Shanghai Redemption (24 page)

This was the bird corner, there was no mistaking it, but Old Hunter wasn't there yet. Chen lit a cigarette and continued watching. The old man grinned a toothless grin, his shriveled face like a worn-out walnut, nodding as a proud master of the bird.

Chen, seized by an inexplicable impulse, pulled out his notebook. This wasn't a morning for poetry, but the impulse could be gone in a minute. He wrote furiously.

The little sparrow hops in / and out the tiny door / of the dainty bamboo cage, / parading about in dust, / its wings rigorously disciplined, / capable nevermore of flying, / but only of flapping at the air. // A world of self-sufficient, self-containing, barred enclosure— / with rice, water, vegetables, / and light fresh air … enough / for its survival. What's the point / of its breaking out, alone, / into the unknown? // Cheerful, it peeks back / at its aged benevolent master / with his face shriveled / into a walnut of satisfied smile. / A flash of the sparrow's wing / in the light. History keeps / depositing into the forgotten corner / of the park. What is meaningful / means only here and now, / in the little bird's ecstatic jump / under his blurred gaze …

He wondered how this scene had galvanized him into these lines. Then came the realization. Possibly there was a subconscious parallel between himself and the tamed sparrow—with its clipped wings, hopping around in a pathetic illusion of the infinite azure sky. Had he been that kind of a cop for years?

At about a quarter past six, Old Hunter appeared, sauntering along a trail to the corner, a shiny birdcage in his hand.

“Look at my oriole,” Old Hunter said with a proud chuckle. “I took it to the Suzhou opera theaters before they disappeared, so it speaks with a mix of Suzhou and Shanghai accents.”

That morning, however, the oriole was stubbornly silent despite its master's repeated urging to speak.

“As the old saying goes, a man had better have one hobby or another. This is even more true for an ancient failure like me. When I lose myself in Suzhou opera, I forget about everything else. But it seems the opera is dying out. So a friend gave me this little bird. It's truly a cute, clever one.”

“The fresh morning air at the park is good for your health too.”

“You've been to my place. Now, with three generations squeezed altogether, what can I do in a small tofu-sized room? The bird corner in this park gives me an excuse to escape our place early in the morning.”

They sat down on a wooden bench under a weeping willow tree, at a distance from the other bird master.

“Tang told me something new,” Old Hunter said, coming straight to the point. He pulled out a piece of folded paper. “He overheard a phone call between the squad head Ji and an unknown man. The call came in to Ji's direct line, and Tang and Ji aren't in the same office. But you know those office cubicles—the partition walls are so thin that they're not even close to being soundproof. From fragments he overheard—and those fragments were largely out of context—it was difficult for Tang to grasp what the call was about. But the caller must have been somebody. Ji spoke respectfully, almost subserviently. And even though Tang only heard fragments of the call, he did catch a few interesting things. The phrase ‘the Heavenly World' was repeated several times. Tang also thought that they might have been talking about a possible leak in the bureau. At one point, Ji protested in a louder voice, ‘No, that's not possible. I didn't know anything until I stepped into the club.' It was quite a long phone call. I've written down those fragments Tang overheard so you could study them later. Nowadays, my memory sucks.”

“I'm surprised that Tang was so cooperative. It's just more proof of your persuasiveness.”

“If you listened to Suzhou opera as much as I do,” Old Hunter said with a mysterious smile, “you wouldn't have been surprised.”

“Well, I've just got a new Suzhou opera CD, but most of the time I've been listening to the cassette from Peiqin. Thank you, Old Hunter. The way you approached Jin at the café was a stroke of inspiration from the Suzhou opera master.”

“I'm planning to go back there again, but the agency has been busy lately.”

“There's no hurry. By the way, did you see any foreign customers when you were there?”

“Foreign customers? There was a Korean businessman, but he left shortly after I got there. I only heard him say a word or two. Why?”

“I'm just curious. Now, what's Jin like?”

