Zhang know the cops are onto them. They’re decoys. C. D.’s making the exchange.”
“He was at Bright Hopes picking up the money?”
“I’d bet on it.”
In the garlicky shop, a dozen customers were ordering noodles, slurping up noodles, or picking noodle remains from their teeth. None of them was Wong Pan or C. D. Zhang. Bill and I made it through the dining room to the kitchen and through that to a door in the back wall before anyone stirred.
“Hey, you can’t go there!” the manager shouted in Cantonese.
“So call the cops!” I yelled, hoping he would.
When we burst into the back room, two men looked up from a banquet table. The question of who’d have a banquet in a noodle-shop back room cramped by twined-up linens and sagging cardboard boxes, near a rear door bubbly with rust, was an interesting one, but I had no time to ponder it.
“Ms. Chin.” C. D. Zhang’s leathery face registered both surprise and displeasure. “And Mr. Smith. What—”
“Do you know who this is?” I pointed at the round countenance of Wong Pan, which, after momentary alarm, had settled into an odd superior smile.
“This gentleman is a valued customer. And forgive me, but this is private business.”
“This business is you buying the Shanghai Moon from Wong Pan. And his business was killing two people to get it this far.”
“And you, no business here,” said Wong Pan. “You go away.”
“The police are coming.” Assuming Mary picked up her voice mail. Or 911 didn’t think I was just another nut and actually followed up my tip. Or the noodle shop manager was incensed enough at the intrusion that it trumped his distaste for cops; though since nobody had even cracked the door to see what was going on in here, that one seemed unlikely. “You’re the one who’s going away.”
Fear flashed in Wong Pan’s eyes, but after consideration he shook his head. “Police coming, would be already here.” He began to reach into his jacket.
“Easy!” Bill said. All movement stopped as Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang registered Bill’s snub-nosed Colt, unholstered as we passed through the kitchen but until now discreetly palmed.
Wong Pan snickered, theatrically lifted one hand in the air, and with the other drew out a small cardboard box. “We have business. You go away.”
“Both hands on the table,” Bill told Wong Pan.
Wong Pan, looking amused, did as Bill said. I glanced to C. D. Zhang. He stared at the box under Wong Pan’s hand with the eyes of a parched man seeing an oasis. He reached; Wong Pan, eyebrows raised, pulled the box back. Bill sent me a look. I nodded: Let them finish. Let C. D. Zhang hold it in his hand before it becomes evidence, before it becomes Chinese cultural patrimony, before it’s lost to him and his family forever. C. D. Zhang picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table.
At which exact moment the kitchen door opened.
The manager had actually called the police?
Absolutely not. White Eagles filled the doorway. And they had more guns than we had.
They stared. We stared. The gang sea parted, and Fishface Deng strolled in. His own gun, still in his belt, telegraphed through his untucked shirt. Behind him the White Eagles fanned out. Six guns: one on each of us, with two for extras. Seven White Eagles, including Deng and his two top lieutenants. And notably not including Armpit. Or Warren Li, or any of the losers up on the east end of Canal.
Lydia! You are a MORON! I silently screamed at myself. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang weren’t the only decoys. Two stakeouts; two sets of decoys. I stared at Fishface Deng’s bulging eyes and sharp little overbite mouth. “You knew.”
“What, that the cops were watching us?” He gave a shrug of modest pride. “Your cousin’s a good kid. Dumb as a box of rocks, but loyal. He said you were onto us. He said there was no way to scare you off or buy you off, but he asked me not to kill you.” He shook his head. “I tried to help the guy out, dammit. Didn’t I?” He looked to one of his lieutenants, who nodded seriously, backing up the boss’s story. “But you had to show up here. Now I gotta do what I gotta do. Well, he’s a good kid. He’ll understand.” Fishface turned to Bill. With no change of tone, he said, “If you don’t put down that fucking piece, these guys will blow you away, and