Hot Poppies (10 page)

The ground floor of the three-storey food palace contained a fancy supermarket. A few people cruised the aisles, most of them rich babes with great tans, big furs and limos idling outside at the curb. There were lacquered ducks that resembled designer handbags and barrels of rare mushrooms that cost more than diamonds, and the women picked them over, rapacious looks on their faces, like they'd never had a decent meal. One babe, a full-length white fox coat over her shoulders, her slim arm wound with a gold Bulgari snake—I always read Lily's fashion magazines in the can—bought abalone at eight hundred bucks a pound. Her fingernails were black as dried blood.

Snappy hostesses in sharp black silk suits patrolled the restaurant upstairs, walkies in hand, high heels going tap tap on the marble floors and the see-through stairs where Liu had installed twinkling lights. The women guided guests up and down as if it were an ancient court in a walled city, this caste to that level, lesser mortals below, gods to Liu's private dining room. Like eunuchs at the palace, the muscle consisted of beardless young men who wore wire-rim glasses and Armani suits. I didn't know much about Henry Liu but, from the treatment I got, I figured, somehow, he knew about me.

“Have you eaten?” one of the hostesses inquired. “Would you care to dine? Drink?” She was solicitous, attentive, fawning, and so were the suits, as if Liu had been told I could be bent. In the second-floor restaurant, where a band played, I settled on a leather stool at the curving black glass bar, munched prawn crackers, sipped Scotch and watched the action.

A wedding snaked its way in and out of the tables, the older couples doing a dizzying two-step, posture perfect, feet moving in intricate patterns, like teams of figure skaters. The little kids bopped around, the teenagers formed a conga line then broke up and did the macarena. Waiters staggered under vast trays loaded with platters of food. The smells made me hungry and, before I even asked for a menu, a plate of lobster and rice was delivered to the bar, compliments of Henry Liu. Where was Mr Liu? I asked. Busy, an Armani told me politely. I finished the Scotch, ordered a beer and ate.

When I finished, I sat around a while. Jerry Chen arrived, which I half expected—he said he ate at Liu's most nights—and so did Pete Leung, which surprised me. Chen sat alone at a table, eating and reading
Vanity Fair.
Pete was escorted to a large table where he was surrounded by men in suits. But when he saw me, he beckoned me over. He got up and shook my hand and introduced me to the men, who also shook my hand.

Pete moved away from the table and lowered his voice. “I have to talk to these men for a few minutes, Artie. I try to do legit business down here. It's difficult. Hello, Jeremy.” As soon as he saw Jerry Chen, his voice chilled right down.

Pete said, “Jeremy told you we knew each other?”

There was real antagonism between them, which was weird, considering the Taes asked me to get Chen in on the thing with Dawn. Pete was Dawn's husband after all. Maybe down here everyone knew everyone, but the tension between these two you could slice up for dinner.

“I was just fixing with Artie to have a meal,” Pete said. He didn't invite Jerry Chen and Chen, looking angry, went back to his magazine.

“I'm sorry, Artie, I just couldn't stand him, not tonight. All the swearing. The posturing. Is he gone? Can you see?” Pete craned his neck. “Look, I'm at my wits' end with Dawn. She goes out by herself. I'm scared all the time for her,” he said. “Help me if you can,” he added, which was tough for a guy like Pete. I said I'd try, and then he went back to the table of men.

Chen was waiting for me in the lobby.

“This meeting is accidental?”

“I eat at Henry's most nights, like I told you,” Chen said. I let it ride.

“You want to talk about you and Pete Leung?”

“What should I fucking say about Pete Leung? Should I ask myself what the fuck he's doing here at Henry Liu's eating with a bunch of guys who support Taiwan, who hate the commie dicks on the mainland fifty years after they took over, before some of them were even born?”

“Why shouldn't he eat with them?”

“Because Pete is also mighty fucking chummy with the Fujianese who support those same commie dicks on the mainland. The same fucking Fujianese only recently got some clout down here in Chinatown and want to grab whatever turf they can away from the likes of Henry Liu, turf being power, money, influence with the City. You got all that? As in turf war.”

