San Francisco, present day
A block from the retail madness of Union Square, two red columns entwined with golden dragons stood at the entrance to Chinatown. All the San Francisco guide books told you to walk the length of Grant Avenue, starting at the dragons and ending where Grant intersected Broadway and spilled out into North Beach.
Cape had walked from the Broadway side, passing storefronts catering to tourists and offices and groceries that were exclusively Chinese. When he reached the address he’d been given over the phone, he stepped back onto the street, looking up at the two-story building he was about to enter. It stood to the right of a grocery and to the left of a restaurant with Hunan in the name, which applied to every other Chinese restaurant in the city. The first floor housed a print shop, and through the plate glass to the right of the door Cape could see three men talking to a woman behind a counter-the woman pointing to samples of paper-tacked to the wall behind her. Just to the left of the front door was another door of plain wood, held open by an iron doorstop cast in the shape of a traditional Chinese dog. A stairway leading to the second floor started just past the threshold. Set into the wall alongside the door was a bronze plaque:
Chinatown Merchants Benevolent Association
Harold Yan, President
Cape took the stairs two at a time, pausing on the second floor landing to straighten his jacket. He wore a black sport coat over jeans and a white dress shirt but no tie. The pair of New Balance trail runners he’d worn earlier in the day had been traded for black dress shoes. He may not be ready to work at a bank, but at least he looked professional. A grown-up, if not an adult.
The woman in the reception area was young, Chinese, and very pretty. Cape put her at twenty-five, tops. She took his card with a pleasant smile and told him to take a seat, then picked up the handset on her phone and talked quietly to the person on the other end. Cape took one of four straight-backed chairs clustered around a square table littered with magazines and newspapers. In addition to the usual coffee-table clutter of the Chronicle and Examiner, Cape saw several Chinese-language newspapers and a few magazines, as well. Grabbing the nearest one from the pile, he saw that Harold Yan adorned the cover.
The phone buzzed and the young woman said something into the receiver that sounded like shur-dur, then hung up. She smiled warmly as she gestured toward a door in the wall behind her desk.
“Mister Yan will see you now,” she said. “The last office at the end of the hall.”
Cape thanked her and opened the door. The hallway was short, maybe twenty feet long, with two offices on each side and a door at the very end. He could hear voices coming from behind the doors on each side, but as he stepped onto the thick red carpeting of the hallway, his attention was on the photographs lining both walls.
The first showed Harold Yan shaking hands with the mayor in front of the elementary school located just around the corner. The second photo featured Yan with the president from the previous administration, standing with a group of ten men and women on the White House lawn. With the exception of the president, everyone in the photograph was Asian. The next two had Yan talking to the chief of police and the governor, respectively, both of whom appeared to be listening intently to something Yan was saying. By the time Cape reached the end of the hallway, he’d been given a walking tour of who’s who in politics.
The door opened before he could knock, Harold Yan smiling at him across the threshold. He was taller than Cape expected, with squared shoulders under a nicely tailored suit jacket. His handshake was firm, his smile relaxed. His eyes were large, the overhead fluorescents dancing around their edges as he turned and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Have a seat, detective,” said Yan. The office was fairly spartan. There was a beige love seat set against the left wall, above which a window looked out over Grant Street. Cape stood in front of a desk made of dark wood, its surface cluttered with papers, a phone, and a stack of file folders. In front of the desk sat two red chairs, their backs high, the seats themselves cushioned. On the right wall was a bookcase; Cape scanned the titles, noticing several books on politics and a few on religion and philosophy before he sat down and faced his host. Yan was already seated, his eyes friendly but inquisitive.
“Thanks for seeing me,” said Cape.
“Always glad to be of service,” replied Yan. “But before we begin, which precinct are you with? I didn’t recognize your name.”
Cape had expected this. “I’m not with the police,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. Sorry if that wasn’t clear when I called.” People naturally made assumptions when they heard “detective,” and Cape saw no advantage in clearing things up until he was through the front door. He took his license from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk.
