“Us, anyone? Or us, us?”
“I got the feeling you, you. But remember, she doesn’t know what you already know.”
“When you put it that way, I don’t either. Did she say what was wrong?”
“No. She just said it was bad trouble and there’s no one else she could call.”
“I hate it when people say that. Does it mean their first thought was to send up the Bat Signal and hope you’d come? Or does it mean, if there
“Hmmm. Breakfast with a hard case makes you paranoid, does it?”
“I have breakfast at home every day. You only say that because you’ve never met my mother.”
“No,” he grinned, “but I’d like to.”
Luckily, at that moment Bill came loping down the block, saving me from having to answer Jack and, I hoped, from Jack noticing the sudden heat in my face.
* * *
Anna Yang’s apartment was the downstairs of a two-family house in a blue-collar Flushing neighborhood, not far from the East Village communal studio. By the time we got there I’d filled Bill in on Woo, Tiger Holdings, and Vassily Imports.
“And you scoffed at my accent,” he said.
“I still do.”
“Me, too,” said Jack.
“Jack thinks we should find some way to make something off this,” I told Bill.
“Scamming the Chinese mob?” Bill asked. “Well, if you think of a way, I’m in.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not. You think I’m crazy?”
“I don’t know, you guys,” said Jack. “I think we’re missing a bet here.”
“Give me a break,” I said. “You’re the one who was complaining all day yesterday about how serene your life was until you met us.”
“Met you. I already knew him.”
“Well, if you think this stream’s that much rougher than your peaceful pond was, you are totally not ready for the Chinese mob white water.”
For a moment, silence in the car. Then both Jack and Bill cracked up.
“Hey,” I said huffily. “I’m trying. This nature metaphor stuff, it’s not so easy.”
* * *
Bill found a parking spot on Anna’s block, a well-kept street of narrow houses and tiny yards. We rang the bell and, as she had at her father’s office, Anna Yang opened the door to us. This time she didn’t light up at the sight of Jack, though. She didn’t react at all. She just stayed standing in the doorway. Her eyes were dry, but puffy lids and a red-tipped nose made it clear she’d been crying. Guys sometimes miss that, or pretend they have, but, after a soft, “Hi, Anna,” Jack reached out and hugged her. I think I’d have found that comforting, myself, but Anna started to cry again.
“Come on,” Jack said, moving into the apartment with his arm around her. “Let’s go sit down.” Bill and I followed them through a small entryway into a spare, bright living room: pale wood floor, ivory sofa and chairs, a scroll painting of wild geese in flight on one wall and a hazy, peaceful watercolor of a wooded lakeshore on another. That one had a familiar feel and I wondered if it was Francie See’s, from before she tightened her focus. The coffee table was crowded with photos of Mike Liu: with Anna, with friends, alone. In most, he was smiling.
Anna wiped her eyes, smoothed her skirt under her, and sat on the sofa. Jack sat protectively close beside her. That left me with a choice of armchairs, so I organized myself in one. Bill, as usual, didn’t sit, but wandered a distance away, as though he wanted to examine the paintings.
“Okay,” Jack said to Anna. “Tell us. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”
I was a little alarmed to hear him say that so categorically. This was a woman whose husband was in prison in China. It was possible her problems were beyond the three of us.
Or, the four of us. From the hall an older Chinese woman appeared, thin and, while not quite as tall as Anna, not a tiny Cantonese like me. Jack stood immediately, so I did the same. “Mrs. Yang,” he said.
“Hello, Jack.” Her voice was deep, steady, and heavily Mandarin-accented. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a bun. Standing stick-straight, she carried a tray with a white pot and five no-handle teacups, so she couldn’t bow, but she inclined her head to Jack. He, apparently without thinking, bowed to her. This was a well-trained Midwesterner.
“This is Lydia Chin, and Bill Smith,” Jack said. “Yang Yu-feng. Anna’s mother.”
Yang Yu-feng deposited her tray on the coffee table. She shook our hands and now she bowed. She gestured us to sit again, which she also did, back straight, and she poured the tea. Jack picked up a cup, holding it one hand bottom, one hand side as good manners demanded. Whatever he said, I’d bet he’d have passed the lidded-cup test on his first go. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Yang. Anna didn’t say you’d be here. It’s an unexpected pleasure.”
Well, well. Straight-up suburban Jack, suddenly going all Chinese on us. He was smiling at Yang Yu-feng but the message was for Anna: If her mother’s presence wasn’t part of the plan and she didn’t want to discuss her troubles with her there, she should send up a flare. We’d make small talk and get back with her later.
“Jack.” Anna’s mother spoke with a calm that could equally have been born of confidence or despair. “Anna has