“She's young. Voluptuous. Possibly in her midtwenties. Very fashionable too. She was playing with her cell phone a lot, and she was constantly sending text messages or checking e-mail. She has a genuine Shanghai accent, so she's not some provincial ernai.” Old Hunter then added, producing an envelope, “About Jin, I have something for you.”

“Something else?”

“At the agency, we have an errand boy. He's not that young, almost eighteen, but he can't find a full-time job. To run errands and other small tasks, Zhang Zhang pays him fifteen yuan an hour whenever he needs a little help. Yesterday happened to be a busy day, so I gave him some work to do. He proved to be quite capable and competent. For one thing, he got hold of a copy of the property certificate. The apartment Jin lives in is registered under the name of Qiang, who turned out to be Sima's son. Given the soaring prices for property, that's not too hard to understand. Within the subdivision, however, the apartment is registered under Jin's name, showing her as the owner, not a renter. Also, her car is registered with the government to Sima, but with the neighborhood committee, that car is also registered as hers.”

“Sima probably did it that way for the sake of convenience.”

“I don't know why he did it that way, but I know it makes for hard evidence of a relationship between the two. Also, the errand boy managed to get a snapshot of Sima and Jin standing by the window, his hand on her shoulder. It's from a fair distance so it's not very clear, but it's still useable. Our errand boy has promised that he will station himself there every evening, and the whole weekend too, until he gets some higher-quality pictures.”

“That is fantastic. I don't know how I can ever thank you enough.”

“No need to thank me. You can call me whenever you need me,” Old Hunter said. “For a man of my age, I really don't have anything to worry about. And I'm old enough to give you a piece of my mind, Chief Inspector. You believe that you can make a difference, but you should think about qingguan—those honest, incorruptible officials in Suzhou opera, like Judge Bao or Judge Dee. They were popular in the ancient dynasties, and they're still popular today. Why? Because, like you, they're rare, in a society without justice or law. Just last night, I watched a TV show about Judge Bao. Guess how Judge Bao solves a crucial case? The solution emerged when a fitful wind blew someone's hat away. It was just one small thing leading to another, leading eventually to the emperor's real mother, who was hiding in a hut. Ultimately, however, the resolution all depended upon the intervention of a still-conscientious, filial emperor. As for Judge Bao, even with incredible luck on his side, he got into much trouble. At one point, he was marched out to the execution grounds, only to be spared at the last minute because of the emperor's mother.”

“Yes, I've thought about the issue of qingguan. It's sort of an archetype in our collective consciousness. The continued popularity of the archetype speaks to the problems of the system. But I've never heard of the Judge Bao story you just described.”

“It's not a commonly told one. In fact, only in Suzhou opera is there such a detailed version of that story,” Old Hunter said, standing up abruptly, “But I've got to get to work. I think I'll leave the cage at the market for the day, even though Zhang Zhang wouldn't say anything if I brought it to the office.”

Chen rose, watching Old Hunter walk to the gate at Huangpi Road. Chen then turned and headed back to the gate at the People's Square, where he could get to the subway and from there to the railway station.

 

SIXTEEN

THE NEXT MORNING, CHEN
woke up in his hotel room in Suzhou with a dull headache, his neck stiff, and his back sore. He hardly had the strength to get out of bed. For several minutes, he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his mind blank, before he noticed that the laptop was still on with the Suzhou opera CD inside. He must have fallen asleep while listening to it.

The day before had been an exhausting one—after meeting with Old Hunter at the People's Park early in the morning, there was the hustle and bustle at the subway station, the long line waiting for a ticket at the railway station, then standing for the entire trip in the slow, inexpensive, and overpacked train back to Suzhou. He was pretty much worn out when he got back to the hotel. When he got there, he shut himself up in his room for hours, going over all the information he had. In spite of all his efforts, the multifarious pieces of information remained unconnected. It was exhausting, and, drained, he must have fallen asleep, having just put in the CD.

It was still quite early in the morning. So, ignoring his headache and pains, he decided to pick up where he'd left off last night. He decided to treat the nightclub raid as the central piece of the puzzle and try to fit the other pieces around it.