Yan’s eyes flashed for an instant, but he didn’t miss a beat. “How interesting,” he said pleasantly. “And what are you investigating?”
“The refugee ship,” said Cape.
Yan leaned back in his chair, studying Cape for a minute before saying anything. “Could you be more specific?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Cape began, choosing his words carefully. “Someone who may have been onboard the ship.”
“And you think I might know them?” asked Yan, frowning.
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” replied Cape truthfully.
Yan raised his right eyebrow quizzically. “You have me at a disadvantage,” said Yan. “Do I know your client?”
Cape hesitated before responding. “That hadn’t occurred to me, either,” he said. “I’m here looking for advice, if you want to know the truth.”
Both eyebrows went up. “Advice?”
Cape leaned forward. “I’m looking for someone in a place that I can’t navigate on my own.”
“Chinatown,” said Yan knowingly.
Cape nodded.
“And you’re not Chinese.”
“You noticed.”
“A lucky guess,” replied Yan, smiling. The lines around his eyes revealed his age-Cape guessed Yan had ten years on him-but the rest of his face was smooth and unlined. His voice was resonant, with just the slightest edge to the consonants. He was better in person than in the newspaper, and he already came across pretty good in print. If I was the current mayor, thought Cape, I’d be nervous.
“Are you from the Bay Area?” asked Yan, seeming genuinely curious.
Cape shook his head. “East Coast, originally, but it’s been almost twenty years since I moved out here.”
Yan nodded. “Practically a native, as far as San Francisco goes.”
“Long enough to call it home, anyway,” said Cape, shrugging. “You?”
“Ten,” replied Yan, a note of pride entering his voice. “I came over from Hong Kong, after fleeing mainland China with my brother.”
Cape had read the story about Yan in the local papers, how he spent his first few years in San Francisco working for less than minimum wage, taking classes at night to learn about his new home. Four years later, he passed the California State Bar and opened a small legal practice. The next year he ran for District Supervisor and got elected and had been in the office ever since. It was the great American success story, still pursued in earnest by almost every man, woman, and child living in Chinatown.
“You’ve done well,” said Cape, stating the obvious but sensing Yan wanted the acknowledgment.
Yan nodded. “I’ve been lucky,” he said. “But I’m the exception, not the rule.”
Cape stayed quiet, sensing a soapbox was being added to the conversation.
“Do you know how many people in Chinatown speak little or no English, Mister Weathers?” asked Yan.
Before Cape could answer, Yan added, “Fifty percent.” He leaned forward in his chair, putting both palms on the desk. “And do you know how many Chinese work for less than the minimum living wage in this city?”
Cape shook his head.
“Almost thirty percent,” said Yan, a look of disgust crossing his face. “Some have good jobs, and they’re treated fairly. But many others are taken advantage of; these are not illegals, you understand. They’re simply isolated because they don’t know the language. They are totally dependent on the community in which they live. A community that exploits them.”
“The Chinese community,” said Cape simply.
“Sad, isn’t it?” said Yan. “But it’s worse in China,” he added. “Much worse.”
“That’s why people try to leave,” said Cape, trying to steer the conversation off the campaign trail.
“Yes,” said Yan, nodding absently.
“That’s why a ship full of refugees ran aground on Alcatraz.”
Yan took the hint. “Yes…yes. You wanted to talk about the ship.”
“If you don’t mind.”
Yan nodded.
“The people onboard,” began Cape. “Where would they have gone if the ship had docked the way it was supposed to?”
“You mean if they hadn’t been caught?”
“Yes.”
Yan hesitated, so Cape forged ahead. “I know they would have been taken to some sort of safe house,” he said, watching Yan for a reaction. “Maybe several houses in Chinatown. And they would have stayed there until they worked off their debt.”
Yan raised his eyebrows again. “You’ve done some homework.”
Cape shrugged. “That’s my job.”
“And who did you say your client was?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might,” said Yan, his eyes cautious.
