The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory (14 page)

This letter has something to do with flying over the pole. That’s the route JAL takes to Tokyo. And it’s not that “looked at clouds from both sides now” crap—I always wanted that honey to lighten up—it’s the sense of majesty down there. The endless miles of ribbed ice on the Mackenzie River, the daunting mountains leading into Alaska, range upon range upon range, and then the sea—a dream of chilling no-moreness. But peace too. Solemn and simple, a rest from the burdens. I thought of Mom. Her quiet sadness as she padded round and round the house in those final years. A woman pulled inside with her own quiet. The thing that lived inside her eating her living flesh to keep itself alive. And coffee on the table late at night with her in that tattered bathrobe she claimed belonged to Dad but both you and I know didn’t. And the smell of bourbon in her coffee. And the smell of the drugs on her breath. And the retreat in her eyes. She’d never flown over the pole. She’d never gone anywhere.

But I’m here in Shanghai, in an American-style hotel with a bunch of other white folks and some rich Asians. I remember seeing Karasawa’s film
Ran
, did I see that with you? It’s his version of one of the Shakespeare plays,
Lear
I think. At any rate, I was in New York—having some girlish fun—and it was a cold rainy Wednesday afternoon so I checked into this movie theatre on 61st to see
Ran
. I remember now I wasn’t with you. Yes, I surely do remember that I wasn’t with you. No, I’m not going to tell you who I was with. At any rate the movie starts and being a Karasawa film it’s set in medieval Japan in the period of warring states. Well the thing is almost four hours long but for the first hour and a half each of the actors didn’t change kimonos, or if they did they kept to the same colour of kimono, so us westerners naturally were following the characters by the colour of their clothes. But then about an hour and a half in, they leave the country and enter the city, and all of the characters change clothes (and colour). Well, there is a moment of consternation in the audience and then some guy calls out in a loud New York voice: “Ah, come on, give us a break.” The place broke up. Everyone began to guess who was who. “No, that’s the guy who used to be in the red with the feather on the front.” “No it’s not, it’s the one who was in blue with the flags on his back.” It was a hoot.

Well, I thought that then. I don’t now.

I met with Inspector Zhong today, a small elegant man with tapered fingers. He’s going to fill me in more tomorrow on Richard’s death. I know that you thought things were not good between Richard and me. Well, you thought right, they weren’t. There was always something missing.

Walking back to the hotel today I passed by a small antique shop on Chong Shu. In the darkened window I could make out the shapes of elegantly curving teapots. All shapes and sizes. In the back there was a velvet case with ten small teapots in declining size from a grapefruit down to a Ping-Pong ball. Each was a perfect thing and complete in and of itself. But together they were a complete “other” thing. Different from the sum of their parts. They were a completed dream, a realized idea, a whole. When I got married I received some very beautiful gifts. Often a lot of thought and care went into picking them. But I kept hoping as I opened the gifts for something. . . something. Richard got angry with me. “What the hell are you looking for? What do you want?” I couldn’t explain then. But after looking at that set of ten teapots I now know. I wanted something complete. A whole idea. It’s what I think I wanted from Richard but could never have.

I’ll buy the teapots tomorrow for Beth. I’ll give them to her on her wedding day.

From Shanghai, with thoughts of you and yours,

Your sister,
Amanda

The coroner didn’t look good. In fact he looked sallow and sickened, thought Fong. As gently as he could Fong said, “You asked to see me?”

“Yes, thank you for coming over at such an early hour.”

The old man’s politeness shocked Fong more than his pallor.

“Are you okay?”

To this the coroner half sighed, half laughed. “I am in my seventy-third year, how okay could I be?” Then he laughed, spat in the sink, and swore mightily. That made Fong feel better. Crossing to the freezer, the coroner slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and pulled out a dark green plastic bag. Then, bringing the bag over to one of the dissection tables, he let it tumble out.

It was the half of the heart remaining from Ngalto Chomi.

“The African’s heart?”

“Yes, and an interesting piece of work it is.”

