Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries) Read online

  The man finished the article and left the breakfast table, satisfied he had earned his fee and would not have to return to Chinatown.

  A few minutes later, the man left his townhouse and drove to a strip shopping mall near his home in North Potomac, Maryland. He parked his car at the far corner of the top enclosed tier of the county’s public parking garage, and walked two blocks to the Safeway supermarket to buy a week’s worth of groceries. Twenty minutes later, his errand completed, the man hauled two bags of groceries up the interior stairs to the top parking level of the county’s garage and stepped out into the concrete parking area. He immediately stopped walking and looked around. Satisfied he was alone, the man squinted into the garage’s particulate gloom and inspected his car from across the oil-stained floor.

  His vehicle seemed to be just as he’d left it, but he would not walk any closer until he knew for sure that during his brief absence no one had rigged an explosive device to the ignition. He was a professional, and would do this by the book.

  The man placed both grocery bags on the concrete floor, then pulled his key ring from his back pocket. He held his arm out in front of him as far as he could reach and aimed the key fob at his car, repeatedly pressing the Start button to engage the engine. He silently cursed himself for having again forgotten to replace the fob’s failing battery, and focused all his attention on willing the device to work. His intense concentration blunted his usual vigilance.

  As the man stared across the garage at his car and repeatedly jabbed the fob with his hostile thumb, a solitary figure, dressed in blue jeans, a plain grey sweatshirt, and a Baltimore Orioles ball cap with the beak pulled down low, stepped out from behind a cylindrical concrete support column, and with several cat-quiet strides stole up behind the man.

  In one deft motion, the intruder reached around the man and palmed him under his chin, forcing the man’s jaw up and his head back, exposing the man’s throat to the intruder’s weapon.

  Seconds later, the intruder released the man’s jaw and let him sink to the concrete floor to bleed out.

  LINDA FONG, THE assistant director of the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY in Georgetown, loathed her supervisor, gallery director Iris Hua.

  Today, as on most days while at work, Fong sat at her desk in a small alcove that had been created as a work station and contemplated her persistent disdain for the director, disdain that often interfered with her concentration as she attempted to perform the menial tasks repeatedly assigned to her by Director Hua.

  Fong’s aversion for the director, as deeply felt as it was, was not the only corrosive element at work. The alcove itself represented a continuing and malignant irritant in Fong’s work life because Director Hua had deliberately positioned Fong’s junior size desk so it faced north, contrary to traditional feng shui rules of good health and mental comfort. This deliberately provocative physical siting of Fong’s desk meant that when Fong sat at her desk, she faced directly into the incoming ch’i flowing south.

  And that was not all. As yet another thorn purposely introduced by the director into her work relationship with Fong, Hua had placed her own oversized desk along the north wall of the alcove so that when she sat at her own desk, she not only correctly looked south with her back to the inflowing ch’i, she also faced Fong’s desk and was able to watch Fong work. This scrutiny did not sit well with the assistant director.

  “Assistant Director Fong,” Hua said, speaking in Mandarin, “are you still laboring over the insignificant Chow assignment I gave you?” Hua launched a wolfish sneer at Fong as she spoke.

  “I expected you would have completed this minor task yesterday. If this assignment is too challenging for you . . . .”

  Fong looked up from the open file she’d been daydreaming over. She composed her pinched face, outwardly releasing her hostility. She bowed her head slightly and demurely lowered her eyelids. She could feel her cheeks grow warm in spite of her efforts to appear unflappable.

  “I am just now completing this worthy undertaking, Honorable Director.” Fong, too, spoke in Mandarin.

  Hua thinned her lips and fought against another smile. “Is this project too basic for your under-utilized skills, Assistant Director Fong?” She paused for the answer she knew would never come.

  “Is this simple chore I especially chose for you unworthy of your unfulfilled ambition?” Hua paused again. The silence that followed underscored her sarcasm. “I thought this lowly assignment suited you perfectly.”

