Act of Revenge Read online

  “I think it’s coming out both ends,” said Karp, which Marlene could smell for herself. The screams increased in volume when the boys spotted their mother, source of all comfort, and they reached for her like infant cuckoos.

  “What did you give them?” Marlene snapped at Posie. Toddler dietetics had never been one of the girl’s strong points.

  “Nothing, Marlene, honest! They just had their regular lunch and they started acting cranky around four and then Zak had the shits and I cleaned him up and then they both started puking just before Butch got home.”

  “Pick one,” said Karp.

  They had done this before. Marlene grabbed Zik and snapped out orders to Posie.

  “There’s a container of chicken barley soup in the freezer. Zap it for ten minutes!”

  “I threw up, Mommy,” Giancarlo wailed.

  “I threw up, too, Mommy,” said his brother. “We’re sick as dogs.”

  As if cued, in pranced the mastiff, who began licking up delicious bits of yellow matter off the floor. Screams, shouted orders, startled giggles from the twins; the dog slunk off, but the cycle of hysteria was broken, which, thought Marlene, was just one more reason to have a shambling monster in the household.

  The couple repaired to the bathroom, where the twin boys got stripped and cleaned and Karp held each one in turn screaming while their mother poured Kaopectate down their throats.

  “What do you think?” asked Karp as he shoved Zak’s arms into pajamas. “Not too hot, are they?”

  She felt both their foreheads: warm, but not blazing. Diagnosis, stomach virus. After which, Mommy and Daddy pumping chirpy cheerfulness out like water from a spigot, which improved the boys’ moods a good deal, then a bowl of healthful broth, a powerful dose of baby aspirin ground into applesauce for both of them, and a long lounge for Daddy and the twins in Zak’s bed, reading one of Richard Scarry’s compendiums, and, three times, the preschooler’s answer to Phenobarbital, Good-night Moon. After the delicate little snores sounded, Daddy carried Giancarlo over to his own bed, tucked him in, and staggered down to the kitchen, where he found Mommy with a tumbler half full of red wine attempting to resume the character of Marlene.

  “They are down,” he said.

  “Well, aren’t you a light unto the Gentiles,” she said, grabbing him and planting a kiss on the side of his head as he walked by to the refrigerator. She joined him and cut herself a chunk of Asiago cheese and a quarter loaf of yesterday’s Italian bread, oiled and garlicked it, and ate the rest of the soup out of the Tupperware 6.

  She watched Karp manufacture a roast beef on rye with his own hands, even, Marlene was amazed to see, slicing a tomato to go into it without damage to any vital organ.

  “Sorry about your suit, by the way.”

  “Oh, no problem. It’s designed to shed vomit. I’m a lawyer, you know.”

  “And besides that, how was your day?”

  He told her then about the Catalano case, and its political ramifications, and Ray Guma’s theory that it was something to do with the family, and Marlene listened, and did not tell him she suspected that at least part of the crime family’s problem was sitting in room 37 at the East Village Women’s Shelter. Indeed, it was common for Marlene to conceal things from her husband, although Karp was perfectly open with her about everything the law allowed. This imbalance was all right with Karp; he had no interest in learning all that his wife was up to.

  “By the way,” Karp continued, “I had a talk with Mimi Vasquez, the ADA who’s handling the Asia Mall shootings. They’ve come up with some interesting stuff. The vics flew in that morning from L.A. on the red-eye. They got in the night before from Hong Kong. No known contacts in the city, so they’re figuring someone followed them here to whack them. They’re checking airport arrivals now, but it looks like—”

  Marlene dropped her soup spoon and interrupted, “Wait a second—where’s Lucy?”

  “She’s in her room, isn’t she?” said Karp. The twins crisis had prevented either of them from thinking about the family’s usual problem child.

