White Tiger (13 page)

There was a knock at the door, and Chen Gui’s grin faded. Chen Song turned and faced the hotel room door; he glanced back at Chen Gui. Chen Gui licked his lips nervously and nodded.

“Answer the door, nephew,” he said as mildly as he could.

Chen Song walked to the door slowly, handing the phone back to Chen Gui as he passed him. He peered through the peephole after a moment, then looked back at his uncle.

“It’s Boss Tao, and he has Lin Feng with him.”

Chen Gui released his held breath in an explosive rush. “Then let them in! Lin Feng has clothes for me, and I’m hungry!”

###

Tokyo, Japan

Manning awoke the next morning at 7:45
am
, right as the Sun rose high enough to bathe the curtains over the bedroom windows in a fiery orange light. Even from the height of the 33rd floor, he heard the city of Tokyo awakening, stirring like some mythical beast preparing for the coming day’s hunt. It was murder to get up; the apartment was cool from the over-active air-conditioning, and Manning was faced with the equivalent of getting out of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. Curled up beside him like a cat was Ryoko, her small body generating an inviting warmth that Manning also found irresistible. He snuggled up to her and kissed her shoulder, and she murmured something in her sleep and stirred for a moment before becoming still again. Manning allowed his head to settle back onto his pillow, and he was content to inhale the sweet scent of her hair, now bound in a ponytail. He slipped an arm around her narrow waist and closed his eyes. Sleep harkened its return, and he felt himself start to drift into its embrace.

The image of the Japanese hostess with the bleach-blonde hair appeared before the lens of his mind’s eye before it could fully close, and she froze there, captured in every detail: carefully manicured hair, artfully painted eyebrows, somewhat thin lips covered by a sheen of lip gloss, white but slightly crooked teeth, the small beads of sweat on her upper lip, the flakes of cigarette ash clinging to her black T-shirt with the word
staff
emblazoned across it below the small twin mounds of her breasts... and her dark eyes, aflame with the rising panic borne from suddenly coming face-to-face with her mortality.

Manning braved the cold and swung his legs out of the bed. He walked to the zoned AC and shut it off, since the bedroom was already cold enough to safely refrigerate meat. He made his way to the bathroom and went through the morning ablutions. Afterwards, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed for the kitchen. The living room was ablaze as the sun made its gradual climb into the sky, bathing the spire of Tokyo tower and its less-commanding office building siblings in orange-yellow light. Manning grabbed himself a glass of too-sweet orange juice and paid homage to the vista. Minato-ku lurched to full wakefulness and faced the day with the traditional gusto reserved for the upper-crust parts of Tokyo, peopled by only the wealthiest of salarymen and foreign dignitaries posted at the various embassies in the area. Manning finished his juice and checked the clock on the wall. Ryoko would sleep until after two o’clock, he knew, so he was free to do whatever he wished until then.

The Atago Green Hills tower, where Manning lived, was located in a park-like setting. The verdant grounds were tended by a virtual army of Japanese landscapers who wore their gray coveralls as if they were the uniforms of some elite military unit. As Manning strolled out of the main lobby doors
—
the only such individual in such casual dress
—
the landscapers were already busy at work, trimming here, clipping there. The facility had an image to maintain, and since the tower complex was neighbored by the Atago Shrine to the north and the Seishoji temple to the south, the real estate conglomerate which owned the complex had to make it conform to the bounds of serenity dictated by the two local landmarks.

Manning set off at a brisk pace through the park, jogging down the trails at a reasonable clip, weaving around the occasional walker or young mother out with her children, enjoying the bright morning. In his mind, Manning flipped through a menu of cadences seemingly tailor-made for the event when a man was faced with some distasteful memories that physical activity alone couldn’t put down, running cadences he learned by heart during his time in the U.S. Army.

See that cowboy ridin’ in his truck,

That cowboy’s tryin’ make some bucks,

TV doesn’t work and his trailer’s broken down,

All I wanna hear is that Yee-haa! sound.

Wake up, gear up, don’t wanna be late,

Gotta jump on the bull and count to eight,

And if that bull should throw me down,

I’ll be saved by a rodeo clown,

And if that clown should die today,

Fuck the rodeo it’s back to bailing hay.

Hang up my spurs and my ridin hat,

‘Cause I’m still a redneck without all that,

‘Cause I’m HARD CORE!

Fit to ride,

Lean and mean,

Ridin’ machine!

As the chant repeated itself endlessly in his mind, Manning kept up the pace, running faster and faster, no longer jogging now but virtually sprinting, causing those he passed in the park to turn and look. As the sweat rolled down his back in rivulets and his lungs began to burn, all Manning could see was the frightened face of a young girl whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Take that nine-mil out its case

And shoot that commie in the face

All I ever want to see

Are bodies, bleeding bodies

Swing that 50 cal around

And mow those Commies to the ground

All I ever want to see

Are bodies, bleeding bodies

Take that Stinger outta your pocket

And shoot that Commie out of his cockpit

All I ever want to see

Are bodies, bleeding bodies!

