Stealing the Dragon

“Did you lose money, Freddie?”

“Me, I have plenty insurance.” Freddie smiled broadly, his teeth yellowed from smoke.

“So you’re saying the refugees’ families paid for their transport, or they did themselves-and that money’s gone,” said Cape, wanting to spell it out. “But someone like you keeps your share no matter what.”

“What you mean, like me?” asked Freddie defensively.

“The snakehead,” replied Cape, trying out the word and watching Freddie for a reaction.

Freddie shook his head, a series of popping sounds like hiccups coming from his throat. Cape realized he was chuckling.

“You get lesson in smuggling?” asked Freddie.

Cape shrugged.

“Too bad you not get lesson in thinking,” said Freddie caustically. “No snakehead here, gwai loh.”

It was what Cape expected him to say. Freddie may have to talk to him, but he didn’t expect to get a full confession. “My mistake,” he said amiably. “So what were you saying about the cargo?”

“Had to go somewhere,” replied Freddie. “Maybe people on boat headed to same place as cargo.”

Cape nodded but remained silent. This was probably as far as Freddie was prepared to go, at least on the record.

“We done here?” asked Freddie pointedly, confirming the suspicion.

“Sure,” said Cape. “If you say so, Freddie.” He stood but didn’t move away from the desk.

“You used to live south of Market Street,” said Freddie. A statement, not a question, maybe reminding Cape he knew where to find him.

“Yeah.”

“Lots of warehouse space there,” said Freddie idly.

“Some,” said Cape, noticing how Freddie had leaned back into the light so he could read his expression. “Some have been turned into lofts, though. You know, residential space.”

“People living in warehouses,” mused Freddie.

Cape met his gaze and nodded. “Imagine that.”

Freddie chuckled softly, then faded back into the shadows.

Cape turned to leave, suddenly realizing the bodyguard that had been standing behind him was no longer there. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard Freddie cough behind him.

“Last time you here,” Freddie called out, “you came with friend.”

Cape turned at the door. They both knew whom Freddie was talking about. Cape had only seen Freddie before with Sally at his side for protection. Even Freddie wouldn’t mess with a girl raised by the Triads.

“Lots of people killed on that boat,” added Freddie, his voice charged with an undercurrent of satisfaction.

“You have a point, Freddie?”

“You alone now, gwai loh,” said Freddie, chuckling. “Better watch step.”

“You making a threat, Freddie?” asked Cape evenly. “You did your favor for Yan, and now that we’ve had our little chat, I’m fair game-is that it?”

Freddie stayed in the shadows, saying nothing, his claw of a hand reaching for the ashtray.

“Or are you just worried about me?” added Cape.

“I look worried?” asked Freddie, the red tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

“No, Freddie,” replied Cape. “You look fuckin’ great.” He turned the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked, but it swung open with a rush of cool air. The smoke from the office billowed into the short hallway, making him realize how claustrophobic he was feeling. Cape descended the steps two at a time, thankful for the cool of the night fog as he left the restaurant behind him.

His car was where he’d left it, without a ticket on the windshield. A minor victory in the scheme of things, but at this point Cape wasn’t taking anything for granted. The neon from the restaurant reflected off the side panels of the old convertible, colors twisting in a lurid dance along the contours of the car. It looked like it was riding low. As he crossed the street, Cape noticed something behind the left rear wheel. Squatting down, he picked the object up and studied it in the murky light.

It was roughly the size and shape of a Walkman, except without the outer casing. Wires ran from a red interior to a blank LCD screen and AA battery. Squinting, Cape saw that the red area looked soft and malleable, like Play-Doh, and behind the battery was a thin wire that looked like it could be an antenna. Next to the battery was a small switch, which Cape decided not to throw, but he did move the box closer to his car to test a hypothesis. Feeling the pull of the magnetic base, he had absolutely no doubt about what he was holding.

It was a bomb.

Cape glanced back at the restaurant, but the front door was closed, the lights on the first floor turned out. The rest of the street was just as quiet, save for the occasional car cutting across a block away. Taking one more look behind him, Cape slid his key into the trunk, popped the lid, and saw right away why the car was sitting low.

The bodyguard with the oven mitt hands stared at Cape with a surprised look on his face. It was an expression that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon, since his eyes were dead and unblinking. The face locked in a rictus of shock. The angle of the head reminded Cape of a marionette. He wasn’t a pathologist but was pretty sure the guy had died from a broken neck.

Cape blew out his cheeks and stood for almost a full minute staring at the corpse in his trunk. One half of his brain told him to call the cops while the other half made a compelling argument for kicking in the door to the restaurant and demanding answers from Freddie.

Instead he shook his head, trying for a moment to embrace the madness that had taken over his world. Cape tossed the bomb onto the body and closed the trunk, then walked around and got behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb he glanced in the rear view mirror, but the fog had grown so thick it was impossible to see more than a block away. He pulled his collar up and muttered to himself as he drove deeper into the fog, Freddie’s rasping taunt chasing him down the street.

“You alone now, gwai loh.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Hong Kong, 11 years ago

“He is yakuza.”

Sally’s eyes never left the photograph. When she finally blinked, the picture distorted, and Sally realized she must have tears in her eyes. Yakuza. The word seemed to reach Sally from very far away, as if she were swimming under water and Xan was calling to her from the shore. Only when Xan repeated himself a third time did Sally tear her eyes away long enough to return his stare, giving him a look of pure defiance.

“He’s in the Japanese mob,” said Sally. “So?”

“So,” replied Xan patiently, “that is something you should know. This folder was not given to you lightly, little dragon.”

Sally gritted her teeth and nodded, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. She’d waited ten years for this opportunity; she could wait another ten minutes.

“I understand,” she said. “Please continue, Master Xan.”

“He is not very important,” replied Xan, “but his uncle is-that’s why we know who he is-and also why he didn’t go to jail after his truck collided with your parents’ car.”

The room started to spin and Sally closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her breathing, ten years of training and discipline struggling against a lifetime of pain and longing.

“We have an understanding with the yakuza,” explained Xan. “Sometimes we do business together, and other times we compete for the same business.”