  “Is she?” Marlene got up and went down to Lucy’s room, whose door was, as usual, locked. She knocked. “Lucy? Are you okay?” A grumble assured her that the girl was inside. “Come out and have something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you sick?” No response. “Open the door, please, Lucy.” More muttering, not all of it in a Christian tongue, stomping feet, the click of the lock. Marlene entered to see her daughter, dressed only in the Chung-King T-shirt and underpants, heading back toward her bed, where she jumped under the Italian flag duvet and turned to the wall.

  Marlene sat on the bed and pressed the back of her hand against Lucy’s cheek.

  “You’re not hot,” said Marlene, her heart twisting as her daughter seemed to cringe away from her touch.

  “Have you eaten anything?”

  “I said, I’m not hungry.”

  “If you have anorexia, I’m going to kill you,” said Marlene, trying to lighten it up.

  “I don’t have anorexia, Mother,” said Lucy to the wall, mumble, mumble.

  “What was that?” asked Marlene, comprehending very well what it was.

  “Nothing, Mother. I just want to sleep, okay?”

  “At eight o’clock? Lucy, did something happen today? Are you upset about something? Lucy . . . ?”

  Lucy burrowed deeper under the covers and pulled a pillow up over her head. Marlene started to feel like a weasel digging a baby bunny out of a hole. She patted the mute lump and left.

  At least she wasn’t rude in English, thought Marlene. At least no heavy, sharp objects were flung. She was walking back down the hall to her husband when the street-level buzzer sounded. She went to the kitchen wall and asked who it was.

  The tinny voice spoke in French. “Marie-Hélène, it is Tran. We should meet and talk.”

  “Come on up. I’ll make some coffee.”

  A pause. “Perhaps that is not a good idea.”

  “Ah, that sort of talk. I’ll come down.”

  Karp was used to his wife dashing off at odd hours. “Will you be late?” he asked mildly.

  “No, be right back. I just have to have a word with someone.”

  Karp listened to the elevator descend. He got up, checked the twins, and then knocked gently on the door of Lucy’s room. No answer. He entered and saw that it was dark, but heard not the calm and steady respiration of childhood sleep, but a caught breath.

  “You okay, Luce?” He moved carefully toward her and sat on the bedside. He felt her forehead. Clammy. “Can’t sleep?”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Silence. “Is it what happened with the Chens?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Lucy, listen to me. There’s no problem that we can’t fix together. But you got to come clean. I’m worried. Your mother’s worried . . .”

  “Hah!”

  “What, you don’t think she cares about you? Are you nuts? Whatever this is between the two of you is making her miserable.”

  “The only way she would really care about me is if somebody was trying to kill me,” said Lucy with finality, and then pulled her quilt over her head in an unambiguous signal that she wished to converse no more.

  Down on the street, Tran shook hands with her formally as he always did. They walked up Crosby through the warm blue evening. They inquired after each other’s health, remarked on the pleasant and seasonable weather. Marlene spoke her correct schoolgirl French, Tran his soft and nasal Vietnamese variety.

  “So? What did you want to talk about?” Marlene urged when Tran seemed reluctant to begin.

  “A delicate matter, I think. This afternoon Lucy called me and told me that she and the Chen girl were being followed by some Chinese boys she thought were gang members. Let me explain also that Lucy had earlier expressed to me fears that she might have been followe
d by someone of uncertain motives.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Icily.

  “I did not. The relations between you and your daughter at the present time are such that if she thought I was carrying tales to you, she would not share confidences with me; hence she would have no adult guidance at all in a certain restricted sphere. I trust that what I tell you now will not be flung in her face.”

  Marlene fumed briefly, but she took the point and grumblingly agreed. The score she gave herself in the motherhood category dropped yet again. “Who was following them?”

  “A pair of boys associated with the White Dragons. They were hired by a man who called himself Leung Wenri. Their target was Janice Chen rather than Lucy. They were supposed to follow, and show that they were following, and put a fright into the girl. Which they did.”

  “This has something to do with the shootings in the Asia Mall, doesn’t it?”

