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?’