The Heavenly World was represented by the law firm founded by Kai, the wife of the First Party Secretary of Shanghai, which accounted for its being untouchable. So a raid against the club, even a secret one made against the ex–chief inspector, couldn't happen without Kai being notified.

Was Kai the one working against Chen behind the scenes?

But despite the failure of the raid, it didn't make sense for her to continue putting pressure on Shen. After all, Chen would never step back into that nightclub.

By why did Shen call Kai a bitch when he was talking to White Cloud?

And what about the sudden shift of topic—when Shen went from talking about Kai to bringing up the dead American? Was there some unseen connection? It wasn't simply that the American died in the nightclub or not. Kai didn't have any reason to be concerned about that.

The death of the American was also mentioned at the ernai café. Chen recalled hearing a fragmented sentence on the tape about “the death of a laowai”—a “foreigner.” Some of the ernai's men were high-ranking officials, and the ernai might have heard something from them.

He got up, made himself a cup of coffee, and started surfing the Internet again, this time focusing on Kai. But, after a half hour of searching, all he could find was a short bio of her.

Kai was born into the family of red generals. After graduating from Beijing University, she started her own law firm. Her marriage to Lai was believed to be a “red alliance.” As a capable attorney, she won a number of major cases, including high-profile international ones. Her practice expanded rapidly, establishing branch offices in several large cities. When Lai was appointed Shanghai Party Secretary, Kai was then referred to as the “First Attorney,” her firm ranking as the top in the city, and also as the “First Lady,” because of her marriage to Lai. But shortly after he became First Party Secretary, Lai made a surprising announcement: Kai had resigned from her firm to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest due to his official position. After that, she seemed to have faded from public view.

To the best of his knowledge, Chen hadn't been involved in any investigations related to her law firm.

Perhaps all of this was just a red herring. He couldn't afford to waste any more time looking in a direction that might have nothing to do with his crisis.

He broke out into a cold sweat, soaking his shirt. He felt weak. Staring at the cup of coffee he'd made, he decided against drinking it.

Perhaps a good Chinese breakfast could help. He had eaten so little the previous day.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, he was walking up the stairs to the second floor of Cai's Noodles.

The waitress recognized him, meeting him at the landing of the staircase. “Morning, sir. Are you alone today?”

“Yes, it's just me this morning.”

He'd eaten here with Qian just the other day. He didn't see her case as particularly urgent or relevant to his own troubles, though Old Hunter had already started working on it. She had, however, alerted him to the connections between the nightclub and Kai.

“You know how to appreciate noodles,” the waitress said. “Is there any particular table you'd like?”

“Could I have the same table by the window?”

Sitting by the window, he checked his cell phone and found that he'd missed a call from Old Hunter last night. Perhaps it was about some new pictures taken by the errand boy, which would be something he could show Qian. He wondered whether she'd been able to ferret out more about the nightclub or had learned anything else that she could share.

“Good choice. The section is quiet this morning.” The waitress came back with a menu. “Today's special is organic rice paddy eels. Mr. Cai has several acres of rice paddies where the eels are raised. We guarantee that the rice paddies are pesticide free, and the eels are raised without hormones or antibiotics.”

Chen was struck with a feeling of déjà vu. The waitress had recommended almost the same special the other day, but then she couldn't be expected to remember what each customer had ordered.

“Fine,” Chen said. “I'll take the rice paddy eels. I'll have them wok-fried with chopped green onion as a separate cross-bridge dish, as well an order of noodles with stewed pork, and a bowl of white soup.”

“May I recommend a seasonal topping of sliced pork, bamboo, and pickled cabbage? I think you'll find it has a surprisingly fresh and delicious taste.”

“Very well, I'll take your recommendation.”

“The chef will start deboning the eels, and once he's done, it'll take a short while to cook them in the traditional way. If you'd like, the noodles can be served first, while you wait. The noodles will be from the first pot of the day.”