  Linda Fong again bowed her head. “You are correct, Director Hua, as always. This elementary assignment rightly suits my undeserving talents. I am most pleased to be given the opportunity to perform this minor task for you.” Fong could feel her stomach churn as she forced herself to say these words.

  The director slowly rose from her chair and looked down at Fong.

  “Assistant Director,” she said, “you must set aside your despicable desire to replace me as this gallery’s director.” Hua nodded sharply to underscore her point.

  “If you are so unhappy in your placement as my assistant, perhaps you should request reassignment back to the Embassy, and cede your enviable role to someone who will appreciate the special opportunity it represents to serve me and our country.” She paused to let these oft-repeated words sink in.

  “I know what you really want, Assistant Director, but it is unpatriotic of you to continue to envy my good fortune.”

  Good fortune, is it? Fong thought. In a pig’s ass, it is. Your so-called good fortune is that you were related by marriage to the man who was Chairman Mao’s First Secretary during the Long March. It doesn’t matter you know nothing of our country’s glorious history and culture or that you run this gallery like an ignorant Western barbarian.

  But Fong did not give voice to her seditious thoughts. Instead, she again lowered her eyelids and bowed her head, and said, “Good fortune visits those who deserve to receive her visit, Honorable Director. I do not envy in others what I do not deserve to have myself.”

  And, Fong thought, good fortune also visits those who invite her in, prepare for her, and are ready to receive her and take advantage when she presents herself.

  WHEN SOCRATES ARRIVED at his store the next morning, Bing-fa was already there waiting for him, sitting on a park-style wooden bench under an indoor palm tree set in the mall’s common area walkway. Bing-fa’s sons, all four of them this time, stood like sentinels shoulder-to-shoulder behind the bench, staring over their father’s head, facing the store.

  Socrates furtively glanced at Bing-fa without turning toward him or otherwise acknowledging he saw him. He hoped to get a few things done in the store before he told Bing-fa he’d thought through his demand and decided he would not become involved. He did not look forward to delivering this message to this head of a notorious Chinatown crime syndicate, a man who already had plenty of reason, from his insular point of view, to dislike Socrates.

  Socrates stooped inside the entrance door and picked up the morning’s mail from the floor, turned on the lights and air conditioning, and had just draped his sports jacket over the back of a chair when Bing-fa, standing close behind him, said, “You are wasting precious time, Socrates Cheng. I am ready to speak to you.”

  Socrates turned toward Bing-fa and said, “Give me a few minutes, then we’ll talk.” As he turned back toward the pile of mail, Socrates thought, I need a few minutes to jack up my resolve to tell you what I’m gonna tell you.

  Bing-fa glared briefly at Socrates, then turned away and walked across the showroom, over to five framed historic documents hanging on the far wall. He read through them, then walked the perimeter of the store, ignoring the classic pens on display, but stopping from time-to-time to examine other hanging historic documents.

  Socrates looked up from the pile of mail he’d been reading and briefly eyeballed Bing-fa as the old man shuffled along the perimeter of the walls.

  Bing-fa suddenly turned toward Socrates as if he realized Socrates was watc
hing him.

  “You are interested in the Middle Kingdom’s treasured documents, Mr. Cheng?” Bing-fa said.

  Socrates nodded from behind the display counter. “I was. Not so much anymore. I collected Shanghai commercial instruments when I was in law school.”

  Socrates swept the room with a lateral toss of his arm. “The ones over there,” he said, canting his head toward a row of documents hanging along another wall, “were brought to this country by my grandfather when he and my paternal grandmother emigrated from Shanghai.”

  “You read Shanghainese?” Bing-fa asked.

  “I used to when I was in college, but I’ve been away from it too long. I still can read Shanghainese with the help of a dictionary, but only good enough to get the gist of it, not good enough to understand every word or nuance.”

  “You speak Shanghainese then?”

  “No. Never did,” Socrates said.

  “And other dialects?” Bing-fa asked. “Do you speak or read inferior Cantonese or exalted Mandarin?”

