Shanghai Redemption (10 page)

“It has a nice view of the river—and the Bund across it. You like the Bund, I know.”

“Thanks. I'll come to see you.”

He was about to get up, her business card in his hand, when she put a hand on his shoulder, smiling.

“I have to wash your hair first, Director Chen.”

“What?”

“You just said that we have to be careful, didn't you? Now you've come to my salon and stayed for a long time. You can't leave without having anything done to your hair. What will the others think?”

She had a point. He had no choice but to lie down on the specially designed recliner, his head sticking out over the sink.

She leaned over him, lathering his hair luxuriously, her fingernails scratching his scalp, her bosom almost touching his face. He caught a glimpse of her cleavage through the opening of her low-cut uniform.

“Relax. You're a first-time customer here. I'm doing my best, so you will come back.”

Subconsciously, he had been aware of her feelings for him, and that was the reason—at least, one of the reasons—that he had come here. He was banking on that.

He let his head be buried in lather. Bubbles of shame. Still, it was very comfortable with her fingers moving in his hair, and he closed his eyes as his highly strung nerves began to relax.

He almost fell asleep, with the water gurgling overhead, as if out of a gargoyle's mouth somewhere far away, like in a blurred dream.

 

SEVEN

OLD HUNTER WAS WORKING
part-time for Zhang Zhang's Consulting and Investigating Agency more out of boredom than anything else. It was mostly a one-man operation—the owner, manager, chief investigator, consultant, and whatnot were all one man: Zhang Zhang. Zhang Zhang, however, had declared that he needed Old Hunter, a retired cop with a lot of experience and a lot of connections—not just his own connections, but his son's as well. Old Hunter's son was Detective Yu Guangming of the Shanghai Police Bureau, the longtime partner of Chief Inspector Chen.

Old Hunter was only supposed to come in a couple of days a week, and those days were flexible depending upon his availability. There wasn't much work to do, but during slow times he enjoyed talking to Zhang Zhang, spinning tales about various investigations from his long career with the police. True to his other nickname—Suzhou Opera Singer—he indulged in long, drawn-out narratives full of tantalizing details and digressions, to his audience of one.

Zhang Zhang was a capable entrepreneur, but he hadn't received any formal training in investigation, so whatever stories Old Hunter could share were not merely intriguing: they were educational. In return, having such genuine attention gave the old man a boost. So Old Hunter was often at the office more than was really necessary, content with office chores, taking the occasional phone call, sharpening a pencil or two, and, when Zhang Zhang wasn't there, listening to Suzhou opera on the radio.

For lunch, he usually went out to a cheap eatery nearby. For less than five yuan, he could get fried mini pork buns covered with white and black sesame and a bowl of beef soup strewn with chopped green onions. That was something he liked about the city of Shanghai.

That noon Old Hunter was at his usual place, seated on the wooden bench outside, picking up a set of bamboo chopsticks and wiping them off with a paper napkin, when a middle-aged man came over, eyeing the same bench.

“Oh—”

It was none other than Chief Inspector Chen, who discreetly raised a finger to his lips.

“I've heard a lot about this place,” Chen said, smiling, like a customer commenting casually to another, “particularly about the fried buns.”

“Yes, the fried buns here are inexpensive and considered the best in the city: crispy at the bottom, yet the pork stuffing is juicy,” Old Hunter said, picking up on the cue. “After eating lunch here, then holding a cup of Dragon Well tea from the teahouse across the street, I don't have anything to complain about.”

In reality, he had his tea back at the office. And not Dragon Well tea, either, which could be expensive—not to mention the fact that, more often than not, what was sold as Dragon Well tea was fake. He made a point to purchase his tea through folks at his old home village. It wasn't a well-known tea—and it wasn't much cheaper—but at least it was real tea.

Chen hadn't bumped into Old Hunter at random, that much the old man could guess. They had better go off to a quieter place. Not here, nor back at Zhang Zhang's office.

So five minutes later, he led Chen across the street, to the back room of the teahouse, which had once been a neighborhood hot-water shop. The owner, Mai, was in his early seventies, and he kept his business running in the hopes that if the old neighborhood was razed like so many others, he might get a large payoff as compensation. The back room consisted of nothing but a folding canvas bed for Mai's napping needs, a table, and a couple of chairs. Old Hunter took over the back room by the simple expedient of pushing a ten-yuan bill into Mai's hand. With the door shut, and a sign reading “Closed for Business” hung up front, the two ex-cops had their privacy, and their tea, if nothing else.

“The tea is not that good,” Old Hunter said with a self-depreciating chuckle, “but you can have all the hot water you want for free.”

“How is the PI business?” Chen asked, after taking a sip.

“Not too bad, but it's nothing truly exciting. I'm doing it more to prove I'm still alive and kicking than anything else. I've read those mystery novels you translated. Those private investigators, Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, have real cases. But here, the profession itself exists only in the gray area—it's not legally permitted in this socialist society of ours. According to the
People's Daily
, if you have any problems, you're supposed to go to the ‘people's police.' And they will take care of them for you. Unless your problems are something you can't let the government know about, and therefore can't go to the police for help with. Then you really have problems.

“In the final analysis, the cops work for the Party system, and private investigators work for their clients. That's why even the term ‘PI' is still taboo in the official media.

“That's why it is necessary for our agency to operate under a different name. The sign at the office says, ‘Consulting and Investigating.' Consulting covers a broad range of activities. We're not licensed private investigators, but we're not illegal either.

“In short, it's like the names of those sex-service operations. You may call it a hair salon, a karaoke club, a foot-washing place, or whatever you like, as long as it's not about what the place really does. Last year, I planned to attend a PI convention in Hangzhou, but at the last minute, the convention had to change its name and cancel most of the sessions. Internal Security was going to be there, so I changed my mind.

