White Tiger

Japan. Nothing was left to chance. Then he initiated the second half of my plan, an assault against the Fujianese boss and his contingent. I have people in Tokyo now, retaking what was lost and reestablishing our trade links with yakuza. They are impressed by the way we handled ourselves. As you would expect of the Japanese they stood back and waited to see which side was stronger. Now they know. We have gained enormous face.”

“What if the Fujianese had also hired mercenaries? It would have been all-out war on the streets of Tokyo. The police would have closed the city down. No one would have profited from such madness.”

“I believe the Bai Hu would have triumphed regardless of the number of guns arrayed against him.”

“Bai Hu? White Tiger. That is his name? Absurd.”

“Merely a nickname, Lin Yubo. His methods are direct and swift. I engaged him to rid us of the tiresome leader of the Fujianese, who believed he could take over our trade with yakuza, and by nightfall the nuisance was no more. He never misses and he never fails.” Chen Gui basked in his own brilliance and wished Chen Song were here with him to hear Lin Yubo’s congratulations.

“One man did this? One man returned the Tokyo territory to you?”

“Yes, Lin Yubo. As I said, he is extremely competent, and resourceful. This is why I retained him in the first place.”

Chen Gui expected some sort of congratulation-was even thanks too much to hope for? — but Lin Yubo denied him even that small honor. “This White Tiger interests me. I may have need of his services. See that he is dispatched to San Francisco immediately. Make whatever financial arrangements are necessary. Inform me when he is on the plane.”

Chen Gui stared at the speakerphone. Several seconds passed before he realized that the click he’d heard was the sound of his boss hanging up.

He revised what had been said but could find no fault with his report, which gave him rightful credit in resolving what could have been a major setback. Did Lin Yubo not realize what they would have lost if the Fujianese had been allowed to triumph? More than just face. But now, with a startlingly rude show of abruptness, Lin Yubo had dismissed Chen Gui’s resourcefulness. Had he not ensured their position within Japan remained secure into the foreseeable future? And where was Lin Yubo while all this was happening? Concentrating on his business interests in San Francisco, in the United States. As if what went on in Asia was of secondary importance.

He made certain that the phone was switched off before he filled his lungs with air and bellowed, “Chen Song!”

The double doors opened almost instantly, proof that his nephew had been listening in, probably with his ear pressed against the lacquered wood. If not for the fact his private telephone was not linked to the internal extensions, Chen Gui was sure that Chen Song would have been hunched behind a pot plant in the hall, the telephone receiver cradled to his ear and his handkerchief over the mouthpiece, like some henchman flunkey in an old Charlie Chan film. Come to think of it, that was exactly what Chen Song was, a henchman flunkey. He would never amount to anything else. Any promise he might have shown before had been destroyed by his lamentable performance in Japan.

“Uncle. What did he say? Did you mention-?”

Chen Gui’s stern expression gave Chen Song pause.

“Lin Yubo’s rage was boundless. He demanded to know who was responsible. Fortunately for all of us I was able to placate him, by assuring him that our business with yakuza will continue uninterrupted. It helped that we gained face by wiping out the Fujianese.”

“We didn’t wipe them out. The foreigner did.”

Chen Gui didn’t like his nephew’s sour expression, which indicated ongoing disapproval of his decision. No matter. A henchman flunkey’s opinion was of no value. Chen Gui said, “Lin Yubo accepted my explanation that employing an outsider was, in this case, necessary. Now. What precautions have you taken to ensure my safety?”

Chen Song looked confused for a moment, as his father often did when she was asked a complex question. “Uncle, I have arranged for additional guards on the gates. More patrol the grounds. Just let the Fujianese try to reach you! They won’t get past my men. We’ll slaughter them like the dogs they are.” He patted his jacket underneath the left armpit, indicating the weapon he carried there. Chen Gui supposed it was necessary, although he admitted to himself that he didn’t much like the idea of Chen Song having a gun in his presence, especially when they were alone. Perhaps it was the way Chen Song had behaved when they were in the hotel in Dalian, awaiting the arrival of Lin Feng and Boss Tao. Chen Gui had picked up some unnerving vibrations from his nephew. Instead of becoming subdued when Chen Gui had berated him, Chen Song had become increasingly angry, though he’d attempted to hide this. And now, his reference to his men displeased Chen Gui even more. Who was boss here, Chen Gui or his nephew?

He said, “What if the Fujianese wise up and decide to hire the Bai Hu? Do you think your men could stop him from reaching me?” He enjoyed the effect these words had on his nephew.

“Do you want me to send word to Japan to have him killed, uncle? Is that what you are saying?” Chen Song asked eagerly.

Chen Gui shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’ve lost enough people already. But heed my warning, Chen Song. If an attack comes, it may not come in the form of guns and bullets. There are other night tigers that possess the gweizi’s skills. Perhaps it would be prudent to engage the services of such men, in addition to your hired guns.”

“I’ll look into it immediately, uncle,” Chen Song said, but Chen Gui noticed a subtle movement at the corner of his nephew’s lips, the beginning of a smile.

“Is something amusing you?” he demanded.

“No, uncle.”

Realization struck Chen Gui. He knew all about his nephew’s lifestyle. Chen Song liked living the high life. His enjoyments centered around fast cars and fast women, to use the Western vernacular. And, so Chen Gui had been informed, other things best not discussed at the dinner table, or anywhere else for that matter. He thought of his favorite film star, Rock Hudson. Chen Gui possessed several copies of Ice Station Zebra, including the recently released digitally remastered DVD, which he played at least once a month. He was eternally fascinated by the multi-layered relationships between the principals, with the indecently handsome Hudson shedding his light romantic comedy persona to convincingly play the veteran submarine captain dedicated to preserving the lives of his crew in treacherous waters, while also having to deal with spies and traitors and the eternal threat of Mother Russia. Chen Gui saw himself in an almost identical role. And yet, behind Hudson’s all- American male facade was the secret self whose sexual preferences remained unknown almost to the time of his sad death.

Before Chen Gui stood his nephew Chen Song, a handsome lady-killer vain enough to literally carve notches in his bed posts to declare the number of women he’d brought back to his luxurious apartment and used for sex. But Chen Gui knew that many of these notches signified sexual liaisons with young men, something Chen Song had taken very great care to hide from him. Seeing Chen Song’s smile made Chen Gui realize that “night tigers” probably meant something else entirely to Chen Song, who found amusement in the term.

Imbecile. Time for him to learn.

“Meet me outside in ten minutes,” Chen Gui found himself saying. “Bring four of your best men with you.”

“Are we going somewhere, uncle?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Your best men. You understand?”

“Yes, uncle. As you wish.” Such a patronizing tone!

Chen Song departed and Chen Gui looked up his telephone index, searching for a number he hadn’t called in years. He half-expected his call to go unanswered; it was possible the man was dead by now. He had been in his late seventies when he and Chen Gui last conversed. His brother was only two years younger.

To his surprise the phone was picked up on the first ring and the familiar voice said, “What do you want?” in Mandarin, the tone impatient and rude.

“It is Chen Gui.”

“You honor us.”