  “Mandarin, is all,” Socrates said. “I studied it in college as part of my course major. I still read it fairly well, but I don’t write or speak it anymore.”

  “These documents,” Bing-fa said, indicating with his hand those hanging on the wall behind him, then turning and nodding at the others hanging on two other walls, “why are they out in the open exposed to the light? Such treasures should be carefully rolled-up and stored in the dark until it is time to examine them.”

  Socrates ignored Bing-fa’s words and instead responded to his implied subtext: What’s a barbarian like you, who does not properly take care of them, doing with these examples of our national patrimony?

  “I used to be interested in nineteenth century commercial trading documents,” Socrates said. “My grandfather Cheng, like his father and grandfather before him, was the Comprador for the Taipan of the trading house Jardine, Matheson & Company.”

  Collecting these was my way of connecting with the one grandfather I knew and loved, and with the Chinese half of my ancestry. Socrates decided not to share this private thought with Bing-fa who, he assumed, would somehow turn it to his own advantage against him.

  Socrates studied Bing-fa’s face for his reaction to Socrates’ revelation about his grandfather’s exalted role in British occupied Shanghai, but saw nothing that would suggest awe or admiration, or even approval. He saw no reaction at all.

  Socrates continued. “I collected Shanghai documents as a hobby and planned to buy and sell them as a second source of income while I practiced law.” He paused and reflected momentarily on that aspect of his life. “It didn’t quite work out the way I expected,” he said.

  Bing-fa moved his arms farther up into his wide silk sleeves, and nodded.

  “I didn’t have enough capital or a sufficient line of credit to buy high quality collections or to acquire individual rare documents at auction so I couldn’t compete with established dealers for wealthy collectors. I eventually accepted this fact of life and gave up.” He straightened the bills into a neat pile, put the stack into a drawer, and walked across the showroom to Bing-fa.

  “I’m selling off my small collection. That’s what’s up on the walls. When they’re gone, I’m done with historic documents for good,” Socrates said, as if to conclude the subject once and for all.

  Bing-fa nodded and stepped closer to Socrates. “I will acquire all you have,” Bing-fa said, “providing your prices are reasonable.”

  Socrates could not believe his good luck. He’d never expected to sell more than one or two of the remaining documents, if even that many. He assumed he would be stuck owning most of them for years.

  “Are you a collector, Master Li?” Socrates asked, suddenly warming to Bing-fa’s presence in his store.

  “No. I am a patriot. I will return these stolen treasures to their rightful place, to China. The looting of our cultural heritage by foreigners will no longer be tolerated.”

  Socrates felt as if he’d just been slapped. He took a deep breath and thought, Time to deliver the bad news.

  “We have other things to talk about, Bing-fa. Let’s get to it.”

  JADE LI CLOSED the door behind Bing-enlai, called Youngest Brother in the family, as he left her condo apartment. She was grateful Younger Brother had visited her, but was concerned that their father, who had eyes everywhere, might find out. She returned to the living room to await the arrival of their Eldest Brother, named Bing-wu, who also would now secretly visit her. He had called that morning and said he must speak with her about an urgent family matter. Neither Bing-enlai nor Bing-wu would ever learn from Jade that the other had visited her in defiance of their father’s edict prohibiting all contact with her.

  As Jade awaited Eldest Brother’s arrival, she set aside the exhibit catalog Youngest Brother had brought her, and unrolled its companion poster.

  A sharp knock at the door interrupted her. Jade quickly rolled the poster into a cylinder shape and placed it and the catalog in a drawer where they would not be seen by Eldest Brother. She had no desire to explain how she’d obtained them.

  JADE SAT AT the kitchen table and moved her eyes from left to right and back again, in an endless loop, as she watched Eldest Brother quickly pace the width of the room. She pushed away the cup of tepid green tea she’d poured twenty minutes earlier, but hadn’t touched.

  Eldest Brother punctuated his pacing by stabbing the air with a folded copy of the Washington Post he held in one hand.