  “That is a reasonable assumption,” said Tran after a moment. “It is possible that the elder Chens are somehow involved. Perhaps they agreed to have their shop used for these assassinations. Perhaps they were not told it would be an assassination. Now they are frightened. The assassins wish to impress upon them how vulnerable they are.”

  They reached the end of the street, and Tran turned and started back the way they had come, Marlene at his side, as if they were some Edwardian couple taking a turn around the gardens.

  “Do you think the girls are in any real danger?”

  “Not from those two, at least.”

  These words sank in. She stopped short and blurted in English, “Oh, Christ, Tran! Don’t tell me you whacked them!”

  He gave her a pained look. “I assure you, Marie-Hélène, they are entirely intact, aside from a little fear. One of them soiled his underclothes, but that is, I believe, the only damage. I thought it would be useful if they went back to Mr. Leung, so that whoever hired him would understand that the girls are not entirely bereft of friends useful in such matters.”

  “This Leung is not the principal in the shootings, you surmise?”

  “I would be startled to learn it. From what I can gather, he is a petty gangster. It is unlikely that he would dream of assassinating men such as the Sings.”

  “These are the victims?”

  “Yes. Sing Peichi and his son, Sing Zongxian. From Hong Kong.”

  She stopped again and examined her friend’s face. He seemed hesitant, as if unwilling to discuss the subject. This was a sure way to attract Marlene’s avid attention.

  “And why, pray, would one consider the Sings, father and son, as being outside the reach of the petty gangsters of the world?”

  Tran saw she would not let it drop, sighed, and resumed strolling. “I suppose you know what a triad is?”

  “Of course. The Chinese version of the Mafia.”

  “Which is what most Westerners think, but, like most aspects of China, the truth is somewhat more complex. How to explain this? A Mafia is a feudal organization: that is to say, it is a strict hierarchy, ordered and controlled from the top, bound together by loyalty and the conferring of valuable gifts, with violent sanctions for those who break its rules. In comparison, a triad is more like a trade association or a chamber of commerce, except the trade is largely criminal and the commerce illegal. And being Chinese in origin, they are naturally festooned with all manner of ritual and superstition. Shall I explain how they operate?”

  “Yes, but first tell me how you came to learn all this.”

  Tran gave her a sidelong look and pursed his lips in a manner that reminded Marlene of Sister Marie-Michel, the elderly nun who had introduced her to the French language.

  He said, “You know, Americans are the only people in the world who believe it is their natural right to know the entire history of a person with whom they converse; worse, they feel obliged to deliver their own complete annals, whether desired or not.”

  “Allow me to tender my apologies on behalf of Americans everywhere. You were saying . . .”

  “I was not saying. But, suppose you imagine me in 1975, on a beach in the Philippines, after eighty-six days at sea, in rags, penniless, my only possessions a pistol and three books. Four years later I possess enough money to travel to New York and open a restaurant. Now, I have but two real skills: one is the teaching of literature, somewhat rusty, and the other the efficient generation of death and terror, sharp and well honed. Which do you suppose afforded me the most profit in those years?”

  “You were actually in a triad?”

  “Tchah! Don’t be foolish, Marie-Hélène! I cannot be in a triad. I am Viet, not Han. Triads are not—you have this marvelous phrase—equal opportunity employers. But since the war and our diaspora, we Vietnamese have acquired a reputation throughout the Pacific and elsewhere as men of desperation, with little respect for life or property. In my case, sadly, it was even true. If something particularly nasty is to be done, the Chinese especially look for a Viet-Kieu. In Europe it is Albanians; in the Pacific, Vietnamese. Thus I prospered. I worked for a gang associated with the Ssu Shih K Hau triad, which was a branch of the 14K triad group of Hong Kong. Are you satisfied that I know whereof I speak? Thank you, very good. To resume: triads act like clearinghouses and substitute families for the Chinese criminal classes. They are networks and are further organized into associations of networks, triad groups—the 14K and the Wo in Hong Kong, the Hung Pang in Thailand, the Hung Men in Malaysia, and so forth. Now, imagine I am a criminal who wants someone killed, or I wish to open a house of prostitution . . .”

