“When you saw her, before they sent her away, did you speak to her?”
“Only a little. She was crying. Very frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
“She did not say.”
“Did you ask her?”
“It would do no good. She would not know she could trust me.”
Harry and I exchanged a look that said frustration. I had little or no hope for the next question.
“Do you have any idea where they sent her?”
She shook her head. Harry touched my shoulder, and I leaned back to give him room. He squatted down to catch her eyes.
“What is your name?”
“I called Xiao-Wen.”
“Xiao-Wen, where did they bring you from when you came here?”
“It is place like this in a different country. In Toronto.”
“Do you know the address?”
“Yes. It is on Columbia Street. It is above grocery store in middle of block.”
Harry looked at me and we were in sync. The easiest way they could get Mei-Li out of reach would be to exchange her for a girl from another brothel out of the country. That made it likely that Mei-Li was Xiao-Wen’s replacement in Toronto.
I didn’t like the question that raised. Wouldn’t it be easier still to simply kill her? Like Red Shoes? The answer was so clearly “yes” that my heart froze at the prospect of seeing another mutilated victim in the morgue. Why go to the trouble of a double alien-smuggling just to keep her alive? On the other hand-and this was the only hand I wanted to consider-maybe, if Mei-Li was still alive, it had to do with the dollar value of an exceptional prostitute. Maybe more.
Before we left, Harry took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote, “Raid-this Friday-9:00 PM ” He showed it to me and handed it to the girl.
“Give this to the old lady. She’ll be waiting for it.”
In the hallway downstairs we bundled against the cold, as well as recognition, before going out into the street. I pulled Harry’s earflap up for a question before leaving.
“What was that you asked the old lady? Did she know ‘ Fu ’-something or other? Then you showed her three numbers.”
“The Fu Shan Chu. I was asking if she knew the second in command of the tong. The big boy. These tongs and triads are crazy about numbers and symbols. Every officer has a code number. The number for the Fu Shan Chu is 438. She got the point that I was not an outsider.”
“Why the number two man? Why not number one?”
“Nobody in the tong knows who he is. They call him the Dragon Head. Only the number two man knows who he is.”
He started out the door, but I had one last point. “Harry, I’ve got one more stop to make. You can come with me or wait for me.”
“What stop?”
“There’s one more witness to the shooting. He’s the old man who runs the Chinese herbal medicine shop on Tyler Street. I’ve got to talk to him. This is as good a time as there’s going to be. I don’t want to have to come back here. We’re getting too well known.”
I could have predicted his decision. He pulled down his earflap.
“Let’s go.”
19
Tucked away down six worn, stone steps beside the Ming Tree restaurant on Tyler Street, we found the anomaly of the twenty-first century. It was a time warp. Those steps carried Harry and me out of the age of laser surgery into the middle ages of Chinese medicine.
This was no tourist haunt. The sign over the door was in untranslated Chinese. I would bet that mine were the first white feet to cross that threshold in a century. Dangling from a black, cloth-covered cord, a single weak bulb that wouldn’t have passed inspection in a chicken coop created shadows out of blackness.
I was aware of bundles of unidentifiable somethings or other piled up on both sides of the narrow shop. Faded Chinese newspapers were stacked intermittently with nearly biodegraded cardboard cartons that seemed to hold old Chinese magazines.
When we came in, I saw a shadow move in the back. It approached until I could make out an elderly Chinese man, somewhat stooped with age, but not emaciated as I would have predicted from the surroundings.
Thin, wispy strands of white face hair, which were about as close as the old gentleman could come to a full beard, sprouted below an otherwise hairless head. He wore Chinese-style pants and top which were sewn out of coarse black material. They had long since taken the permanent press of his natural folds and bends. He padded along on black cloth Chinese slippers. I was overwhelmingly grateful to have Harry along to translate for me.
I knew we were in a different world when Harry bowed. The old man returned it immediately. They exchanged what even I could tell were polite well-wishes in non-English. Harry must have used his full Chinese name, because I didn’t hear “Harry” in any of it.
The first words that I recognized came when Harry held out his hand toward me and said in Chinese “ Something… something… Michael Knight.”
It seemed perfectly natural to bow. I did. He returned it graciously. I figured it didn’t matter what I said as long as it sounded polite.
“Good morning, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He smiled at me with a warmth I could feel and said without a trace of an accent, “Good morning, Mr. Knight. The pleasure and the honor are mine. I thank you for gracing my humble shop.”
There was no condescension in it, just a very beautiful style of expressing welcome. So much for translation.
Harry added, “This is Mr. Qian An-Yong. He deals in a type of medicine that predates by centuries the time when the most scientific instrument of the West was a leech. Isn’t that right, Mr. Qian?”
He nodded. I wondered if the sparkle in his eyes that accompanied the smile was because someone of Harry’s age appreciated his art, or because he assumed that I wouldn’t.
“You have a familiarity with the ancient medicinal arts, Mr. Wong?”
Harry seemed at ease with the old gentleman. I was getting that way.
“I remember my mother used to go to the herbal medicine doctor before we left China. She had great faith in him. I don’t know whether or not she ever found one in this country.”
“Then you might not take offense at my noticing the obvious. You’re in great pain. I wonder if you would permit me to help you.”
“In what way, Mr. Qian?”
“Would you do me the kindness to excuse me? I’ll be just a moment.”
He bowed slightly and shuffled back through a curtain at the back of the shop.
I looked at Harry with an apology for getting him into an embarrassing situation. He seemed undisturbed.
In a few minutes, the old man was back. He had a handleless Chinese cup in each hand. The light caught steam rising from each of them. He handed one to Harry.
“I think you will find this more satisfying than anything you might have tried. By the time you leave, your pain will be substantially less.”
I’m sure he noticed the look on my face. I had no idea how Harry could refuse without offense. On the other hand, this brew could have ingredients that even Barry Salmon never tested. Equally disturbing was the likelihood that the other steaming cup was for me.
