'Do you make a profit on ticket sales?'
'Of course not, no genuinely artistic endeavor makes a profit on its work.'
'So how do you make up the difference?'
'You're suggesting I barter jobs for donations?'
'I'm asking if an influential contributor asked you to take a look at Sampson.'
'People are often brought to our attention. Doesn't mean we hire them.'
'Who brought Sampson to your attention?'
Christopholous looked ragged, as if his genial composure was starting to fray.
'I didn't say anyone brought him to our attention.'
I waited.
'I do think, and I can't remember every personnel decision we make here, but I do think it might have been Rikki Wu who sent Craig's head shot and resume along.'
'I think it was too,' I said.
'It might have been useful had you mentioned their connection earlier.'
'Rikki is a friend,' Christopholous said.
'And a generous patron. I saw no reason to involve her in a criminal investigation.'
'Did you know they had a relationship?' I said.
'A relationship? You mean an intimate relationship? You do, don't you? That's ridiculous.'
'Yeah, it is,' I said.
'But it probably got Craig Sampson killed.'
CHAPTER 36
'We are going to a gong sifong,' Mei Ling said.
It was early evening. We were in Hawk's Jaguar, in Boston, parked on Harrison Ave down back of the Tufts Medical Center, mid Chinatown, outside of a large red brick city housing project.
'Chinese lady has a rent-controlled apartment, and she has turned it into a place for bachelors. It is, of course, illegal,' Mei Ling said.
'I'm shocked,' I said.
'My cousin lives here with nine other men. Everyone else here is a waiter, they have gone to work. I have promised him you will not tell anyone.'
'Promise,' I said.
'Any good takeout around here, Mei Ling?' Vinnie said.
'I don't know,' she said.
'I have never come here to eat.'
'Place on the corner looks all right,' Vinnie said.
'Chicken with cashews?'
Hawk nodded. He looked at Mei Ling. She smiled.
'We be here, Missy,' he said.
Mei Ling nodded and got out with me. Vinnie got out too, and we headed toward the Bo Shin restaurant on the corner of Kneeland. We went into the apartment building. The gong sifong was on the third floor. There was no elevator.
'Many Chinese men who come here cannot afford to bring their wives,' Mei Ling said, as we walked up the stairs, 'especially the illegal ones.'
'Your cousin illegal?'
'Yes, sir. They come here, live as cheaply as they can, pay off the smugglers, send money home, and save up to open a business and bring their family.'
The building had all the usual public housing charm. No expense had been spared on cinder block and linoleum and wire mesh over the ceiling fixtures. We knocked on a blank door with no number, and a slight Chinese man in a white shirt and black pants opened the door and smiled at us and bowed. Mei Ling spoke to him in Chinese.
'My cousin's name is Liang,' Mei Ling said to me.
Liang bowed again and put his hand out.
'How do you do?' he said.
I shook his hand. He backed away from the door and gestured us in. For a minute I was disoriented. The entry door led almost at once to a blank plywood wall. A hallway ran right and left, parallel to the outside corridor, punctuated with plywood doors, padlocked shut. The only light came from the bare bulb in a wall sconce at the far end. Liang led us along the plywood hallway to the last door and into his room. It was so narrow I could have touched both walls with my fingertips. It was maybe seven feet long and was filled almost entirely with a pair of bunk beds, one above the other. There were two suitcases under the bed, and several shirts and pants on hangers