  “That requires very little imagination, Monsieur.”

  “How very droll, Madame. Suppose, as I say, I am such a one. I go to my triad and they put me in touch with someone I can trust to perform the extermination, to supply the young girls. I do business with this person or gang, and the triad vouches for both parties. In return, the triad receives a grateful gift. Now, suppose I betray one of my partners, to the police, or an enemy. In that case, the triad has lost face, and it must make the betrayed party whole again, either by payment or by exacting revenge upon the traitor. Naturally, triads may take a direct hand in criminal activity, but what I have described is the more usual case. Is this clear?”

  “Perfectly. And with respect to the present shootings?”

  “The Sings are adherents of the Wo Hop To triad, originally from Hong Kong but now well established in other nations, although not, as far as I know, in New York. The elder Sing held the rank of White Paper Fan, which is a kind of very senior adviser. It is quite unusual for such a person to leave Hong Kong. There are a number of business connections . . . do you know what is meant by guanxi, or guanhaih, as the Cantonese say?”

  “Yes, Lucy has explained it to me in painful detail.”

  “Of course. Well, there is considerable guanxi between the Wo Hop To and the Háp Taì tong here in New York. The Chens are members of the Háp Taì. Thus, it becomes somewhat more clear, doesn’t it? The triad people wish to have a meeting of some importance in New York. They wish it to be entirely cryptic and anonymous, hence the selection of a storeroom as a venue. As I have pointed out, the Chens oblige their tong with the offer of the Asia Mall’s back room. Then, for whatever reason, disaster; also, clearly, some betrayal by the other party to the meeting.”

  Marlene thought for a moment before voicing the significant word. “Betrayal. You said . . . do you think the triad will take revenge on the Chens?”

  Tran shrugged. “It is possible, if they think the Chens colluded in the trap. The most immediate danger to the Chens, however, would seem to come from whoever planned the assassination, to prevent them from saying what they know, if anything. Here the only thread we possess is this Leung person.”

  “We should interview him at the first opportunity, don’t you think?”

  “We? Perhaps I have not made myself entirely clear, Marie-Hélène. With the exception of those who are insane, or are fatigued with life, no one strikes at a senior triad official unless w
ith the support of another triad. We, unless I am mistaken, are not a triad, but a one-eyed woman, an old tired man, and a dog. In the normal course of events, the two contending triads will ask a third triad, from another triad group, to mediate. Harmony is an important Chinese value, as you know, and conflict is bad for business. Until then, whoever inserts himself into this affair will be like a beetle playing between two millstones. I believe the Chens have demonstrated that they do not want your help.”

  Marlene stopped walking and rounded on him. “So, Monsieur, you recommend that we stand by with our hands in our pockets while thugs terrorize my daughter and her best friend?”

  “You have grasped my point exactly, Madame,” Tran replied stiffly, “although allow me to point out that, whereas Janice may have been terrorized, Lucy considered the affair, what is your expression? A day at the beach.” They stared at one another for some time, like duelists. Marlene controlled her temper first, and asked in a softer tone, “Truly, can nothing useful be done here?”

  He dropped his eyes, nodded, and took her arm; the pair continued walking. They were almost back at the loft.

  “Well, in point of fact,” he said, “I have already done something, this afternoon, with those two bad boys. I have attracted the interest of M. Leung, at any rate. The next move is his, and we will respond within the scope of our resources. Speaking of these, I must report an unauthorized expenditure from the cash drawer: six hundred and twenty-six dollars, seventy-two cents. I also made long-distance calls totaling thirty-seven dollars, eighty cents.”

  “Not an inconsiderable sum. What, pray, did we buy with it?”

  “The services of three young people of my acquaintance, countrymen of mine, with their van, and the purchase of two canvas mailbags, used, suitable for confining unwilling guests, and one U.S. Army field telephone, TA 312/PT, also used. I have the receipts.”