  “Our father is despondent,” Eldest Brother said, speaking in Mandarin. “This writing” — he jabbed the newspaper with his finger — “has caused him to lose face. He has been dishonored. We are all dishonored.”

  Ah, yes, Jade thought, ineffable honor. So difficult to obtain, so easy to lose. Jade did not give voice to her heretical thoughts. Instead, she nodded her assent.

  Bing-wu’s bellicose rants no longer frightened Jade, although they had frightened her when she was a child. Frequent exposure had hardened her against Eldest Brother’s melodramatic outbursts when it came to matters of Li family honor and concern, real or imagined.

  Eldest Brother stopped pacing and cast the folded newspaper across the table at Jade, brushing her cup but not knocking it over.

  “Take this, Little Sister. Read it now. You will see.”

  Jade unfolded the paper and skimmed the first part of the article:

  Jade set the Post aside. “Surely father knows no one thinks the burglary and the exhibit’s postponed opening were his fault.” She regretted her words almost as soon as she said them. She had just struck a match under her combustible sibling.

  Eldest Brother slammed his fist into his other palm. “Fault is not relevant,” he said. “It is a matter of personal honor, a matter of our family’s honor.” He pointed his finger at Jade. “You should already know that, Little Sister.”

  Jade considered this, briefly thought about how silly Confucian views of honor were, and then unfolded the newspaper and turned back to the article.

  An historic fountain pen, Jade thought. I should tell Socrates. He would want to know about it. She made a mental note to mention it to him, then resumed reading.

  Jade skimmed the balance of the article, then refolded the newspaper and put it aside.

  She looked up at Bing-wu, briefly hesitated, then said, “Eldest Brother, please use your exalted position and your prestige within our family, and talk to our father for me.”

  She lowered her head politely, offering respect and supplication to her older brother, and joined her hands together, interlacing her fingers on the table in front of her.

  “I do not want to remain a pariah, exiled from my brothers and father I love so dearly.”

  Eldest Brother frowned and squeezed his hands into fists. “I will not speak of this matter to our father, Little Sister. Not until you cease ignoring our traditions and obey our father’s command to rid yourself of your barbarian. Immediately end all contact with your low faan or cont
inue to suffer the consequences of your actions.”

  SOCRATES AND BING-FA settled into Queen Anne style wingback chairs located in a corner of Socrates’ store farthest from the entrance. They sat so close facing one another, their knees almost touched. Bing-fa’s sons watched them from across the showroom.

  Socrates opened his mouth to speak, but Bing-fa raised his palm and stopped him. “You are wasting too much precious time pretending you must make some decision about fulfilling your obligation to your heritage,” he said. “This is not discretionary.”

  Socrates’ stomach tightened. He could feel his neck and face grow hot. He forced himself to breathe slowly and to hold his tongue. He didn’t want to say something he might later regret if Jade learned about it. He crossed his legs, then immediately uncrossed them.

  Bing-fa’s clever, he thought. He’s using a classic bullying technique of persuasion, forcing the other person on the defensive by assuming the result the bully wanted, then aggressively pursuing that result as if it had already been agreed to, forcing the other person to bid against himself.

  Socrates weighed his next words carefully. Although he didn’t want to be pulled into the investigation by dint of Bing-fa’s aggressive attitude or because Bing-fa blatantly assumed Socrates would help him, he also was mindful that he did want Bing-fa to accept him one day as Jade’s lover and partner. He decided to buy some time.

  “Explain what you have in mind,” he said.

  Bing-fa frowned and stared at Socrates for a few seconds.

  “I expect you to use your knowledge of our customs to discreetly locate and retrieve the Mandarin Yellow writing instrument and the other stolen treasures. You will be well rewarded if you succeed in returning the treasures in time to include them in the rescheduled opening of the Embassy’s glorious cultural exhibit.”

  “Why me?” Socrates said. “Why not the police? They’re the professionals. If the cops aren’t pursuing this, there must be a reason. What makes you think I can do any better?”