restaurant in the city. The first floor housed a print shop, and through the plate glass to the right of the door Cape could see three men talking to a woman behind a counter-the woman pointing to samples of paper-tacked to the wall behind her. Just to the left of the front door was another door of plain wood, held open by an iron doorstop cast in the shape of a traditional Chinese dog. A stairway leading to the second floor started just past the threshold. Set into the wall alongside the door was a bronze plaque:
Chinatown Merchants Benevolent Association
Harold Yan, President
Cape took the stairs two at a time, pausing on the second floor landing to straighten his jacket. He wore a black sport coat over jeans and a white dress shirt but no tie. The pair of New Balance trail runners he’d worn earlier in the day had been traded for black dress shoes. He may not be ready to work at a bank, but at least he looked professional. A grown-up, if not an adult.
The woman in the reception area was young, Chinese, and very pretty. Cape put her at twenty-five, tops. She took his card with a pleasant smile and told him to take a seat, then picked up the handset on her phone and talked quietly to the person on the other end. Cape took one of four straight-backed chairs clustered around a square table littered with magazines and newspapers. In addition to the usual coffee-table clutter of the
The phone buzzed and the young woman said something into the receiver that sounded like
“Mister Yan will see you now,” she said. “The last office at the end of the hall.”
Cape thanked her and opened the door. The hallway was short, maybe twenty feet long, with two offices on each side and a door at the very end. He could hear voices coming from behind the doors on each side, but as he stepped onto the thick red carpeting of the hallway, his attention was on the photographs lining both walls.
The first showed Harold Yan shaking hands with the mayor in front of the elementary school located just around the corner. The second photo featured Yan with the president from the previous administration, standing with a group of ten men and women on the White House lawn. With the exception of the president, everyone in the photograph was Asian. The next two had Yan talking to the chief of police and the governor, respectively, both of whom appeared to be listening intently to something Yan was saying. By the time Cape reached the end of the hallway, he’d been given a walking tour of who’s who in politics.
The door opened before he could knock, Harold Yan smiling at him across the threshold. He was taller than Cape expected, with squared shoulders under a nicely tailored suit jacket. His handshake was firm, his smile relaxed. His eyes were large, the overhead fluorescents dancing around their edges as he turned and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Have a seat, detective,” said Yan. The office was fairly spartan. There was a beige love seat set against the left wall, above which a window looked out over Grant Street. Cape stood in front of a desk made of dark wood, its surface cluttered with papers, a phone, and a stack of file folders. In front of the desk sat two red chairs, their backs high, the seats themselves cushioned. On the right wall was a bookcase; Cape scanned the titles, noticing several books on politics and a few on religion and philosophy before he sat down and faced his host. Yan was already seated, his eyes friendly but inquisitive.
“Thanks for seeing me,” said Cape.
“Always glad to be of service,” replied Yan. “But before we begin, which precinct are you with? I didn’t recognize your name.”
Cape had expected this. “I’m not with the police,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. Sorry if that wasn’t clear when I called.” People naturally made assumptions when they heard “detective,” and Cape saw no advantage in clearing things up until he was through the front door. He took his license from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk.
Yan’s eyes flashed for an instant, but he didn’t miss a beat. “How interesting,” he said pleasantly. “And what are you investigating?”
“The refugee ship,” said Cape.
Yan leaned back in his chair, studying Cape for a minute before saying anything. “Could you be more specific?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Cape began, choosing his words carefully. “Someone who may have been onboard the ship.”
“And you think I might know them?” asked Yan, frowning.
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” replied Cape truthfully.
Yan raised his right eyebrow quizzically. “You have me at a disadvantage,” said Yan. “Do I know your client?”
Cape hesitated before responding. “That hadn’t occurred to me, either,” he said. “I’m here looking for advice, if you want to know the truth.”
Both eyebrows went up. “Advice?”
Cape leaned forward. “I’m looking for someone in a place that I can’t navigate on my own.”
“Chinatown,” said Yan knowingly.
Cape nodded.
“And you’re not Chinese.”
“You noticed.”
“A lucky guess,” replied Yan, smiling. The lines around his eyes revealed his age-Cape guessed Yan had ten years on him-but the rest of his face was smooth and unlined. His voice was resonant, with just the slightest edge to the consonants. He was better in person than in the newspaper, and he already came across pretty good in print.
“Are you from the Bay Area?” asked Yan, seeming genuinely curious.
Cape shook his head. “East Coast, originally, but it’s been almost twenty years since I moved out here.”
Yan nodded. “Practically a native, as far as San Francisco goes.”
“Long enough to call it home, anyway,” said Cape, shrugging. “You?”
“Ten,” replied Yan, a note of pride entering his voice. “I came over from Hong Kong, after fleeing mainland China with my brother.”
Cape had read the story about Yan in the local papers, how he spent his first few years in San Francisco working for less than minimum wage, taking classes at night to learn about his new home. Four years later, he passed the California State Bar and opened a small legal practice. The next year he ran for District Supervisor and got elected and had been in the office ever since. It was the great American success story, still pursued in earnest by almost every man, woman, and child living in Chinatown.
“You’ve done well,” said Cape, stating the obvious but sensing Yan wanted the acknowledgment.
Yan nodded. “I’ve been lucky,” he said. “But I’m the exception, not the rule.”
Cape stayed quiet, sensing a soapbox was being added to the conversation.
“Do you know how many people in Chinatown speak little or no English, Mister Weathers?” asked Yan.
Before Cape could answer, Yan added, “Fifty percent.” He leaned forward in his chair, putting both palms on the desk. “And do you know how many Chinese work for less than the minimum living wage in this city?”
Cape shook his head.
“Almost thirty percent,” said Yan, a look of disgust crossing his face. “Some have good jobs, and they’re treated fairly. But many others are taken advantage of; these are not illegals, you understand. They’re simply isolated because they don’t know the language. They are totally dependent on the community in which they live. A community that exploits them.”
“The Chinese community,” said Cape simply.
“Sad, isn’t it?” said Yan. “But it’s worse in China,” he added. “Much worse.”
“That’s why people try to leave,” said Cape, trying to steer the conversation off the campaign trail.
“Yes,” said Yan, nodding absently.
“That’s why a ship full of refugees ran aground on Alcatraz.”
