“Uncle, it’s Ava.”
“How are things?”
“Not so bad.”
“Progress?”
She didn’t try to soft-pedal it. “I want you to send Carlo and Andy.”
Uncle fell silent. She knew she had upset him. “You said not so bad.”
“There are still challenges.”
He paused. “I am not sure that they are in Hong Kong.”
“Do you have them working on a job?”
“No.”
“Then they’re probably in Hong Kong. Could you get them on a plane today? They can land in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, it doesn’t matter — every major city connects with Las Vegas.”
“Are you sure?”
“A couple of things,” Ava said, ignoring his question. “Please make sure they wear turtleneck sweaters or shirts with long sleeves. I don’t want their tattoos to attract attention. And tell them not to try to bring any of their gadgets with them. I don’t want either of them stopped at U.S. Customs or Immigration for a baggage check. Tell them that whatever they need, I’ll get it for them here.”
“You are sure you want them?” he repeated.
“I want you to email me their schedules. Give them my cellphone number so they can call me when they’ve landed in the U.S. and have been cleared. Tell them not to call when they’re still in the arrivals hall — it’s a red flag. Book them a room at the Hooters Casino Hotel, and please make sure they have their itinerary with them in case they’re stopped. They’re coming to Las Vegas to gamble; that’s the story. Get them a return flight for a week later. If we finish sooner I’ll put them on an earlier flight out.”
“Ava, I do not like this.”
“Uncle, it’s either them or Derek, and I think this job is better suited to their talents. But if you don’t want them to come, I’ll call Derek and have him here tomorrow.”
“You are so stubborn.”
“You taught me well.”
“What about the money?”
“I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I had a shot at it.”
“I will send them.”
“Thank you, Uncle. I have some calls to make here, but when I’m done I may have to impose on you again, so please keep your cellphone on.”
She closed her phone and reached over to the bedside table, trying to ignore the pain. She opened the drawer to look for a phonebook but found only a Gideon’s Bible. Las Vegas — Hooters — Gideon’s Bible; she tried to understand the connection but failed. She climbed off the bed and walked over to the bureau, holding the ice-filled towel against her hip. There were both White and Yellow Pages in the top drawer.
She took out the Yellow Pages and found listings for at least fifty private detective agencies. She looked for ones that promised twenty-four-hour service and began calling them alphabetically. On her fourth try she got a live human. After she had explained what she wanted and how quickly she wanted it, she was told it would take two hours and cost two hundred dollars. She put the charge on Jennie Kwong’s Visa card and promised a one-hundred- dollar bonus if it could be done inside an hour.
Then she waited, watching television and wondering how this was all going to play out.
The agency called back in forty-five minutes. She authorized the hundred-dollar bonus and then called Hong Kong.
“Uncle, do you have a pen?”
“I will turn on my recording device.”
“Even better,” she said, and read the list of names she had got from the detective agency, along with the supporting documentation.
“They are all Chinese,” he said.
“Yes, they live in a complex called The Oasis. I need you to find out if we’re connected to any of them, either directly or through friends. If we are, then I need to know if I can count on one of them to help me. It would be a favour, of course. And it isn’t dangerous, I promise you that.”
“I will do what I can.”
She knew that finding an ally inside The Oasis was a long shot, but the long reach of Uncle’s network had never failed to surprise her.
Next Ava flipped through the Yellow Pages to the guns section. She picked a supplier with a half-page ad. The store was located on the Strip closer to downtown Vegas and was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Shopping made easy.
She called Au and got his voicemail. “This is Jennie. I’d appreciate it if you could pick me up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you’ll be here.”
Then she sat back on the bed and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep, but between her aches and her racing mind she knew slumber would come slowly and with some difficulty. She tried to force other thoughts into her head. Often she found visualizing bak mei moves soothing, so she began to picture herself as a leopard. Then Derek intruded.
About a month before, she had walked from her condo to the house where her bak mei instructor, Grandmaster Tang, lived and taught several disciplines of martial arts. The building had no sign, and she was quite sure he was operating without a licence, but no one doing serious martial arts in Toronto didn’t know who he was or where to find him. Tang had only two bak mei students, Ava and Derek, and their sessions were always, as was the tradition, one on one.
She remembered that the day had been overcast, with a sluggish, damp wind. She wrapped a scarf tightly around her neck, took a toque from her pocket and jammed it over her head, and walked as fast as she could through the cold air. It was almost noon. The gym was theoretically open from 4 p.m. to 11 p.m., but she rarely made an appointment and always went during off-hours.
There was a large window at the front of the building, and as Ava drew near, her eyes tearing from the wind, she saw that someone else was already inside. She was cursing her luck and about to head home when she recognized the student — Derek. Grandmaster Tang was strict in enforcing his one-on-one code, so Ava felt a touch of guilt at watching her friend. He stood in the low traditional stance, his hands soft and floating. She marvelled at how graceful he was. Then she saw his waist torque, and with a twist of his hips his right fist shot forward. It travelled not much farther than six inches, but it could well have been the most deadly six inches in all of the martial arts.
Bak mei was meant to be fought at close range. Its practitioners never made the first move, but with precise footwork and perfect timing they were always positioned to respond to any attack. Ava had just watched Derek perform the phoenix-eye fist, the trademark strike of bak mei. The knuckle of the index finger of his right hand was extended from a fist, and the entire force of the punch — all the power that could be generated by timing, footwork, and back, chest, and shoulder muscles — was focused in that single knuckle. It could be driven into the target’s most sensitive body parts: nose, eyes, ears, the temple and the sternum, where nerve endings gathered. It had taken years of practice for Ava to perfect her phoenix-eye fist. Derek, she saw, was at least her equal.
As she lay on her bed in the Hooters Hotel, she pictured him in her mind’s eye, his floating hands beginning to lull her to sleep. She was somewhere between consciousness and the dream world when her phone rang.
“Yes,” she said.
“Ava, we had no luck,” Uncle said. “Two of them are Taiwanese and have been in the United States for at least twenty years. The other two are American born, one of Malaysian origin, the other from Hong Kong. We tried to find out if any of them had even a cousin we could talk to, but we came up empty.”
“Thank you, Uncle. I’m sorry for putting you through all that trouble,” she said. “I knew it was not very likely.”
“Is it a problem?”
“Not yet.”
“Carlo and Andy?”
