The Survivor (34 page)

‘Have some water,’ Striker said, and slid bottled water across the table.

Chinese Tony accepted it with trembling hands. He tried to uncap it, couldn’t, and Striker did it for him. He passed the water back and tried not to notice the bad smell in the room.

Chinese Tony had pissed himself.

Striker put down his water, fixed Tony with a hard look. ‘The van,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’

For a moment, Tony’s deep-set eyes took on a distant look, and he drank more and more water as if trying to delay the inevitable. After a few seconds, water spilled from the corner of his mouth onto the desk.

‘We just stole it, is all.’

‘Stole it?’

‘
Stole
it. We was out lookin’ for something – Ali K and me – and then we headed up through the back lane of Pender there.’

‘The south lane.’

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. ‘Yeah, I guess. We cut into one of them underground parkades, and then we heard this motor running. So we turned the corner and looked up, and there it was – this white van someone left running. One of the back doors was open. Like they was loading it or something.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, we just ran up to it and saw no one was there, so we slammed the back door and hopped in each side and drove it out of the underground.’ He stopped speaking, took in a long breath. ‘Underground was dark. Wasn’t till we got out on Georgia we realised there was those bodies in the back. And then – just like that – there was these cops behind us, and we just kinda panicked. We dumped the van and ran outta there, ran straight through the projects.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over. The story made sense – Chinese Tony was a prominent car thief, and vans were his MO – but the odds of finding that van were bullshit. Striker fixed him with his best cold look.

‘One more lie and you go right back to the tank.’

‘I told you—’

‘You didn’t just happen across that van and steal it, Tony, someone hired you to do it. Who?’

‘I told you—’

Striker stood up. ‘Let’s go. Back to Cell 9.’

‘They’ll kill me if I tell!’

Striker said nothing. He stood by the door and studied Chinese Tony. The man looked frail, terrified. He was shaking so hard, the chair rattled against the floor. Striker leaned forward, down to Chinese Tony’s eye-level. ‘No one will ever know but you and me.’

Tony looked down, his lips trembled.

‘I promise you that,’ Striker added.

Chinese Tony wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his prison gear, then let out something between a laugh and a cry.

‘Kim Pham,’ he finally got out.

The name was familiar to Striker, and then he recalled – Kim Pham, the manager of the restaurant that owned the van.

Striker watched Tony’s face for any change in expression as he asked, ‘Who the hell is Kim Pham?’

‘He’s their leader.’

‘Whose leader? Leader of what?’

‘The Shadow Dragons.’

Striker stopped. All at once, Patricia Kwan’s nonsensical words came back to him: ‘. . . the house was filled with dragons . . .’ He let it hang in the back of his mind.

‘This Kim Pham,’ he said. ‘Did he contact you directly?’

Tony shrugged. ‘Well, no, not directly. He usually does. But not this time.’

‘Then how? Who?’

‘Some woman. Never heard her voice before. Left a message on my cell that they needed me again. Said it was urgent. But I never saw her, never got no name or nothing. Just did what I was told. Like I always do.’

‘Why did she hire you?’

Tony shrugged again. ‘To get rid of the van, to dump it in the river.’

‘Did you know why?’

‘I never knew there was gonna be any bodies inside, that’s for sure. I thought it was for insurance stuff.’

Striker thought about it, went over the timing and connections. If Chinese Tony had done his job right, the bodies would have ended up in the bottom of the Fraser River. Same place as where they’d fished out Que Wong.

‘What else can you tell me?’ he said.

‘That’s all I know.’

‘Should we revisit Cell 9?’

‘That’s all I know, man! Honest. There’s nothing else, they don’t tell me nothing. All I ever get is cash up front from one of their drop-off guys and then I never hear from them till they need me again.’

Striker studied the man, saw his fear, believed him.

He escorted Chinese Tony to an empty cell in Cell Block 2, then went outside and retrieved his gun from the locker.

It was time to pay a visit to the Fortune Happy restaurant.

Sixty-Three

The Golden Dragon Lounge was packed with the noon rush, so Red Mask circled around the large tinted-glass windows to the back lane, where the busboys were throwing out the trash. One of them, a young boy named Gock, recognised him.

