my ear close to his mouth. The physical effort made him wince.

“Listen, Michael. I'm going to say this once before my ears freeze off. She's in a brothel in a foreign country, probably surrounded by Chinese of the non-English-speaking variety. If there is one hint of what you're there for, they'll kill you faster than they could roll a wonton. You want to commit suicide, there are easier ways.”

I was silent for lack of an answer.

“With me you've got half a chance. Maybe half of a half of a chance. It beats no chance. When do we leave?”

I just shook my head.

“Michael, nothing personal but you're one
low faan
against a small Chinese army. Why not just mail your body to the morgue and eliminate the middle man? If you've got an alternative, I'm all ears, unless they've frozen off.”

“This is my job. It's not yours. And what's a
low faan?
”

“It's you, Michael. It's a non-Chinese. And this is my community. It's not yours.”

I felt guilt and gratitude in one rush. I knew he was in no condition to make the trip, but he was right. Without him, I didn't have a clue.

“How about day after tomorrow, Harry?”

IT WAS JUST AFTER NOON
when I got back to Franklin Street. My first port of call was Mr. Devlin's office. The Cerberus at the door no longer even looked up as I passed. She did flick the end of a pencil in the direction of the high chamber, just to show that I entered with her
permission and that she still had the power to bar the door. I blew her a kiss, which she accepted with all the effusion of a kindergarten teacher when little Winston brings her a dead mouse from recess.

I briefed Mr. Devlin on what I'd learned since our last meeting. He just listened through my account of the Harvard group, nodded in what I took for approval of my visit to our client, scowled at me for rerunning the gauntlet of the Chinese Mafia at the Beach Street brothel, and paced to the window when I told him that Mr. Qian, witness for the prosecution, had seen our client on multiple occasions dining with a Chinese gentleman of questionable honor at the Ming Tree—counter to our Mr. Bradley's consistent recitation of the facts.