“Didn’t you say the refugee ship was ‘a crisis affecting not only Chinese, but every taxpaying resident of San Francisco’?”
Yan’s mouth twitched, as if he had started to frown, before managing another smile. “Was that in the Chronicle?”
Cape nodded. “Right on the front page.”
Yan pursed his lips. Cape knew what was going through his mind. He looked directly at Yan, making sure he had full eye contact before he spoke.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not a reporter-I used to be-but I’m not here to burn you. You’re in the midst of a political campaign-I understand that.”
Yan smiled briefly, his body language more relaxed. “Are you saying this is off the record?”
“There is no record,” replied Cape. “You didn’t have to see me in the first place, and I appreciate that. You want me to leave, just say the word.”
Yan looked out his window before turning back to face Cape.
“Ask your questions,” he said.
“You’re putting a lot of heat on the mayor,” said Cape.
“He deserves it,” said Yan matter-of-factly.
“There’s a rumor he’ll step down,” said Cape. “Maybe not run against you, but nominate someone in his place.”
Yan shrugged. “There are a lot of rumors in this town,” he said, noncommittal. “Like charges of police corruption.”
“You saying the charges are bogus?” asked Cape.
“I’m saying it’s quite a coincidence,” said Yan. “I’ve suggested the current administration is corrupt, and yet the only scandal making the headlines has to do with Chinese police officers.”
“Which reflects on the entire Chinese community,” said Cape, finishing the thought. “So the politics are about race.”
Yan shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “The current mayor is black, so it’s not as simple as racial innuendoes or exploiting hidden bias in the voters. That only works when one of the candidates is white, at least in this city.”
“So?”
“It’s about reinforcing a perception that the Chinese in this city are somehow them, while everyone else is us. You set up a strong enough us-versus-them dynamic, and that could carry the election. The Chinese are isolated, different…many don’t even speak English….you get the idea.”
“So even when there’s a scandal in the current administration,” said Cape, “it somehow hurts your campaign, not the mayor’s.”
“The mayor is a smart man,” said Yan admiringly, his eyes bright with either envy or ambition. Cape couldn’t tell.
“With the Chinese cops sidelined during the investigation,” said Cape, “it makes it kind of tough to get a handle on the refugees and the ship.”
“I was going to ask if you already talked to the police,” said Yan.
“Some,” replied Cape. “But I wouldn’t be here if they had it all figured out.”
Yan chewed on his lower lip. “You look honest.”
“It’s the blue eyes,” said Cape.
Yan laughed. “All right,” he said. “I won’t pretend Chinatown is a utopia. Most of our residents are hard-working, honest families, doing what they must to survive. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that some of our residents are less law-abiding than others.”
“Like Freddie Wang,” suggested Cape.
Yan laughed again. “It seems you know more about Chinatown than you’ve let on, detective.”
Cape shrugged. “I’m ignorant, but not naive. Freddie hasn’t kept the lowest profile over the years.”
“True,” said Yan. “Wang is a local gangster, plain and simple. He deals in drugs, among other things. But I imagine you know all that.”
“Rumor has it Freddie heads a tong,” said Cape, “that controls all the heroin coming in from Asia.”
Yan snorted. “Tong?” he said scornfully. “Do you know what a tong is, Mister Weathers?”
Cape shook his head. “Just what I’ve read-Chinese organized crime.”
“Indeed,” said Yan. “That’s very true, in some cases. But tong simply means chamber-a meeting place. It’s a blanket term to refer to any large organization, fraternity, or business association.”
Cape recalled the plaque outside. “Like the Chinese Merchants Benevolent Association?”
“Exactly,” said Yan, nodding. “A group of local merchants joined together to pool resources. They share business contacts, legal services, and make loans to members at favorable rates. The association allows Chinese businesses to become competitive. There are many such associations in Chinatown-ours has been in existence almost one hundred years.”
“I don’t think Freddie Wang is making loans at favorable rates,” replied Cape.