Manning charged past the gate and long stairway which led to the Atago shrine, his feet stomping out a tempo that he couldn’t sustain for much longer. His lungs were on fire, and his breath came from him in great ragged gasps. The sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes like angry hornets; the muscles in his thighs and lower back burned and protested, conspiring to slow him until he was only jogging again, then trotting, and at last barely even walking. Manning clasped his hands behind his head, his chest heaving. It was all he could do to walk now, so walk is what he did.

Later, after the sweat had dried, he walked to the Starbucks coffee shop near the edge of the park, on Atagoshiti-dori. He ordered a small coffee, for which he paid almost ten dollars. He didn’t pause to add any cream or sugar, just gulped it down hot and black, almost scalding his tongue in the process. As he walked toward the door, intending to make his way home, he spied an early-morning edition of the
Japan Times
, the nation’s leading English-language edition. The deaths of the Chinese had made the front page, and Manning scanned the article, looking for any mention of possible suspects. There were none, and not even a
gaijin
was mentioned. It all looked good. Manning let out a small sigh of relief; even though the Japanese police were known to be quite assiduous, they couldn’t bring an assailant to justice if they didn’t know who that person was.

Manning was about to put the paper back on the shelf he had taken it from when he checked the motion. He placed his coffee on the shelf instead, and opened the paper fully to read the text below the centerline.

The girl’s name was Yamada Junko. 26 years old, still living at home with her parents and younger brother. Manning folded the paper and placed it back on the shelf, then pushed through the door and out into the already-sticky day. He sipped some more of his coffee, then started walking back toward his apartment building.

Yamada Junko.
At least the memories that would haunt him had a name.

CHAPTER 6

Tiburon, Marin County, California

“Lin Yubo, the police are here.” His manservant stood by the study door, waiting, and quite motionless. Han’s almost deathly stillness had been known to unnerve some of the younger servants. James Lin
—
when in the U.S., he took on his American persona, including a Westernized name
—
closed his laptop screen lid, allowing the machine to hibernate automatically. He was about to ask Han
what police?
when his desk telephone rang. The caller display screen told him it was his daughter-in-law. He experienced a brief spark of irritation. What did she want now? To complain once again that her fickle husband was abusing her, if not physically then by sinking his engorged yang into the steaming hot ying of every whore on the Western seaboard? She should have learned to accept it long ago. Didn’t she have a luxurious home that was the envy of her circle of
ma jiang
-playing wives and elder mothers? Didn’t she have everything that money could buy, except for a monogamous husband? Many wives would gladly trade their right arms to be in her position and situation. Let it ring, he decided, taking his hand away from the receiver. She should also learn that he was not at her beck and call. He’d talk to her later, at a more relaxing hour of the late evening, by which time, with luck, his younger son
—
no, his
only
son now—would have returned to the marital home and consoled his distraught wife.

“If it’s another ticket, take care of it,” he told Han, rubbing his fingers together to signify a small bribe.

“They insist upon speaking with you personally, Lin Yubo. A
gweizi
and a lost soul. They are detectives, not uniformed traffic policemen.” Han paused, then added, “They are San Francisco policemen.”

Lin almost smiled. A “lost soul” was Han’s nickname for any Chinese who had joined the police force. It was absolutely not a compliment. Han believed that after opium addicts, lost souls were the lowest form of life on the planet, preying upon their own kind. Lin was inclined to agree with him although he knew they also had their uses, as informants and occasionally as agents.

But Lin lived in Tiburon, across the Golden Gate Bridge from the city of San Francisco. What brought city police detectives to his residence?

The phone stopped ringing. Did his daughter-in-law also have his cell phone number? Lin hoped not. “Do you know them?” he asked, dismissing Wu Qing from his thoughts for the moment.

“The
gweizi
’s name is Ryker. Six months ago he tried to embarrass Lin Dan,” Han said. “The unfortunate incident with the
gweizi
opium whore.” Han’s encyclopedic memory for faces and events easily matched Lin’s own. Lin remembered the enormous bribe that had changed hands to ensure that all charges against Lin Dan were dropped and the actress who had died after injecting poorly cut heroin was forgotten about. Lin had bought her family’s silence through an agent posing as an insurance claims officer, who had warned that any attempt to publicize the incident would result in court action and a reclaiming of the “insurance settlement.” Only one of Shannon Young’s cousins, perhaps more suspicious than the rest, certainly less intelligent, had refused to keep silent and threatened to take the matter further. What remained of the cousin lay at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, weighed down by iron chains. Lin didn’t even have to give the order; Alexsey had known what must be done to protect the family name.

“Since then he has not intruded into our sphere,” Han went on. “The lost soul is Fong Chee Wei. Overtures were made but rejected some time ago. His family owns a restaurant in Chinatown. He is their only son.”