“So maybe Pete's a peace ambassador.”

“Pete cuts his deals with the reds. Pete's also got an American passport. Pete plays it both ways.” Chen stopped for breath.

Me, I hadn't heard anyone call the commies reds for a real long time. “Sounds smart to me, Jer. Sounds like a guy who donates money to the Democrats and the Republicans.”

I zipped up my jacket. Pete was a businessman. Jerry Chen was paranoid. “OK, so tell me, Jer. Every time you take a crap you call up Sonny Lippert?”

“I see. You're worried I'm in Sonny's pocket, is that it?” Chen laughed. “I tried you a couple times today, you didn't answer, I figured you don't love me. I figured I had fucking bad breath. Lippert is a useful man. Lippert is interested in anything that ups his profile. I know he uses me. He uses you. I use him. I like you, Artie, but like I think I said once already, I'm bored with the games. If you want to help out with Rose or any of this shit, and there's plenty of it, give me a call. OK? Just remember, I'm the good guy.”

“So let's have a drink. Toast the good guys.”

“I can't.” He looked at his watch. “I have a date. But let me share this with you. You saw the way the dead girl's face looked raked? Like animals crawled over it? I guess you already figured out that the fuckwits that threw the spike at you used a weapon a lot like it on the girl. Well, I'm hoping we got a match with some partial prints that were found at Abramsky's place. And I'm thinking that the weapon they used on the girl is the exact same one they fucking tossed at your head in the fucking warehouse.”

On my way home, I found myself behind a blind man. The man's seeing-eye dog pulled him along in the middle of the street like it was a ski run, the man laughing. The city floundered helpless, a big baby that flopped in the snowdrifts. The snow made a sponge for noise and there wasn't any traffic anyway, so the only sound you could hear was the man with the dog laughing and laughing as he flew up Walker Street. I followed him until I got to Mike's and went in for some smokes.

“You checked out Rick's place, like I said to?” Mike asked, tossing me some cigarettes.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you earlier. You're running around in circles, Artie, you don't listen to what's going on. I told you. Recently I saw lights on in Ricky's apartment. I been meaning to check. Gimme the keys,” Mike said. “I'm going up.”

“You wanna play Kojak, I'll go with you. I have the keys.”

Mike locked the coffee shop and I thought, what the hell, you didn't know. Someone mentions a building is vulnerable because the restaurant on the ground floor is not operating. People hear. Creeps hear.

I used to leave my door unlocked and it made Ricky laugh. “What's this, a macho cop thing?” he always said.

“Something else, Artie. The Chink kid that came by my place.”

I laughed. “Your Chechen. Right.”

“It's not the first time he's been here. I didn't tell you. I did some business with him before.”

“What kind of business?”

“Remember when Rick was in the hospital and you and me and Hillel used to hang out?”

“Sure. Sure I remember.”

“Hillel was getting a raw deal on supplies, so I helped him out, well, I was real sorry I gave him the deal because it went sour. The kid was their errand boy.”

Christ, I thought; the kid with the quiff. “Toilet paper?” I said.

“Toilet paper, paper towels, paper cups. The kid was real anxious today, wired.”

“It was a message?”

“It wasn't Pindar, the poet. One other thing.”

“What, Mike?”

“He asked me about you,” Mike said, and I felt like someone had grabbed my guts with a hook and yanked on it hard. “The kid asked about you, Artie. He knew your name.”

Rick has the top floor of the building. The elevator opens into his apartment, and as I unlocked it, I banged on the door out of habit, like I always used to, to let Ricky know I was coming.

“Jesus, it's cold.” Mike shivered.

It was cold. The windows were normally kept locked, but it was freezing and I noticed right away one of the window locks was horizontal. Someone had been here. A careless cleaning woman, I assumed, at first. The Palazetti furniture was covered with sheets. I checked the closets.

Like mine, Rick's living room is separated from the kitchen by a long low counter, only he put in a slab of dark green marble with white veins. “Beautiful stuff.” Mike ran his hand idly along the counter, then picked up a plastic bag from the surface.