Red Mask stopped him with a soft word. ‘Boy. You know my face?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘This is good. I must speak with Sheung Fa. Ask him to hold tea with me.’

The boy nodded and ran inside. Five minutes later, he returned and motioned for Red Mask to follow. He led him through the kitchen area, down a long hallway, then up another series of stairs until they reached a large wooden door.

‘He waits for you inside.’

When the boy turned to leave, he fled more than walked. Red Mask watched him go until he had descended the stairs and was no longer in view. Then he turned and entered Sheung Fa’s office.

Inside, the air was overly warm. Sheung Fa sat behind a desk made from a whitish wood Red Mask had not seen in twenty years. Out of respect, he bowed – as low as his body would allow in his injured state – and he held it until Sheung Fa told him otherwise in his gentle but commanding tone.

‘Stand freely.’

Sheung Fa’s face had changed since he had last seen him. The differences were almost imperceptible, but there was enough to show that no man escaped time. Not even Sheung Fa. His dark eyes stuck out against the silver of his recently-cut hair, and his goatee and moustache were freshly trimmed to match. Everything about Sheung Fa’s appearance was proper, professional, and exemplified great care.

‘Come forward,’ he said.

Sheung Fa spoke in English, for their dialects were too far apart. He gestured for Red Mask to sit in the chair opposite him, and Red Mask did as ordered. Sheung Fa then picked up the teapot and poured black tea. He did so slowly, as if the pouring of the tea was more a ceremony than a simple task.

Red Mask watched the steam rise from white china mugs. He waited for Sheung Fa to pick up his own cup, then followed suit. The tea was hot and tasted wonderful, if a little bitter. It was the first thing to pass his lips in twenty-four hours.

‘Thank you,
Dai Lo
. For tea and time.’

Sheung Fa put down his cup. ‘You are man of middle age now, so far from the youth I remember of years gone by. How is your father?’

Red Mask looked down. ‘Father is good. But time thins him.’

‘Time, or the past?’

‘I think both.’ He looked up again. ‘You and I not speak for years,
Dai Lo
, but never do I forget all you do for me in past.’

Sheung Fa smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. ‘You were but a boy then, a child. You would not have made it.’ For a moment, Sheung Fa turned his head and looked at the triangular pennant hanging in the corner of the room, the bright fiery red standing out against the black wood walls. When he spoke again, his voice was reserved, but strong. ‘I do not think of the past much these days. There has been enough pain. It is not good to allow it back.’

Then Sheung Fa’s pale face darkened. ‘I know of what transpires, and I am sorry for your loss. But your actions have caused great concern.’

‘I act only necessary.’

‘Do you? Was killing Pham a necessity? This has caused us much trouble and much work. We have taken action and disposed of the body. But the other three you left behind have been found, and they will surely be a problem.’

Red Mask met Sheung Fa’s stare. Explained. ‘Pham tried to end my life. To put fault at my feet. The plan,
Dai Lo
, was not mine, but Pham’s.’

‘And the responsibility?’

Red Mask looked down. ‘This is mine alone.’

Sheung Fa finished his tea, breathed out slowly. ‘Your honesty is refreshing.’

‘When Pham and the doctor attack, I react.’

Sheung Fa leaned forward and steepled his fingers. He thought in silence for a long moment before speaking. ‘The concern comes not from this office. It comes from higher up. Overseas.’

Red Mask felt his mouth go dry. ‘
Shan Chu
?’

Sheung Fa nodded. ‘I will speak with him on your behalf. I will try to steer him towards right thoughts. But this is all I can promise.’

‘Thank you,
Dai Lo
.’

Sheung Fa stood. He was taller than Red Mask remembered, nearly six feet, and slender. He rounded the table. When Red Mask started to bow, Sheung Fa stopped him with a soft hand. He pulled Red Mask close and gave him a long hug. ‘It is good to see you again, little one. Now tell me: how many can identify you?’

Red Mask pulled away from the contact. ‘There are two.’

‘And that is all?’

‘Yes,
Dai Lo
.’

‘And one is left from your mission?’

‘Yes.’