“Of course, I don't have to tell
you
about these regulations. They are government-imposed, and then, as a consequence, self-imposed as well. One guideline we have in the office, we try not to accept cases involving Party officials. No matter what evidence we come up with, the authorities will never accept it. And Internal Security might come knocking on our door the very next day. The old proverb put it well; ‘All the ravens are equally black under the sun, and officials protect and shield one another.'”

“You're a walking encyclopedia of proverbs, Old Hunter, but that one sums it up well.”

“We also can't do anything if there's an ongoing police investigation—or even if the official media just
says
there's an investigation.”

“Well, Confucius says, there are things a man will do, and things a man will not do. There are things a PI can do—like change one or two words in the name to keep your agency open—and things a PI can't do. But my question is, how can your agency manage to operate when it's burdened with such a long ‘can't-do' list?”

“Exactly, Chief. It can be really tough. But it's not my agency. I'm only a part-time helper, so I don't think I have to—” Old Hunter caught himself abruptly. Why the sudden interest in the agency? He paused, then decided there was nothing wrong with describing the work in general terms. “Well, most of this industry is kept afloat by one particular lucrative niche market: you might not have a customer for three months, but then one customer might make you enough to keep going for three years.

“What's that lucrative niche? Now, I don't want to tantalize you as though I were a Suzhou opera singer. Simply put, it's the old practice of cheater-catching. Particularly when the cheaters are Big Bucks. As another ancient proverb goes, ‘When you're luxuriously fed and clad, you can't help but dream lustfully.'” Old Hunter took a long, deliberate sip at the tea before going on. “There's no need for a lecture about the national moral landslide—our premier used those words not long ago. Today's Socialism with Chinese characteristics has room for many rich and powerful cheaters. Their wives spare no expense to save their marriages—or, failing that, to extract the maximum alimony from them in their divorce. So suspicious spouses are willing to pay us quite a handsome fee to bring them the evidence they need.”

“Tell me more about it, Old Hunter. You're so experienced. As they say, older ginger is spicier. Zhang Zhang must depend on your expertise for these operations.”

“For that sort of business, the clients want you to go to these notorious sex-service places and watch, waiting with all the patience you can muster, and from time to time, pretend to enjoy foot-washing or hair-washing like an old idiot. It's a shame that a retired cop has to resort to such, but to catch those red rats wallowing in money—millions and billions—it's what you have to do. Naturally, just a picture of the cheater in the company of a girl—with both still dressed, if only barely—may not be enough proof. In those cases, you may have to install a hidden camera to get the photos that are required. We always do a careful risk assessment before taking a job. The fee may not be worth the trouble.

“Some wives know better than to bother if their husbands just have fun on the sly. As a proverb in
Dream of the Red Chamber
goes, ‘What cats are not keen on stealing fish?' What those wives can't stomach, however, are ernai—secondary concubines. If the husband is keeping a mistress with her own upscale apartment, paying for her expenses and all the luxuries on the side, well, that is too much. For cases like this, we have to go out of the way—”

“For wives to fight ernai?”

“Sometimes. Though it's not just the out-of-favor wives who hire us: the ernai come to us for help, too. Unlike concubines in the pre-1949 era, Socialism with Chinese characteristics doesn't acknowledge the existence of ernai or grant them any status. Once their men find younger, prettier replacement ernai, they will lose everything. To survive, they have to fight back by any means possible, even threatening and blackmailing their former lovers. That can be very effective, since official propaganda invariably portrays Party cadres as Communist saints. If photos and details were posted online, proving that a cadre kept a spicy ernai, that official would be removed from office, even disavowed.”

“I could work as a private investigator too!” Chen interjected.

“It's a lot like those old detective movies from the thirties. The one difference is that you don't have to carry around a bulky camera. You can take all the pictures you need with a light cell phone, all the while mumbling into it on and on, pretending to talk to someone. That way you don't attract attention from anyone. Still, sometimes you have to wait patiently for hours, even days. And you have to know where to wait.”

“Where?”

“If the target is in one of the well-guarded apartment complexes, it's useless to wait outside. You're not going to be able to get inside, much less stand outside the bedroom door, waiting—”

“Hold on, Old Hunter. What if the cheating spouse is a Party official, but the fee is too good to decline?”

“Well, there might still be some room to maneuver.”

“How so?”

“In my day, the newspapers used to portray the Party cadres as good and honest with only the rare exception of a few rotten eggs. People believed that then, as did I. But now? There's another saying in
Dream of the Red Chamber
: ‘Except for a couple of stone lions crouching in front of the mansion, nobody is clean.'”

“Another old saying that goes right to the point.”

“You know only too well all the propaganda regarding our Party officials and their role-model lives. But what are they really up to in their secret lives? Little secretaries, ernai, concubines, three-accompanying girls, and whatnot.” Old Hunter paused, breathing into his mug, creating a series of expanding ripples on the surface of the tea, before he went on. “Some of the wronged wives or deserted ernai are so desperate for revenge, they don't care how much it will cost. So our agency may occasionally accept some of them as clients. After all, there are many roads leading to Beijing. In such a case, we obtain evidence for them only on the condition that they agree to strict confidentiality. They even have to sign documents agreeing never to name the source.”

“But if the evidence goes public, wouldn't the source eventually be identified?”

“You've investigated cases involving crowd-sourced Internet searches. Once the basic evidence is online, others see it and jump in, adding more information and pictures, until the evidence becomes overwhelming. Ultimately, the government has no choice but to investigate officially. A shrewd wife, however, wouldn't necessarily put the evidence online immediately. She'd use it as a bargaining chip first. Her husband would know all too well that once it's on the Internet, his political career is finished.