“The heart?”

The coroner looked at him like he was crazy, “A heart’s a heart. It’s not like a dick or tits. Yes, there’s a standard variation in internal organs but this is well within the standard.”

“So what’s interesting about it?”

“This.” The coroner pointed to the cutline the knife had made. It was jagged. More ripped than cut. Fong said as much and the coroner nodded his agreement.

“This is the work of a specialized professional. One whose purpose is to terrorize. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Such a person would be highly skilled, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Expensive?”

“I’d assume so.”

“Professional, highly skilled, expensive and yet he almost botched this one.” He took the heart and showed Fong an incision off the cutline of almost an inch and a half.

“The knife slipped?” asked Fong, his interest definitely on the rise.

“If it did, it happened more than once.” The coroner pulled back a second flap where the knife had veered sharply off course. “Also, this body, although carved up in the same places as Richard Fallon’s, was not done with the same accuracy. There seemed to be a hesitation here. I’m guessing, but I think our man is losing his touch.”

“Professional, highly skilled, expensive but at the end of his career. A hunter whose prowess has crested.”

“A lion with a limp,” added the coroner as his ancient hands slid the half heart back into its bag.

Watching the coroner’s slow movements toward the freezer, Fong added, “They get dangerous near the end.”

“Like me,” said the old coroner. “Like me.”

Lily had something for him. The shard in Richard Fallon was in fact a tiny piece of ivory, probably from a carving factory. Fong took a note of that and asked Lily to get in touch with Interpol to check with corresponding MOs. “I’ve been on my knees to those fuckers in Hong Kong for three days getting the shard crap, do I have to do it again?”

“You’re so good at it, Lily.”

She playfully punched him on the shoulder. It hurt more than he thought it would. Then assuming she had not paid him back enough she added, “How’s the report for his Hu-ness coming along?”

He made a face at her. She made one right back then said, “Maybe it’s easier being on my knees in front of the Hong Kong guys than you being on your knees in front of the Hu-man. At least with me it’s not a sin against nature.”

In English Fong added, “You’re something, Lily.”

To which she replied, “You bet your picker I am.”

Fong was going to correct her but thought it unwise to teach Lily any more English names for male genitalia. So he merely said, “I try not to bet my picker, unless I’m sure of the horse.”

Lily was still trying to work out the idiom as he left.

• • •

Passing by Shrug and Knock Fong couldn’t resist yelling at him. So he did. Shrug and Knock shrugged it off and smiled. “How’s that report coming along?”

In his office Fong found a message to call Li Xiao, the detective working on the martial arts angle. Fong called the number, which was in Kwongjo, Canton. When his call was forwarded to a beeper, he left a message that he had returned the call. Then he checked to make sure that his door was locked and sat down to his typewriter.

The report to his Hu-ness took a solid hour to write and was clear but vacant. It did not muddy waters but it made absolutely no effort to clean them. There was no speculation of any sort in it and certainly no flow chart leading from the Dim Sum Killer to anyone else. When the report was almost finished, his private line rang. He thought it would be Wang Jun so he picked up. “Talk.”

But it wasn’t the older detective, it was Li Xiao returning his call.

“Sir?”

“Who is. . . Li Xiao, I’m sorry. How’s Kwongjo?”

“Like the Wild West in American movies. This place is too close to Hong Kong.”

“They really eat lamb’s balls down there?”

“Lamb’s balls, bull’s balls, fuck, they’d eat rat’s balls if they were big enough to pick up with chopsticks.”

The two men laughed together. Li Xiao was one of the few men on the force, outside of Wang Jun, whom Fong admired. He felt that Li Xiao really had talent and was an incorruptible cop in a force that fought a daily battle against internal corruption. He was the best detective, bar none, who worked under Fong. He also liked the young man. He liked his tough, wide body and his pimpled face. He liked the honest ugliness of him. If there hadn’t been such an age difference he would have tried to pursue a friendship with this young man. But age is real.

“You’ve found something?”