“Neither do I.” Yan smiled, a cynical look on his face. “But he’s got his own organization. He’s not a member of ours.”
“But why do you tolerate him?” asked Cape. “It can’t be good for the community, for that legitimacy you want.”
Yan spread his hands. “Our resources are limited,” he said. “That’s like asking why the Italian community tolerates the Mafia, or why the city police can’t stop prostitution.”
“OK.”
“We have an understanding with the tongs,” said Yan. “We have to live in the same neighborhood, after all.”
“But if someone in the Chinese community was involved with hiding the refugees-” began Cape.
“It would be Freddie Wang,” said Yan. “That’s my guess.”
“I was hoping you’d point me somewhere else,” said Cape, frowning. “I’ve talked to Freddie before, and it wasn’t what you’d call a cordial conversation. I don’t think he’ll talk to me.”
“He will if I tell him to,” said Yan confidently.
“Is that part of your understanding?” asked Cape.
Yan shrugged. “I’ll tell him what you told me-you don’t want to cause trouble, you just want some information. It could be much worse for Freddie if you just started knocking on doors in the neighborhood, asking questions.”
“That was my next step,” replied Cape, “if I wasn’t able to talk to you.”
“I’ll talk to Freddie,” said Yan definitively. “And he’ll talk to you. Beyond that, I can’t make any promises.”
Cape stood. “Mister Yan, I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Yan extended his hand. “Good luck.”
They shook hands. “Thanks,” said Cape. He started to turn, but Yan held his hand a moment longer than expected.
“You know, Mister Weathers,” he said, turning to look out his window, “your answers might not be in Chinatown.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what was onboard that ship?” asked Yan. “Or what those people were doing in China?”
“No,” said Cape. “I don’t.” He thought about telling Yan he’d already asked that question of someone else, but for some reason didn’t. “Do you?”
Yan shook his head. “I just thought it might be relevant.”
Cape nodded. “Thanks again. If you think of anything else…” he handed Yan his card.
“There is one more thing,” replied Yan, reaching behind him. He extended his right hand and pressed something into Cape’s palm. “Wear this in November, if you don’t mind.”
Cape looked down to see a round button emblazoned with Yan for Mayor. He smiled and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Good luck in the election.”
Cape turned and walked down the hall, passing through Yan’s gallery of photos. Waving to the pretty receptionist, he let himself out and took the stairs down to the street. The air was crisp, a hint of fog in the chill wind coursing down the street.
He stood for a moment on the curb, reflecting on the meeting. It was still early and the street was crowded, pedestrians of all ages moving around him like water. Yan was a politician and a lawyer, which normally meant two strikes against him, but there was something disarming about the man. Cape reminded himself that he didn’t really know Yan, but he suspected that he’d like him if he did. And if nothing else, he’d given Cape a reason to move forward.
Cape moved to cross Grant and was knocked sideways by a young Asian boy with orange hair carrying a large backpack. The boy muttered something under his breath as he brushed past, stepping up onto the curb without looking back. Cape started to say something but caught himself, watching as the boy rounded the corner. Looking both ways before resuming his walk, he crossed the street and turned right toward Broadway.
He walked two blocks before reaching into his right jacket pocket to fish out his cell phone. He wanted to call Linda and see if she’d found any background on the ship. His fingers brushed against something that wasn’t his phone, something with a hard, thin edge to it.
Cape pulled a card out of his pocket, a rectangular piece of cardboard about an eighth of an inch thick. Written across the top were the words One-eyed Dong. Below was an address just a few blocks from where Cape stood, in the heart of Chinatown.
Cape turned the card over in his hands. On the back was a triangle, the three sides carved into the card with blood-red clarity. Below the triangle were three Chinese characters that meant nothing to him.
Cape thought of the boy with the orange hair and looked again at the card. He wondered if he’d been followed on his way over here or maybe the entire day.
Either way, he didn’t like looking over his shoulder.