Alongside the bag were a few tools, including a flat knife like painters use. Mike turned it over. The apartment was quiet. The refrigerator shuddered. The old floorboards creaked under my feet. Then the phone rang and the answering machine picked it up. Ricky's voice, like a ghost's, played into the quiet loft.

Mike examined the plastic bag and the knife. “Someone's been working up here?”

“What?”

“This shit looks like plaster,” he said. “I'm gonna check out the bedroom, and then let's get the fuck out. With Ricky away sick, this place gives me the creeps. I'll be back in a second.” Mike made for the hall.

What repairs? What plaster? No one had been working up here.

“Mike?”

There was no answer. “Mike?” I played back the previous ten seconds while I scanned the apartment and I saw it. I hadn't seen it when Mike picked it up, but I saw it now: the red Chinese characters on the side of the plastic bag, the white powder inside it, the four long lines of the powder laid out carefully on the counter. The green marble with its white veins had acted as camouflage. I saw it now clear as day, clear as snow. I didn't have to taste it to know it was heroin.

“Mike, get out of there. Mike!”

“What? What? I got to check the bedroom,” he said, reappearing. I wanted him out. Mike talks tough. But I didn't want another friend getting beat up because of me. I didn't want Justine to see her dad get whacked.

“Let's go. Now. Please.”

“What's with you, Artie?”

“Just fucking listen to me,” I said under my breath. “I think we should just leave. Come on. You get the elevator, I'll turn off the light and we'll just go, like we came up.”

The elevator didn't move. Someone was holding it on another floor. Maybe someone was loading up gear for a ski trip. Maybe not.

“Stairs?” Mike said.

“No. Not from here.”

“Move, fuck you,” Mike screamed at the elevator. He was panicky.

I rammed open the window. “Come on.” We climbed out onto the fire escape and I shut the window, but there was no way to lock it from outside.

Somehow, in the dark, the wind howling, we made it to the roof. A gust of wind came out of nowhere and picked up an umbrella from the party the night before, tossing it into the air like a spear. Between us, me and Mike, we yanked open the fire door and got down the stairs to the street.

“Jesus, man,” Mike said. “What's going on here?”

“Someone's dealing in there. Someone was cutting stuff, bagging it. It wasn't plaster. It wasn't cement.”

“Who?”

“Who knows? Anyone. One of the Taes' ex-waiters. Someone that came to clean Rick's place and made a copy of the key. Anyone. But that apartment is like a trap, back where the bedroom is. Look, if someone heard us coming and they hid back in the bedroom, they might have been feeling trapped. People who deal do not react well to feeling trapped. I'm not saying there was anyone there, I'm just saying it was a good idea to get the fuck out. Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. But I knew that it shook him up. When he got into his car he didn't invite me home for Lina's pot roast Saturday like he usually does, and I was betting he didn't want me around Justine right now. I was trouble.

In the wind, the building moaned. Behind apartment walls, dogs, housebound and restless, scuffled along the floors like rats, and the cat on the fourth floor screamed from boredom. In my apartment, I got a sweater and a bottle of Scotch and went back up to Ricky's to lock the window.

The plastic bag was still on the kitchen counter, so were the white lines of powder. I had a gun and I checked the bedroom, the bathroom, slamming doors hard, the noise intended to warn off any creeps. I could have called in some outside help, but with the snow everyone was working overtime. I didn't want to call the Taes if I didn't have to; they had enough grief.

I turned out the lights, pulled a sheet off a leather chair in the corner of the room, put the Scotch on the rug, the gun on my lap and sat down to wait in the dark. Whoever had been in the apartment earlier would be back to get the goods. I was sure of it.

Sitting in the dark, I thought about Pansy. If I didn't help her, she would be next. She would be dead like her friend Rose. “I'm next.” Where was she, I wondered? Maybe she was already dead. Maybe there was a serial killer out there in the city who liked hitting Chinese girls. Maybe there was some gang thing in Chinatown going on that I could never penetrate, never understand. Maybe it was the kid who asked Mike about me. Maybe it was the guy who took the pictures. Mr Snap.