Sheung Fa nodded. ‘It is as we thought. These three will be Shan Chu’s greatest concern.’ He handed Red Mask a thin manila envelope.

Red Mask opened it and pulled out five pages. Four were written information on Homicide Detective Jacob Striker; the last was a photocopied picture of the man.

‘Is this correct?’ Sheung Fa asked.

‘It is him.’

‘The better you know your enemy, the greater your chance of success.’

‘Success?’

‘It is a pivotal time, little one. Follow the path and there yet may be a meeting for you with Shan Chu.’

Red Mask smiled, for the message was clear.

There was still hope. A new life for him, in Macau.

All it would take to get there was three more kills.

Sixty-Four

The Man with the Bamboo Spine remained standing behind the closed door until Sheung Fa told him to enter the office. He opened the door and stepped inside. The air was warm and smelled of black tea. Behind the large teak desk, Sheung Fa sat with his hands folded on the blotter.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine approached the desk, stood there silently, waited. He felt the draught of the air conditioner on his back, heard the ruckus of the patrons in the lounge, and smelled the tea and the sage scent of burned incense.

And still, he waited.

It wasn’t until almost five minutes had passed – a total of ten since Red Mask had departed – that Sheung Fa finally spoke in his native tongue of Cantonese, a language the Man with the Bamboo Spine fully understood.

‘Be his shadow,’ Sheung Fa said.

‘Yes.’

‘Assist him.’

‘Assist?’

‘
Assist
. But be discreet.’

‘Until?’

‘Until instructed otherwise.’

The Man with the Bamboo Spine nodded, signalling his understanding of the instructions, as confusing and unexpected as they were. He left Sheung Fa’s office, closed the door behind him and lumbered through the smoky darkness of Golden Dragon Lounge into the grey light of the outside world.

Assist. It was exactly what he would do.

Until instructed otherwise.

Sixty-Five

Striker and Felicia reconnected back at 312 Headquarters, got into their cruiser, then drove down Gore Street in one car. They parked a block away from the Fortune Happy Restaurant, at the corner of Gore and Pender – the crime scene of the van and three bodies.

Ident had already been on scene and left. The yellow tape had been taken down. The van had been towed to the police garage with the bodies still inside. Soon they would be transported to the morgue for autopsy.

Now it was just an empty intersection.

Felicia ran the name Kim Pham in the computer. To Striker’s surprise, the guy was a no-hit, meaning he had no history, criminal or otherwise.

‘Play with the dates of birth,’ he told Felicia, and she did.

When something came back, she said, sounding displeased, ‘Just a driver’s licence. Maybe the name is an alias.’

Striker doubted that. Kim Pham owned a BC Drivers Licence, his name was listed as the primary operator on the insurance papers, and Chinese Tony had been terrified of the man because he was leader of the Shadow Dragons – a gang Striker had never heard of. He turned in his seat to look at Felicia.

‘You ever hear of the Shadow Dragons?’

‘They a Chinese version of the Jonas Brothers?’

Striker smiled. ‘Not quite.’ He filled her in on his dealings with Chinese Tony and told her what he’d learned about the existence of a Shadow Dragons gang as they headed for the Fortune Happy restaurant.

Once on scene, it didn’t take long for them to get the run-around. A Chinese lady in a black silky dress with red Chinese characters sewn into it, who looked part dragon herself, used her small, lithe body to block Striker’s way. The boldness of her stance gave him little doubt she held power of some kind among her peers.

Striker flashed the badge. ‘Where is Kim Pham?’

‘Kim Pham out. He away. Long time.’

‘Where?’

‘He go to Hong Kong. Father very sick. Very ill. Might die.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Not know. He not work for very long time. On holiday. Holiday very much.’

Striker was getting tired of the run-around. ‘Then who are you? What do you do here exactly?’

‘I hostess. I restaurant hostess.’

‘But
who
are you?’

‘I hostess. I fill in.’

Striker had had enough of the charade. ‘I want ID,’ he told her.

She gave him a stubborn look, then returned to the hostess podium and came back with her wallet. She handed him several documents, including her immigration papers.

Striker sorted through it all. ‘Annie Ting,’ he said.

‘I return to work,’ she said.