“Maybe, sir. Kwongjo is the centre of so much of this martial arts stuff. We’ve spread the net pretty wide and have been concentrating on the weapon.”

“And?”

“I’ve got a rumour, is all.” He then told Fong what he’d found. He ended with, “If you want me to pursue this I’d have to get to Taiwan. That’s where the trail leads.”

Few things sickened a Chinese man in authority more than having to ask a favour of the Taiwanese. Fong literally felt dizzy with the prospect of having to go through those channels. “You think that’s necessary.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I know what a pain this must be, but the trail goes there. There’s nothing more on the mainland that I can find. If you want to let it go, then fine, but I can’t do more here. I’m sorry.”

“Come on back to Shanghai, I’ll authorize the airfare, but not a word about this to anyone, okay?”

“Sure. Am I going to Taiwan?”

“I don’t know. Just get back here now.” Fong spent ten more minutes polishing up the report, trying to make it thick with useless details. Finally satisfied, he pulled it from his typewriter and headed toward the door. He dropped it on Shrug and Knock’s desk. “Give this to your uncle, huh?”

Fong was around the corner before there was a smartass reply, a shrug, or a knock.

Wang Jun was waiting for him downstairs. He glanced at the sun and said, “Let’s walk.”

Fong replied, “You have a copy of the driver’s statement?”

• • •

Wang Jun patted his side pocket.

“Good. We have a guest this morning.”

“Really? Who?” Wang Jun said with a slow smile.

It was not possible that Wang Jun knew about Amanda Pitman coming with them this morning. Yet the older man’s smile was troublingly knowledgeable.

“A lady perhaps. A blond American perhaps?” suggested Wang Jun. He licked his thick lips.

“How the hell. . .”

Doing his best hard-boiled American TV detective Wang Jun snapped, “I’m a copper, ma’am, remember that.” Clearly unwilling to reveal his sources to Fong, he went on, “We could do a show for the Americans. Shanghai PD. They’d love it. I could play the lead and you could play my short lovable but stupid assistant whom I constantly pull out of problems as I hop in and out of lovely ladies’ beds. What do you think?”

“I think two things.”

“And those would be?”

“I think you have an active fantasy life and I think you should stay out of my business. All right, Wang Jun?” The latter was said with enough conviction to stop the older man’s smile.

Wang Jun had touched a sore point with Fong and he knew it. He also knew other things about his young friend from his interrogation of Geoffrey Hyland the night before—some of them quite troubling.

“So where to first, the bird and fish market?” asked Wang Jun.

“Yes, that’s where the driver first brought the Zairian consul,” replied Fong.

“We’re just going to walk the route?”

“No, I’m going to walk the route, you’re going to track me. The killer must have watched Mr. Chomi the whole time. I want you to play the killer. As I go, figure out where he must have watched from. Then we’ll see if anyone remembers seeing someone standing and watching.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“Have you got any other suggestion?”

“Hell no, it’s a great day for the Bird and Fish.”

Amanda knew it was stupid but she didn’t know what to wear. It was hot and bone dry out there but she was pretty sure that shorts were inappropriate. She had good walking shoes and as she put them on she was surprised at herself for being pleased that they were low-heeled. So she wouldn’t appear too much taller than him? No it couldn’t be that, just a practical shoe is all.

She finally chose a simple skirt and blouse and a linen jacket and headed down to the lobby. Over the city map, the concierge insisted that the route was easy. He traced it for her several times with his thumb and finally drew a line on her map with a pencil. Unfortunately the map didn’t have the exact street that Inspector Zhong had mentioned but the concierge assured her, “It is right here.” Of course he was pointing to a place on the map with no streets whatsoever.

“It’s not far, maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

“It looks longer than that,” Amanda said.

With a ha-you-westerners look he suggested, “Maybe a taxicab?”

That did it. She folded her map and strode out into the hot April morning.

Dust was blowing as she made her way toward the centre of the city along Yan’an. Everywhere there were things that caught her eye. Phrases popped into her head unannounced but pleasing in both their incisiveness and sound.

Because of her height she had a better view of the city around her than she did in the West. She did not tower over people but she was definitely tall. And blond. And the object of many stares and the odd comment. Surprisingly she didn’t mind, although she was pleased that she had brought her sunglasses and her linen jacket, which she buttoned across her blouse. They could look but they’d have to imagine for themselves.

After passing by the Russian-built exhibition centre with its Red Star atop a fine spire, she came across a man in green pants who was descending into an open manhole. Three other men, all of whom also wore green pants, watched. As the first man’s head disappeared beneath the pavement, Amanda wondered if he would ever return. But before she could contemplate this more thoroughly she glanced down at her watch. Twenty minutes had already gone by and she was nowhere near where she believed the bird and fish market to be.

She picked up her pace. After another fifteen minutes of walking it was pretty close to her appointed hour to meet Inspector Fong, and Cheng Dou Road was still nowhere in sight.

So, taking her courage in hand, she stepped to the side of the road and held up her hand. Several taxis sped past her. The light on the top of the cabs was on so she assumed that they were available. As they whizzed by, though, she saw people inside and realized that the light on the top didn’t mean shit in Shanghai. Finally a cab stopped and she was faced with the question of where to sit. She chose the back and climbed in. Inside she found the driver almost entirely encased in a thick fibreglasslike material that separated him from the front passenger seat as well as the back.

He barked something which she took to mean “Where to, ma’am?” She said the name that Inspector Zhong had given her. He turned around and gave her a funny look. She said the name again, slower this time. He sucked on his teeth and looked at her out of the side of his eyes. She tried a third time with a totally different intonation, in fact, what she thought of as Jerry Lewis Chinese and, to her surprise, the cabby’s face lit up. He put his hands into his armpits and flapped his arms. He looked like a pimply bird. She smiled and nodded, hoping that they weren’t heading toward the zoo.

The car sped into traffic, made the first left and then screeched to a stop. He pointed across a small construction site, in which a woman was washing clothes in a mud pool. Once again he did his bird imitation. Then he pointed at the meter. It had said 14.40 when she got in and it said 14.40 now. She gave him fifteen yuan and was about to get out of the cab when he hollered at her. She stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t given him enough tip and he was mad! But no, he was holding out some of the filthiest money she’d ever seen—her change. The little ratty pieces of paper, two two-Jiao notes and two one-Jiao notes gave her a real understanding of the phrase “dirty money.” She took the bills and smiled. He pointed, bird flapped again, and drove off. Her cab ride had taken less than twenty seconds.

She looked across the construction site. Like most of Shanghai, this area of town was awash in buildings coming down and new structures rising. To her right an apartment building had been half demolished, exposing once lived-in rooms to the elements. Former life got little respect in Shanghai. On one of the green-painted walls she could make out the silhouette where a picture had hung. On another the mildewed wallpaper peeled forward like a flap of decayed skin.

She heard a tinkling bell close behind her and turned. A man sat on an ancient bicycle with two large round iron buckets attached to the back. Inside was a putrid compost of food waste. His bell may have rung gaily but he was not pleased with the big white lady standing in his way. She stepped aside, barely avoiding an old man whose walking stick landed on her foot as he moved past her. The mass of humanity heading toward the bird and fish market was all being funnelled into one small path in an effort to avoid the water from the construction site.

As she waited her turn to cross the thin dry isthmus of bricks, she looked more closely at the construction site and marvelled at what she saw. Again huge scaffolds of bamboo lashed together with vines and then diagonally supported with further bamboo. And everywhere there were human beings carrying large loads on their shoulders, on their backs, and at their sides. Bricks, mortar, beams, wooden supports, buckets of nails, garbage, all the stuff of building pulled and toted by human beings. The worst was the mud. The ground in Shanghai seemed to be permanently saturated with water so that digging a simple hole was a monumental task. The men’s thin arms were stretched to breaking as they lifted their bamboo-handled shovels with the heavy muck.